THE ARMENIAN MOTHER

I was a mother, and I weep;
The night is come--the day is sped--
The night of woe profound, for, oh,
My little golden son is dead!

The pretty rose that bloomed anon
Upon my mother breast, they stole;
They let the dove I nursed with love
Fly far away--so sped my soul!

That falcon Death swooped down upon
My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung;
’Tis hushed and dark where soared the lark,
And so, and so my heart was wrung!

Before my eyes, they sent the hail
Upon my green pomegranate-tree--
Upon the bough where only now
A rosy apple bent to me.

They shook my beauteous almond-tree,
Beating its glorious bloom to death--
They strewed it round upon the ground,
And mocked its fragrant dying breath.

I was a mother, and I weep;
I seek the rose where nestleth none--
No more is heard the singing bird--
I have no little golden son!

So fall the shadows over me,
The blighted garden, lonely nest.
Reach down in love, O God above!
And fold my darling to thy breast.

HEIGHO, MY DEARIE

A moonbeam floateth from the skies,
Whispering: “Heigho, my dearie;
I would spin a web before your eyes--
A beautiful web of silver light
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway
And the snow-white lambkins are at play--
Heigho, my dearie!”

A brownie stealeth from the vine,
Singing: “Heigho, my dearie;
And will you hear this song of mine--
A song of the land of murk and mist
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?
Then let the moonbeam’s web of light
Be spun before thee silvery white,
And I shall sing the livelong night--
Heigho, my dearie!”

The night wind speedeth from the sea,
Murmuring: “Heigho, my dearie;
I bring a mariner’s prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies--
But I shall rock thee to and fro,
Kissing the brow _he_ loveth so.
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow--
Heigho, my dearie!”

TO A USURPER

Aha! a traitor in the camp,
A rebel strangely bold,--
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,
Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who’ve ruled alone
So proudly in the past,
Should be ejected from my throne
By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro,
As only babies can,
And says he’ll be his mamma’s beau
When he’s a “gweat, big man”!

You stingy boy! you’ve always had
A share in mamma’s heart.
Would you begrudge your poor old dad
The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see,
Inclines to take your part,--
As if a dual monarchy
Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped,
The bearded man, I trow,
Will quite forget he ever said
He’d be his mamma’s beau.

Renounce your treason, little son,
Leave mamma’s heart to me;
For there will come another one
To claim your loyalty.

And when that other comes to you,
God grant her love may shine
Through all your life, as fair and true
As mamma’s does through mine!