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!