The Armenian Mother (Folk-Song)

I was a mother, and I weep;
The night is come--the day is sped--
The night of woe profound, for, oh,
My little golden son is dead!

The pretty rose that bloomed anon
Upon my mother breast, they stole;
They let the dove I nursed with love
Fly far away--so sped my soul!

That falcon Death swooped down upon
My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung;
’Tis hushed and dark where soared the lark,
And so, and so my heart was wrung!

Before my eyes, they sent the hail
Upon my green pomegranate-tree--
Upon the bough where only now
A rosy apple bent to me.

They shook my beauteous almond-tree,
Beating its glorious bloom to death--
They strewed it round upon the ground,
And mocked its fragrant dying breath.

I was a mother, and I weep;
I seek the rose where nestleth none--
No more is heard the singing bird--
I have no little golden son!

So fall the shadows over me,
The blighted garden, lonely nest.
Reach down in love, O God above!
And fold my darling to thy breast.