Bedros Tourian (1851-1872)

English translation by Alice Stone Blackwell

Little Lake

Why dost thou lie in hushed surprise, 
Thou little lonely mere? 
Did some fair woman wistfully 
Gaze in thy mirror clear? 

Or are thy waters calm and still, 
Admiring the blue sky, 
Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam, 
Are drifting softly by? 

Sad little lake, let us be friends! 
I too am desolate; 
I too would fain, beneath the sky, 
In silence meditate. 

As many thoughts are in my mind 
As wavelets o'er thee roam; 
As many wounds are in my heart 
As thou hast flakes of foam. 

But if heaven's constellations all 
Should drop into thy breast, 
Thou still woudst not be like my soul, - 
A flame-sea without rest. 

There, when the air and thou are calm, 
The clouds let fall no showers; 
The stars that rise there do not set, 
And fadeless are the flowers. 

Thou art my queen, O little lake! 
For e'en when ripples thrill 
Thy surface, in thy quivering depths 
Thou hold'st me, trembling, still. 

Full many have rejected me: 
"What has he but his lyre?" 
"He trembles, and his face is pale; 
His life must soon expire!" 

None said, "Poor child, why pines he thus? 
If he beloved should be, 
Haply he might not die, but live, - 
Live, and grow fair to see." 

None sought the boy's sad heart to read, 
Nor in its depths to look. 
They would have found it was a fire, 
And not a printed book! 

Nay, ashes now! a memory! 
Grow stormy, little mere, 
For a despairing man has gazed 
Into thy waters clear!

(Isn't this autobiographical poem rather charming?! It may have been a little weakened by the English renderer's attempts to make the verses rhyme, but the original is of very high quality, very simple but also very direct and very touching... Bedros Tourian died of consumption at the age of 21, and the allusion is to the fact that apparently Tourian was in love with an actress, whom he overheard scornfully saying, at a meeting during which he wanted to persuade a distinguished theatre producer to stage one of his plays, when a friend of hers mentioned the young poet/playwright, "Oh him? He is trembling and so pale - he might even die one of those days!" (which, alas, was indeed borne out in the event). 

My death

When Death's pale angel stands before my face, 
With smile unfathomable, stern and chill, 
And when my sorrows with my soul exhale, 
Know yet, my friends, that I am living still. 

When at my head a waxen taper slim 
With its cold rays the silent room shall fill, 
A taper with a face that speaks of death, 
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. 

When, with my forehead glittering with tears, 
They in a shroud enfold me, cold and chill 
As any stone, and lay me on a bier, 
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. 

When the sad bells shall toll - that bell, the laugh 
Of cruel Death, which wakes an icy thrill - 
And when my bier is slowly borne along, 
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. 

When the death-chanting priests, dark browed, austere, 
With incense and with prayers the air shall fill, 
Rising together as they pass along, 
Yet know, my friends, that I am living still. 

When they have set my tomb in order fair, 
And when, with bitter sobs and wailing shrill, 
My dear ones from the grave at length depart, 
Yet know, my friends, that I shall be living still. 

But when my grave forgotten shall remain 
In some dim nook, neglected and passed by, - 
When from the world my memory fades away, 
That is the time when I indeed shall die! 

To Love

A galaxy of glances bright, 
A sweet bouquet of smiles, 
A crucible of melting words 
Bewitched me with their wiles! 

I wished to live retired, to love 
The flowers and bosky glades, 
The blue sky's lights, the dew of morn, 
The evening's mists and shades; 

To scan my destiny's dark page, 
In thought my hours employ, 
And dwell in meditation deep 
And visionary joy. 

Then near me stirred a breath that seemed 
A waft of Eden's air, 
The rustle of a maiden's robe, 
A tress of shining hair. 

I sought to make a comrade dear 
Of the transparent brook. 
It holds no trace of memory; 
When in its depths I look, 

I find there floating, clear and pale, 
My face! Its waters hold 
No other secret in their breast 
Than wavelets manifold. 

I heard a heart's ethereal throb; 
It whispered tenderly: 
"Dost thou desire a heart?" it said. 
"Beloved, come to me!" 

I wished to love the zephyr soft 
That breathes o'er fields of bloom; 
It woundeth none, - a gentle soul 
Whose secret is perfume. 

So sweet it is, it has the power 
To nurse a myriad dreams; 
To mournful spirits, like the scent 
Of paradise it seems. 

Then from a sheaf of glowing flames 
To me a whisper stole: 
It murmured low, "Dost thou desire 
To worship a pure soul?" 

I wished to make the lyre alone 
My heart's companion still, 
To know it as a loving friend, 
And guide its chords at will. 

But she drew near me, and I heard 
A whisper soft and low: 
"Thy lyre is a cold heart," she said, 
"Thy love is only woe." 

My spirit recognised her then; 
She beauty was, and fire, 
Pure as the stream, kind as the breeze, 
And faithful as the lyre. 

My soul, that from the path had erred, 
Spread wide its wings to soar, 
And bade the life of solitude 
Farewell forevermore. 

A galaxy of glances bright, 
A sweet bouquet of smiles, 
A crucible of melting words 
Bewitched me with their wiles! 

What are you, love?

What are you, love? A flame from heaven? 
A radiant smile are you? 
The heaven has not your eyes' bright gleams, 
The heaven has not their blue. 

The rose has not your snowy breast; 
In the moon's face we seek 
In vain the rosy flush that dyes 
Your soft and blushing cheek. 

By night you smile upon the stars, 
And on the amorous moon, 
By day upon the waves, the flowers - 
Why not on one alone? 

But, though I pray to you with tears, 
With tears and bitter sighs, 
You will not deign me yet one glance 
Cast by your shining eyes. 

O love, are you a mortal maid, 
Or angel formed of light? 
The spring rose and the radiant moon 
Envy your beauty bright; 

And when your sweet and thrilling voice 
Is heard upon the air, 
In cypress depths the nightingale 
Is silent in despair. 

Would I, a zephyr, might caress 
Your bright brow's dreams in sleep, 
Breathe gently on your lips, and dry 
Your tears, if you should weep! 

Or would that in your garden fair 
A weeping rose I grew; 
And when you came resplendent there 
At morning with the dew, 

I'd give fresh colour to your cheek 
That makes the rose look pale, 
Shed on your breast my dew, and there 
My latest breath exhale. 

Oh, would I were a limpid brook! 
If softly you drew nigh, 
And smiled into my mirror clear, 
My blue waves would run dry. 

Oh, would I were a sunbeam bright, 
To make you seem more fair, 
Touching your face, and dying soon 
Amid your fragrant hair! 

But, if you love another, 
His gravestone may I be! 
Then you would linger near me, 
Your tears would fall on me; 

Your sighs would wander o'er me, 
Sighs for his early doom. 
To touch you, O beloved, 
I must become a tomb!