O Georgian mother! Thou gavest sons
To home and land in days of yore.
The future braves were lulled to sleep
With lullabies and mountain lore.
Alas! those days are past, and now
By sorrow is thy country swayed.
Thy very breath of life is fled.
Thy warrior son is now a shade.
Where is the courage of our sires,
The dagger and the crushing blow,
The honour and the pride of old,
The fearless struggle with the foe?
But why should we shed idle tears
For glory that is past and gone;
Another star, O Georgians, must
We find to guide and lead us on.
It is our duty to prepare
The future for the people, and —
Ah here, O mother, is thy task,
Thy sacred duty to thy land:
Endow thy sons with spirits strong,
With strength of heart and honour bright,
Inspire them with fraternal love,
To strive for freedom and for right;
Infuse in them God's Gospel wise,
Give them true courage for the fight,
And thus enrich our land with sons
Who'll change this darkness into light.
O mother! hear thy country's plea:
Nurture thy sons with spirits strong
Led by the torch of truth whose flame
Will banish ignorance and wrong.
Beneath the lake of Bazaleti
A golden cradle gleams;
Around it blooms a wondrous garden —
A paradise it seems.
This hidden bower, thus veiled by waters,
Dwells in eternity;
It knows no time, nor sun, nor moonlight,
No withered mortality.
No biting frosts, no scorching sun
Wither its bloom away,
For in this realm of golden shade
Eternal spring holds sway.
Within the bosom of that lake
A golden cradle lies;
No mortal yet has ever dared
To reach this paradise.
With streaming hair, the sirens fair
About this cradle throng;
They sweetly hum and weave love's snare
In soft delusive song.
'Tis said that glorious Queen Tamari
Had placed the cradle so,
And o'er it poured the tears a nation
Had shed in anguished woe.
But none can say what nameless babe
Is cradled there below,
Or why a nation's tears conceal
It there in endless flow...
Perhaps it holds and cradles one
Whose name none dares to speak —
A nation's hope, whom Georgians all
In silent longing seek,
If it be so, then happy he,
Whose fame will ever glow,
Whose puissant hand will be the first
To grasp that crib below!
If it be so, then happy she,
The mother blest, sublime,
Whose hallowed breast will be the first
To feed that babe divine!
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