Salamuri

O where are you, my sylvan reed, Whose notes of sadness sweetly ring; And over the heart of Georgia's son 'Neath northern skies their music fling? When shepherds play on tnee and send Your crystal song o'er vale and hill, Your smiles aspire to heavens blue; In blackest hell your sobbings thrill. As soul to soul my thoughts entwine About your voice and ringing song, My Georgia's grief and bitter fate Your sighs recall in grievous throng. At times the Turks and Tartar hordes Made Georgia weep and wail in woe; And even the Scythians, wild and fierce Profaned its peace with savage blow. My pipe of slender reed, your voice Bids my lone heart to sob. Then why Have I the wish to hear your song And for my native land to cry? At times your clear and soothing notes To rest and peace my soul compel; Or all my maddening thoughts and dreams Your flingest down to burn in hell. In gallant strife against the foe The Georgian true I then behold: I hear his cry: "Advance and strike!" I see his charge, so swift and bold. Your soothing voice, my sylvan reed, So murmuring sad, so joyous sweet, O'erfloods my soul with longings wild, And makes my heart with gladness beat. The Georgian soul in you does moan, You strain the Georgian bosom warm. And deeds and glories of our past In fond remembrance round you swarm But ah, alas, my pipe of reed, That whistles sweet over dell and lea Let shepherds only hear your sighs For now there's none to list to you.