Spring

SPRING

BY MUGGURDICH BESHIGTASHLIAN

(1829-1868)

O LITTLE breeze, how fresh and sweet
Thou blowest in the morning air!
Upon the flowers caressingly,
And on the gentle maiden's hair.
But not my country's breath thou art:
Blow elsewhere, come not near my heart!

O little bird among the trees,
The sweetness of thy joyful voice
Entrances all the Hours of Love,
And makes the listening woods rejoice.
But not my country's bird thou art:
Sing elsewhere, come not near my heart!

How peacefully thou murmurest,
O gentle, limpid little brook;
Within thy mirror crystal-bright
The rose and maiden bend to look.
But not my country's brook thou art:
Flow elsewhere--come not near my heart!

Although Armenia's breeze and bird
Above a land of ruins fly;
Although through mourning cypress groves
Armenia's turbid stream flows by,--
They are the sighing of her heart,
And never shall from mine depart!