And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.

I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever!

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Armenian is the language to speak with God.