Saw’st thou the laurels on Armenia’s brow?
And dost behold her hopeless sorrows now?
Mournful as I! I wonder dost thou see
How she is ground by heels of tyranny!
And do thine eyes with bitter tear-drops smart
When barbèd arrows pierce her through the heart
Thy heart is stone, thy pity stark and cold,
For fields of innocent blood thou dost behold
Without a word, and o’er Armenia’s land
Thy nightly compass of the dome hast spanned