Ye shining angel hosts, descend:
    On Ararat's white summit pause;
Let God Himself the heavens rend,
    To come and judge our cause.

Fly, clouds, from Shavarshan away,
    Pour not on it your gentle rain:--
’Tis drenched with streams of blood to-day
    Shed by our brave ones slain.

Henceforth the rose and asphodel
    No more shall on our plains appear;
But in the land where Vartan fell
    Shall Faith her blossoms rear.

Fit monument to Vartan's name,
    Mount Ararat soars to the sky.
And Cross-crowned convents tell his fame,
    And churches vast and high.

Bright sun, pierce with thy rays the gloom,
    Where Khaghdik's crags thy light repel,
There lies our brave Hmayag's tomb,--
    There, where he martyred fell.

And, moon, thy sleepless vigil keep
    O’er our Armenian martyrs' bones;
With the soft dews of Maytime steep
    Their nameless funeral stones.

Armenia's Stork, our summer guest,
    And all ye hawks and eagles, come,
Watch o’er this land--’tis our bequest--
    We leave to you our home.

About the ashes hover still,
    Your nests among the ruins make;
And, swallows, come and go until
    Spring for Armenia break!