WHY didst thou cease, O nightingale, thy sweet, melodious song,
That to my sad and burning eyes bade floods of teardrops throng?
Dost thou remember, when in spring the dawn was breaking clear,
How often to my heart thou hast recalled my country dear ?
Sweet was that memory, as a dream that for a moment’s space
Brings joy into a mourner’s heart, and brightens his sad face.
The weary world forgotten, to thy voice I bent my ear;
And I was far away, and saw once more my country dear.
I know thou too art longing for that vernal land the while, —
That paradise, afar from which Fate has for us no smile.
Oh, who will give me a bird’s wings, that I may sweep and soar,
And cleave the clouds, and hie me to Armenia once more ?
If I could breathe her holy and revivifying air,
I know I should be cured at last of all this weight of care.
But when spring passed away it brought thy music to a close,
And took from us thy chanted hymn, with the petals of the rose.
I’ll open thy cage door; thou ’rt free ! Now to Armenia fly!
Dost thou desire the rose, ’t is there ; there is a cloudless sky;
There are cool breezes, o’er the fields that softly, sweetly blow;
A sun that shines in splendor, and brooks that murmuring flow.
I too, like thee, am longing for a sunny atmosphere ;
The mist and cloud and heavy air have tired my spirit here.
The North wind blows the dust to heaven, the crows with harsh notes sail;
This is the Northern air, and this the Northern nightingale !
foolish, poor Armenians, what seek ye in the North?
I hate its empty pleasures and its life of little worth.
Give me my country’s balmy air, her cloudless sky o’erhead;
Give me my country’s pastures green, my country’s roses red !