1. DEATH OF A YOUTH OF ZEITOUN

 
WHOM dost thou seek, sweet mother?
Come, tremble not, draw near!
Gaze on thy son’s blood-streaming wounds
Without a sigh or tear.
Let Turkish mothers rend their hair;
Do thou glad news to Zeitoun bear !
 
 
As, by my cradle, thou didst soothe
With tender hand and smile
My childish form to sleep, and sing
With angel voice the while,
Lay me to rest, without a care,
And joyful news to Zeitoun bear !
 
 
Red floods are welling from my wounds,
But, mother, look around;
See how the fierce blood-thirsty Turks
By thousands strew the ground !
Our swords devoured them, scattered there :
Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear!
 
 
They smote us like a dragon,
With sudden roaring deep;
But Zeitoun shook her rocky head,
And rolled them down the steep.
Red was the stain our rocks did wear ;
Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear !
 
 
Our fathers’ ghosts applauded;
Our old fire is not dead !
Our slaughtered kin rejoiced to see
The blood of vengeance shed.
Mount Ararat the joy did share ;
 

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