Dawn

In pensive thought the Holy Mount Upon the star of morn does gaze, As o'er the valiant hero's grave The star sheds soft and misty rays. Here solemn silence reigns save that The Mtkvari breathes in murmurs light; The Mountain listens to the stream As it hums to the sleeping knight. Mtatsminda to its bosom folds That tomb illustrious and grand, And sends St. David fervent prayers To shield fore'et his native land O azure sky, O emerald earth, I hasten to you, native strand; I come, afflicted; ease my heart That inly bleeds, O mother-land. I stand entranced upon the Mount And feel once more revived and whole. My bosom swells, and then in song I pour the worship of my soul. Exiled from home I wandered on And wept to live from you apart; I yearned for you, to you made haste With ardent soul and eager heart. As I drew near, your sun and moon Bid me glad welcome from on high; The stars seemed conscious of my joy, And shone the brighter in the sky. O land of beauty and of song, Your blossoms droop and withering sigh; Restore them once again to life, And dry the tears that blind the eye. O azure sky, O emerald earth, My one and only cherished land, For your I live, for you I'll die, For you I mourn, O native strand. Protect and bless me - living, dead; Refuse me not your sheltering care; And when I die, of you I beg, To heed and listen to my prayer: Let me be buried in a grave Upon your bosom, native strand, With your green turf above my breast, Beneath your skies, O mother-land.