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Once there bloomed upon a meadow Roses, violets, flow'rs of grace. The gods from urns poured nectared beauty On the meadow's up-turned face. Hanging vines and branches wove Canopies of gold and shade Through which the sky serenely peeped And gentle breezes humming strayed. The bulbul sang of only love; Nature listened in delight — I felt joy rise in my breast; Thrilled at the beauty of the sight. Captivated by the place The morrow found me there again... But alas! the scene was changed And horror petrified my brain. The violets and roses were Lovely; though the bulbul's song Was as musical and sweet, Yet my heart in pain was wrung! Stunned, I saw a sight that made me Wish my seeing eyes were blind... Stagnant vapours and black snakes About the flower stems were twined. |
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Beyond the river dark thou art. Between us rushing waters flow. There is no bridge, no boat have we, Nor wings to cross the river, so, I gaze upon thy smiling face And long to press my lips to thine, Though well I know I ne'er will hold Thee in my arms, O dearest mine! No hope relieves our hopelessness, Nor lights the brooding darkening sky. Delusion makes us bitter smile Through tears that blind the aching eye. Over the rushing waters wild My voice takes wing and towards thee flies, But mingling with the deafening roar In raging depths it swoons and dies. It's heart-corroding to behold The years pass like the stream in sighs... |
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I breathed a word that grief had wrought. It winged its flight into the air, Then pierced the haunts and souls of men, And left its tears and laughter there. It was a word flung from a heart That knew but misery and tears, — A word that knew its lowly birth In throes of agony and fears. Though nursed by suffering and trial, It spread and flourished in its flight, And wondering I beheld it glow, Adorned in sparkling jewels bright. And soon upon a throne of gold It ruled in radiance and might, — The hope and faith of sunless hearts, The darkened bosom's torch of light. I marvelled at that vision fair, The offspring of my passion's fires; Resistless was its beauty as It filled men's souls with strange desires. I wondered much, and smiled to see How over souls of men it reigned, How it had sprung from misery That birth with tears of blood had stained — A solitary word of woe, Abused, objected and profaned. |
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On quiet sleep you lie, fair maid, With curly locks that lure the eye. What visions, thoughts invade your dreams As you rest here beneath the sky? With beating heart and hurrying feet You pass this forest every day. Woe if you meet the tiger fierce, The wolf or bear upon your way! * * * A light worn garment hid her form. Her feet in slippers soft were clad. The beauty of her arms on which Her head reposed nigh made me mad. A sheep-skin sack hung on her back, A shepherd's rod beside her lay. She slumbered on and sleep brought her A short respite from toils of day. Oblivious of any fear, No troubled dreams disturbed her sleep, Yet, for that angel of the woods I feared, and prayed to God to keep Her safe from every future pain. Though I, by fate, am doomed to wander With dire misfortune all my life, God, may Thy blessings fall upon her, For if those eyes are closed by death, And no more will they brightly glow, What other fires can warm my heart Or on it equal joys bestow? O mounts! O trees! O flowing streams! On ye I call in humble prayer, This lass, the angel of my dreams, From pain and sorrow shield fore'er! |
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Pour me the wine of liquid flame, And steep my soul in rubied flow; Perhaps twill banish cares away, And tinge with rose this world of woe Perchance 'twill drown the pangs of life In Bacchus' horn of nectared fire, And Fancy find for me a maid Upon whose bosom I'll expire. On whirlwind's wing my steed and I Will cleave the waves of oceans wide. We'll fly the haunts of mortal man Where every joy of mine has died. For death on high is sweeter far Than life upon the earth below Which is an urn of buried hopes, Floating on a sea of woe. |
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Rust adorns thee, sword, and mould'ring Is thy scabbard once so fine. Where's thy master's arm of iron, Where's that flashing gleam of thine?' "On the fatal plain of Shamkor, He fell dead, with many a wound, And his blood flowed like a torrent, Dyeing red the battle ground. Though he fell beneath the struggle With the deadly enemy, Valiant were his deeds and dauntless. Matchless was his bravery Foremost was he in the battle, Smiting, hewing down the foe. Georgia and a soldier's honour Made him bear the crushing blow. A coward's hand has hung me useless Here to rust in endless night. Georgia has become a market Cursed and doomed by venal blight! I, who proudly fought for freedom, Now am pawned or sold for gold, A bartered thing to crown the downfall Of my country's pride of old. Many years have passed since Georgia's Son did whet me till I flashed, Rendered sharp my blade so deadly, And with me to battle dashed. Nor have I heard sounds of trumpets, Nor the shouts of victory... I have passed an age thus hanging Here in rust and slavery." |