By HOVHANNES COSTANIANTZ
No bird can reach the mountain’s crest.
There blow the winds that never rest;
And ‘midst the stars that crown the height,
Saint Gregory’s fair lamp shines bright.[1]
Ah, gentle brother, sweet and brave,
That Light thy sword and spirit save!
How many rills the mountain yields!
Those rills are streams, that dew the fields.
My brother sweet, those rushing streams