’Tis not your king that shall ride to-night,
    But a child that is fast asleep;
  And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-Horse
     white—­
  Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly light
    Where the ghostly shadows creep!
    “My eyes are dull and my face is sere,
    Yet unto the word he gave I cling,
  For he was a Pharoah that set me here—­
  And lo!  I have waited this many a year
    For him—­my king!”

  Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride
    Swift as the burning winds that bear
  The sand clouds over the desert wide—­
  Swift to the verdure and palms beside
    The wells off there!
    “And is it the mighty king I shall see
    Come riding into the night? 
  Oh, is it the king come back to me—­
  Proudly and fiercely rideth he,
    With centuries dight!”

  I know no king but my dark-eyed dear
    That shall ride the Dream-Horse white;
  But see! he wakes at my bosom here,
  While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers near
    To speed with my babe to-night!
  And out of the desert darkness peers
    A ghostly, ghastly, shadowy thing
  Like a spirit come out of the moldering years,
  And ever that waiting specter hears
    The coming king!

ARMENIAN FOLK-SONG—­THE PARTRIDGE.

As beats the sun from mountain crest,
With “pretty, pretty”,
Cometh the partridge from her nest;
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me—­
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!

And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top, breakfast I;
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain side—­
I see and hear the dainty dear! 
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!

Thy nest’s inlaid with posies rare. 
And pretty, pretty
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!)
And one and all impassioned call;
“O pretty, pretty—­
O dear little partridge!”

Thy feathers they are soft and sleek—­
So pretty, pretty! 
Long is thy neck and small thy breast;
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are! 
Sweeter than dove is she I love—­
My pretty, pretty—­
My dear little partridge!

When comes the partridge from the tree,
So pretty, pretty! 
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby—­
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And echo then gives back again
Our “Pretty, pretty,”
Our “Dear little partridge!”

Admitting the most blest of all
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come and round they play,
And this is what they seem to say—­
They say and sing, each feathered thing;
“Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!”