"To thee I speak, O Garden, answer me,
Why did’st thou not preserve my precious Rose,
Whose perfume breathed of immortality,
Whose colour made her queen of all that grows?

"May’st thou become a desert parched and dry,
And may the flowers that grow within thee fade;
May thy protecting walls in ruin lie--
By ruthless feet thy soil in waste be laid.

"Ye trees, now cast away your verdant leaves,
And rushing torrents, your swift courses stay.
Reckless I speak, as one who sorely grieves,
For they have taken my sweet love away.

"Was it the gardener took her away
And grieved my soul If never more again
I should behold her face, what shall I say?
Instead of joy, I'll sing of grief and pain.

"Or else I fear the mighty wind arose,
And blasted with its strength her petals frail;
Or did the scorching sunbeams burn my Rose
Within her leaves, and turn her beauty pale? . . .

"I think perhaps the flowers were wroth with me
And hid her from my sight; I'll go to them.
Or else the clouds in cruel enmity
Sent hailstones down that broke her from the stem!"

Then all the flowers together made reply,
"We have no tidings of the Rose at all,
She left us suddenly, we know not why.
We have no tidings of the Rose at all."

The Nightingale then rose into the air,
"I'll ask the birds in friendly wise," he said,
"If they can tell me why she went, and where;
If not, a sea of tears my eyes shall shed.

"Birds, do you know what came to pass to-day?
The lovely Rose was stolen from her home.
Know you perchance who carried her away?
Have you seen aught, or heard where she doth roam?"

The Nightingale then sadly made reply,
"What will become of me? From night to morn
I have no rest, and I shall surely die,
Parted from her, with ceaseless longings worn.

"If in her stead the world to me were given
I would esteem it but a paltry thing;
If choirs of minstrels sang the songs of heaven,
To me their songs as discords harsh would ring.

"Oh, in what corner have they buried thee?
How shall I e’er forget thy tenderness?
My heart and soul are wounded grievously,
All flowers are dead--this place a wilderness.

"The Psalmist's words are now fulfilled in me;
Mournful I go, and like a pelican
About the wilderness roam hopelessly,
Or like an owl the sandy desert scan."

The gardener then with soothing words drew near,
"Weep not, she will return, O Nightingale.
The Violet, her forerunner, is here,
And brings thee messages and words of hail."

Then he rejoiced and blessed the gardener,
"May’st thou in peace upon this earth abide,
Thy garden flourish with its bright allure,
Its circling walls renew their former pride.

"I greet thee, O beloved of my heart,
And fain would hear concerning this thy rape.
I trust through God's protecting care thou art
Perfect in health, as faultless in thy shape.

"For which with outstretched hands I ever pray,
And beg that length of days be granted thee;
All flowers bend to thee and homage pay,
Thou rulest them in all thy majesty.

"Thy hue is beautiful, thy perfume sweet,
Each morn thou shinest brighter than the sun.
Happy the day when thee once more I meet,--
For thou art full of grace, my spotless one.

     .        .        .        .        .        .        .

Foolish Aghtamartzi, beware this bane,
For this world's love is ever linked with thorn;
A little while ’tis gladness, then ’tis pain
What boots the joy which needs must make us mourn?