OTTOMAN POEMS (continued 2)

Ne’er a corner for the plaintive bulbul’s nest remaineth now; Ne’er a palm-tree ’neath whose kindly shade is rest remaineth now. Day and night some balm I’ve sought for, to relieve my wounded heart; Ne’er a cure within the heavens’ turquoise chest remaineth now. From its source, through every country, searched have I, but all in vain— Ne’er a single drop, in mercy’s fountain blest, remaineth now. Empty earthen pots are reckoned one with jewels rich and rare; Ne’er a scale in value’s mart the worth to test remaineth now. ’Neath the earth may now the needy hide themselves, Nābī, away; Ne’er a turret on the fort of interest remaineth now. Nābī.

O Lord, to Thee is never a beginning, neither end; Thy mercy’s ocean, limitless, doth over all extend. E’en though the value-weighing hand of Thine unbounded might Hath wrought astounding marvels that all numbering transcend, Yet, Lord, Thou formedst Adam in the best of symmetry; Thou worthy of thy grace to make this folk didst condescend. Unfathomed and unsounded lies thy mercy’s ocean vast, Which truly hath made earth beneath its surging waves descend: O Lord, could any hurt or harm befall that shoreless deep, Did thou a single drop therefrom to this thy servant send? Since ‘Ārif owns a Master kind in graciousness like thee, O Lord, before another’s door were’t right for him to bend? O Lord, thus ever doth in joy thy blest device appear— Thy greatest glory from the works of vileness thou dost rear! ‘Ārif.

The sun of love for thy fair cheek the heart’s core floods with radiant light; The soul’s most secret court is filled with dazzling rays at thy sweet sight. With union’s joys though blest one be, or though with pangs of absence torn, Are still sad wail and plaintive cry the e’er-true signs of lovelorn plight. Then welcome, O thou gentlest breeze, that bear’st to him who dwells midst woe, As news from yonder absent maid the sweet scent of her garment white. Of gilded halls no need in sooth to libertines when wine flows free; Some ruined den beseems them more, like Jemshīd’s hut of woful site. The sparks raised by my passioned sighs’ and plainings’ smoke are each one quenched; For every tear that rolleth down upon my robe’s a rich pearl bright. O ‘Ārif! this poor captive bird hath grown to love th’ entangling snare; For curling locks to careworn hearts afford a refuge sure from fright. ’Ārif.

Ah, my Joy! thou’rt gone, and my sad weeping heart hast borne indeed, And my breast by bitter parting’s raging fires all worn indeed; Grief for thee in hundred pieces hath my raiment torn indeed; Be thy escort on the journey tears I weep, forlorn indeed. Thou art gone, and longing for thee makes my heart to mourn indeed; Without thee, banquets where friends meet, all I have forsworn indeed. Wheresoe’er thy footsteps wander, be the aid of God thy guide; As the pilot to thy wishes be His grace aye at thy side; Shadow for thy crown of glory may the huma’s wing provide; Ah! may ever-joyous, happy fortune on thy path abide. Thou art gone, and longing for thee makes my heart to mourn indeed; Without thee, banquets where friends meet, all I have forsworn indeed. O thou Source of joy and quiet unto my poor grieving breast! Hence forever I with separation’s fires am sore opprest; Thou, Crown of my joy! my Treasure! mercy show to me distrest! Now, my Lord, to whom shall Master’s title be by me addrest? Thou art gone, and longing for thee makes my heart to mourn indeed; Without thee, banquets where friends meet, all I have forsworn indeed. Ever in thy court of service may th’ inconstant heavens be! I am fallen, soul and body, to woe’s depths by their decree; From a kindly master like thee, merciless, they’ve sundered me; And into the dreary vale of exile have they driven thee. Thou art gone, and longing for thee makes my heart to mourn indeed; Without thee, banquets where friends meet, all I have forsworn indeed. Though I’m far now from the shadow of thy love, O Cypress straight, Still my prayers I may offer for thy happiness of state. Think at times upon thy servant ‘Ārif sitting desolate; Him from near thy skirt of kindness taken hath his darksome fate. Thou art gone, and longing for thee makes my heart to mourn indeed; Without thee, banquets where friends meet, all I have forsworn indeed. ’Ārif.

The realm of patience thou’st laid waste, Helāgū hight art thou, Paynim? O mercy! thou’st the world consumed, a blazing light art thou, Paynim? A maiden’s grace, is that thy grace, a conquering hero’s voice, thy voice; Thou Woe, I know not, maid or youthful lord of might art thou, Paynim? What mean those hidden, secret sighs, and tears, and saddest grievings, pray? The wailing lover of some wanton gay and bright, art thou, Paynim? Why on the polished mirror dost thou thus so frequent cast thine eyes? Bewildered and distraught at thine own beauty’s sight art thou, Paynim? I’ve heard that poor Nedīm hath been by cruel Paynim captive ta’en— That fierce oppressor of the Faith, and foe of right, art thou, Paynim? Nedīm.

O heart! e’en though thou tell’st thy woes, yon maid will ne’er compassion deign: When constancy and troth thou seek’st, dost thou address the barren plain? The student of the course of tyranny is yonder wanton wild; To look for faith or grace from her who enmity desires is vain. That paynim glance doth hold in hand a dagger sharp of point and keen; And yet, O babe, my heart, thou dost to thousands sing her praises’ strain. In hope that it would yield the soul a breath of favor’s odor sweet, How yonder rosebud-mouth effaceth all, thou dost thereto explain. O Sabqatī, what wondrous science hath thy magic talent learnt, That thou right royally inditest every joyous, glad refrain? Sabqatī.

A rose-leaf o’er the spikenard fall’n—the red fez lies on her dark hair; The perspiration studs her cheeks—the dew-drops which the roses wear. Since mirrored in th’ o’erflowing bowl did yon cup-bearer’s chin beam bright, My eyes were fixed upon that wine, like bubbles which that wine did bear. Behold thou, then, her braided locks, as musk, all dark and sweet perfumed; Like ambergris, her tresses shed abroad an odor rich and rare. Those who set forth on Mystic Path behind soon leave the earth-born love; The Bridge, as home, within this world of ours, no man hath taken e’er. Now, O Belīg, that steed, thy reed, doth caracole across this page; Thy finger-points, the Hayder bold whom that Duldul doth onward bear. Belīg.

When that beauty of a dancing-girl her castanets hath ta’en, Should the sun and moon behold her, jealous, each were rent in twain. Patience from my soul is banished when beginneth she to dance; Leaps with her my heart; my eyesight, faltering, is like to wane. When the moon looks down upon her, must it not be seared of heart? Yonder moon-fair one her crimson skirt for halo bright hath ta’en. In her motions and her pausings what varieties of grace! While her lovely frame doth tremble, like to quicksilver, amain! Full delighted at her motions, loud as thunder roars the drum; Beats its breast the tambourine, its bells commence to mourn and plain. When she cometh, like a fairy, begging money from the crowd, In her tambourine, had one a hundred lives, he’d cast them fain. Deck her out on gala-days, and take her by the hand, Belīg; Yonder spark-like Idol hath consumed my soul with fiery pain. Belīg.

Surge in waves my streaming tears, e’en like a rushing flood, once more, From their smallest drop, the sources of a hundred Niles would pour. Overwhelm the raging billows of my tears the heart’s frail bark, Though the mem’ry of her cheek, like to the beacon, radiance throw. What my pen writes down appeareth, in the eyes of brutish men, Like the needle to the blinded, of discerning clear the foe. One the beggar’s bowl would be with the tiara of the King, Were it but reversed, for then like to the royal crown ’twould show. Though it be coarse as a rush-mat, is that soul the seat of grace, Which doth, like the wattle basket, freely bread to guests bestow, “Yonder hair-waist I encircled,” did the braggart rival say; But her waist exists not—hair-like slight his boasting’s truth doth show. O thou vain one! see, what anguish to the head of Nimrod brought Was by one gnat’s sting, which like to trunk of elephant did grow. Sāmī, it is thy intention to compare to heaven’s bowers These thy distichs eight, with shining flowers of rhetoric that glow. Sāmī.

Think not that with Kevser’s praises hearts become of joy full; Preacher, rather doth the tale of mouth and kiss the soul rule. Thinking of her rubies red, whene’er I drink tobacco, The nargila’s a flask of wine, the pipe-bowl is a sumbul. Know how holy is her land: who dwelleth in Edirna, Ere he to the Ka’ba bends, doth turn him to Istambul. Sāmī.

Near thy rubies, ne’er I bow my head to wine of rosy hue; ’Neath the shadow of the Magian priest, I ne’er the glass eschew. Now it makes me exile’s prisoner, now the comrade close of pain— What to do I know not, what with this sad fate of mine to do! E’en the Home of Peace it turneth to the cot of woe for me, Through the longing for thy dusky mole, when Shām I journey through. Since ’tis needful midst the people that I still reside and move, If the days ne’er suit me, I shall suit myself the days unto. Never unto Nev-res, never, will thy sweet words bitter seem; Speak thou, then, for I’m contented all reproach to hearken to. Nev-res.

If the fair one would but come in her lover’s home to stay, Were his eyes not filled with light by her face as bright as day? Or would yonder Moon but dart that her glance as dagger keen, And my rival’s bosom pierce that, like flute, he breathe dismay! Fly not this poor one, Moon-face, who hath drunken deep of woe; Order not that I be burned in the fire of love, I pray. If the Grace of God the Lord to a slave should aider be, Though he lack a single groat he’ll the Sphere as monarch sway. Rush the tear drops from my eyes through their longing for thy face; By its power thy sun-like face doth the dew-drops steal away. By the Mystic Pathway’s side, if thou’rt wise, a hostel build, For the travellers of Love, as a caravanserai. Proud and noble mistress mine, with those eyebrows and those eyes, Where a need of bow and shaft this thy lover fond to slay? Thou hast loosed thy tresses dark, o’er thy day-face spread a veil— Or in House of Scorpio is the Moon eclipsèd, say? Should my loved one pierce my breast, right contented sooth were I; Only worthy of her grace let that Moon-face me survey. Write, O pen, that I desire, like the salamander, fire; Thus declare, should she it will, yonder lovely Queen Humāy. Is it then the shining moon that the world doth silver o’er, Or the radiance of thy face that doth earth in light array? Did the caviller dispute and thy sun-bright face decry, Would thy lover, like the mote, to that fool the truth convey. Lovers surely for their loves do their talents aye employ; Is it thine thy tribute now to present, Shāhīn Girāy? Shāhīn Girāy.

O moon! sleep, sleep thou, for this night The cry “O Lord!” upon thine ear shall smite; Though formed, its purpose is yet hid from sight, It shall be seen—the stars’ potential might. Thou’lt be the roast upon the spit of pain! O Rosebud! sleep thou, then, this little while; The Sphere’s design against thee sooth is vile, For pitiless is it and strong in guile; Ah! never trust it, even though it smile. Thou’lt have, I fear me, reason oft to plain! O Love’s Narcissus! sleep the sleep of peace! Fall at the skirt of Fate and beg surcease; Thy soul’s eye ope—and, lo! thy fears increase! Guard thee against the end of woe, nor cease. Thou’lt be as plaything by Misfortune ta’en! Come, in the cradle of repose thee rest A few short nights, by sorrow undistrest; Bid care and all it brings leave thee unprest; In place of milk, blood shall be thy bequest. Thou’lt need the goblet of despite to drain! O Jasmine-breast! within the cradle lie; Thus will not long remain the rolling Sky: The stars do not aye in one circle hie; See what they’ll do to thee, Love, by and by. Thou’lt be the mill on sorrow’s torrent’s train! From slumber do not thou thine eyelids keep, If aid can reach thee, it will come through sleep; The Sphere will give a draught of poison deep, Then will thy work, like Gālib’s, be to weep. Thou’lt be the rebec at the feast of pain! Gālib.

Sweet were those moments when the heart was gay, And the soul’s realm, the court of joy’s array; Thoughts of those times now o’er my spirit stray, For love of God! O Heavens! mercy! pray! The pride of both the day and night was I. A garden fair was that my soul’s repose; Like those in Eden’s bower, its every rose; But parting comes and all of that o’erthrows, Now in my heart naught but its mem’ry glows. With honor’s wine then drunken quite was I. Then to the Sphere I never uttered prayer; Feast, music, and delight—all mine—were there; Moved ever by my side my Cypress fair; Unopened then my secret and despair. The envy of the springtide bright was I. Now before grief and woe I’m fallen prone; Like nightingale in early spring, I moan. Through fire I’ve past and to the shore have flown, And, like the shattered glass, to earth am thrown. Sipping the wine, the fair’s despite, was I. Ah me! alas! those happy hours are past; The spring is past; the rose, the flowers, are past; The smiles of her who graced the bowers are past; The thirsty soul remains, the showers are past. Drinking with her the wine so bright was I. I with my loved one feast and banquet made, Wild as the whirlpool then I romped and played; At wine-feasts I myself in light arrayed, And with my songs the nightingales dismayed. Like Gālib, blest with all delight was I. Gālib.

The mem’ry of his glance hid in my breast deep laid I found; It seemed as though a fawn within the lion’s glade I found. O heart! a parallel unto those eyebrows and that glance, In Rustem’s deadly bow and Qahramān’s bright blade I found. When, through my grieving at thine absence, dead of woe was I, That mem’ry of thy rubies’ kiss new life conveyed I found. My heart’s wound, through the beauty of the spring of love for thee, By turns, rose, tulip, Judas-tree of crimson shade, I found. Is’t strange, O Fitnet, if my soul around do scatter gems? Within the ink-horn’s vault a hidden treasure laid I found. Fitnet Khānim.

The fresh spring clouds across all earth their glistening pearls profuse now sow; The flowers, too, all appearing, forth the radiance of their beauty show. Of mirth and joy ’tis now the time, the hour to wander to and fro; The palm-tree o’er the fair ones’ picnic gay its grateful shade doth throw. O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow; ’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow. Behold the roses, how they shine, e’en like the cheeks of maids most fair; The fresh-sprung hyacinth shows like to beauties’ dark, sweet, musky hair. The loved one’s form behold, like cypress which the streamlet’s bank doth bear; In sooth, each side for soul and heart doth some delightful joy prepare. O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow; ’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow. The parterre’s flowers have all bloomed forth, the roses, sweetly smiling, shine; On every side lorn nightingales, in plaintive notes discoursing, pine; How fair, carnation and wallflower the borders of the garden line! The long-haired hyacinth and jasmine both around the cyprèss twine. O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow; ’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow. Arise, my Prince! the garden’s court hath wondrous joys in fair array; Oh, hark, there midst the rose’s boughs, the wailing nightingale’s fond lay Thy bright cheek show the new-oped rose and make it blush with shamed dismay; With graceful air come then, thy cypress mien before the mead display. O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow; ’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow. Enow! thy lovers pain no more, of faithful plight the days are now; On streamlet’s banks, of mirth and joy and gay delight the days are now; In hand then take the heart’s dear joy, the goblet bright, its days are now; O Fitnet, come, and these thy verses sweet recite, their days are now. O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow; ’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow. Fitnet Khānim.

Ah! through grief for thee mine eyes blood, every night and day, weep; Those who know my bitter sorrow’s secret pang for aye weep. When they see me blood-besmeared by my bosom’s red wound, Pitying my doleful plight, the garden’s flowerets gay weep. When he viewed my bleeding heart, ruth had yon physician; Quoth he: “Doth the cure for thee, Sick of love-dismay, weep.” Yet to me doth yonder Torment of the Soul no grace show; For my plight do all my friends, who me thus sick survey, weep. E’en as gazeth on thy cheek, amidst his woes, Ilhāmī, Though his face may smiling be, his heart doth blood alway weep. Ilhāmī.

Midst the orchard of the world though empire may appear delight, Still, if thou wouldst view it closely, empire is but ceaseless fight. Vain let no one be who ruleth kingdoms in these woful days; If in justice lie thy pleasure—then is empire truly right. Reacheth e’en one lover union in the space of thousand years? Let whoever sees it envy—empire is of faithless plight. Think, O heart, alas! the revolutions of the rolling Sphere! If at times ’tis joy, far oftener empire bringeth dire affright. Do not envy, do not covet, then, the Kingship of the world; Oh! take heed, Ilhāmī, empire bides not, swift indeed its flight. Ilhāmī.

The trees and flowers their turbans roll of black and white and red; The garden fastens on its stole of black and white and red. With sable eve and ermine dawn and fez of sunset bright, The sky doth all its pomp unroll of black and white and red. The pupils of my eyes are points upon the gleaming page, With tears of blood I’ve writ a scroll of black and white and red. The youthful Magian’s locks and breast were shadowed in the wine; It seemed as though they filled the bowl with black and white and red. Is’t ambergris, or is it pearl, or coral, Fāzil, say, This poesy thy reed doth troll, of black and white and red? Fāzil Beg.

Ah! her cheek doth rob the fair sun of its sight, And her sweet grace envy brings to Venus bright. Like to moons are the Circassian damsels fair; Whatso’er the lover seeks he findeth there. Like to tall palm-trees their slender forms in grace, Or a ladder to the clear moon of the face. With the two feet of the eyes doth one ascend, But the vision of the mind too one must bend. Since their lips and cheeks are taverns of wine, Is it strange their eyes inebriate should shine? Since like rubies are created their two lips, Doubly seared the lover’s heart, like the tulip’s. Since their bodies are distilled from moon and sun, How an equal to their pure frame find can one? Though they lovelier than Georgians may be, Still in Georgians one will great attractions see. Closely curtained sit they all in virtue’s place; Pure of skirt is ever this unrivalled race; Pure and free from stain is every act of theirs; Not a soil the vestment of their honor bears; Marked with chastity indeed, of noble heart, Ever seeking to fulfil the righteous part; Bright with bounty and fidelity and sense, How that blessèd nature glows with light intense! Think not with this race that any can compare Upon earth, unless it be the Georgian fair. Fāzil Beg.

Oh! thou the Bell upon the church of pain! Thou the Pride of all the Messianic train! Source of being! if a mistress thou should seek, Then, I pray thee, let thy loved one be a Greek. Unto her the fancies of the joyous bend, For there’s leave to woo the Grecian girl, my friend. Caskets of coquetry are the Grecian maids, And their grace the rest of womankind degrades. What that slender waist so delicate and slight! What those gentle words the sweet tongue doth indite! What those blandishments, that heart-attracting talk! What that elegance, that heart-attracting walk! What that figure, as the cypress tall and free— In the park of God’s creation a young tree! What those attitudes, those motions, wondrous fair! What that glance inebriate that showeth there! Given those disdainful airs to her alone, And her legacy that accent and that tone. All those letters on her sweet tongue’s tip are rolled, And those words with many graces she’ll unfold; Strung the regal pearls of her enchanting speech, Pounded seem they when her gentle mouth they reach; To her tongue if come a letter harsh to say, Then her sweet mouth causeth it to melt away; Her mouth would fain the words conserve in sooth, For her mouth is speech-conserves in very truth; Speaking parrots are they surely one and all, To their portion doth the birdies’ language fall. With a thousand graces saith her rosebud lip: “Zee vine, O noble Lord, vill zou no sip? When thy glass is empty, fill it full again, To my love drink, O my Pacha, drink amain!” To the soul add life her ways and charms so dear, Surely thus is it a mistress should appear. E’en the old misogynist would conquered be, Saw he yonder maid, uxorious were he. So symmetrical the line her body shows, One would it a balanced hemistich suppose. Other women seek to imitate her grace, As their pride and frontispiece she holds her place. What that figure tall, and what that graceful mien! Fair-proportioned is her body ever seen. Moving lithely, she from side to side will turn, That the hearts of all her lovers she may burn. That cap which on one side she gayly wears; That jaunty step; those joyous heedless airs; Those motions—they are just what me delight; And her tripping on two toes—how fair a sight! ’Twere as though with fire her pathway were inlaid, That would burn the feet of yonder moon-like maid. Thou wouldst deem her lovers’ hearts upon her way, Burning with their love for her, all scattered lay. . . . . . . . . . . Is’t herself they call “Qoqona” let us see? Or her locks?—how wondrous sweet their odors be! As the sash trails on the ground beneath thy feet, So will she thy feet salute with kisses sweet. Misbeliever, thou dost sense steal from the heart; Torment thou—I know not what a Woe thou art; Know not I if thou be hūrī or perī, Know not I of Mary what is found in thee; Art thou Mary’s, child of ‘Imrān’s, rosebud bright? Of the dwelling of the monks art thou the light? Envy bearing to her hinna-crimsoned hand, Doth the red egg covered o’er with blushes stand. With the Greek cannot thy genus e’er compare, Deem I, be thou genius or hūrī fair! Fāzil Beg.

O thou Nīrem, battle-waging, of the world’s fierce field of fight! O thou Sām, fell dragon-visaged, of the age’s plain of might! Thou art he in whom the favors of the Lord Most High unite; Earth and ocean thou hast conquered, waging war on left and right! Gold, in Islām’s cause, thou pouredst like to water down a height; Legions like the Nile on Egypt’s shore thou madest to alight. With thy sabre’s blow right fiercely thou the foeman’s head didst smite; Giddy made thy sword the misbelievers’ chieftains with affright. Midst the earth’s oak-grove a valiant lion like to thee in might, Since the days of Rustem, ne’er hath passed beneath the Heavens’ sight. “Bravo! Champion of the Epoch! rending ranks in serried fight! O’er the ‘Arsh hang now thy sabre, sparkling like the Pleiads bright!” Lion! Alexander! had he seen that battle thou didst gain, Crown and throne to thee to offer Key-Qubād were surely fain! O most noble! thou a Vezīr to such fame that dost attain, That the God of Hosts did surely Lord of Fortune thee ordain! Like to flame, the fiery blast scathed foemen’s lives, it blazed amain; Threw’st thou, cinder-like, the misbelievers’ ashes o’er the plain. “Conqueror of the Nations’ Mother” as thy title should be ta’en; Since thou’st saved the Nations’ Mother, all the nations joy again. Wishing long ago, ’twould seem, to sing thy splendid glory’s strain, Nef‘ī wrote for thee this couplet—for thy deeds a fit refrain: “Bravo! Champion of the Epoch! rending ranks in serried fight! O’er the ‘Arsh hang now thy sabre, sparkling like the Pleiads bright!” When the misbelieving Frenchman sudden swooped on Egypt’s land, Thither was the army’s leader sent by the Great King’s command; But at length o’erthrown and vanquished by the foe his luckless band, Then thou wentest and the vile foe scatter’dst wide on every hand; Then, when they thy lightning-flashing, life-consuming cannon scanned, Knew the hell-doomed misbelievers vain were all things they had planned. Hundred vezīrs, joy-attended, countless foemen did withstand; Day and night, three years the misbelievers fought they brand to brand; Worn and wretched fell those at thy feet, and quarter did demand: It beseems thee, howsoever high in glory thou mayst stand! “Bravo! Champion of the Epoch! rending ranks in serried fight! O’er the ‘Arsh hang now thy sabre, sparkling like the Pleiads bright!” Through this joy beneath thy shade the world doth its desires behold; With thy praises eloquent the tongues of all, both young and old. Thou to Faith and Empire then didst render services untold Hurling down to earth the foeman’s house in one assault right bold! O Vezīr! Jem-high! think not that flattery my words enfold; Though a poet, not with false or vaunting boasts I’ve thee extolled. Midst the fight for Egypt’s conquest firm in stirrup was thy hold, Under thy Egyptian charger trod’st thou foemen like the mould. From the handle of thy sword, like water, down the red blood rolled; Thou the foe mad’st turn his face, mill-like, in terror uncontrolled. “Bravo! Champion of the Epoch! rending ranks in serried fight! O’er the ‘Arsh hang now thy sabre, sparkling like the Pleiads bright!” Those who sing thy glories, like to Wāsif, wildered aye must be; Sayeth Wāsif: “None on earth like Huseyn Pacha I shall see.” If there be who has in vision seen a peerless one like thee, As a dream all void of meaning, let him it relate to me. Cannon-ball like, ’gainst the foe thou threw’st thyself from terror free; Like the winter blast thou mad’st the foeman shake in front of thee. Claim to manliness forsaking, even as the blind was he, Sword in hand despairing stood he, like to one who naught can see; Quick his throat thou seizedst, like the dragon direful in his glee, ’Neath thy sabre’s wave thou drown’dst the misbeliever, like the sea! “Bravo! Champion of the Epoch! rending ranks in serried fight! O’er the ‘Arsh hang now thy sabre, sparkling like the Pleiads bright!” Wāsif.

O Rosebud of joy’s flowery lea! O graceful one with step so free! If thou wilt yield thee not to me, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. Behold my breast, by guile unprest, Is’t not mid thousand treasures best? Until thou tak’st me to thy breast, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. O Rose-leaf fresh! concealed from sight With thee till morn a livelong night If I may not enjoy delight, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. Yearning for union fills my soul, Patience and peace have no control; O wanton one! my longing’s goal! On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. Seek, Wāsif, her who hearts doth snare Yon maid with bosom silver-fair; Until thou thither dost repair, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. Wāsif.

To whom that wine-red ruby’s shown Is captive by those locks o’erthrown; ’Tis meet like nightingale I moan: A lovely Scio Rose is blown. Unmatched yon maid with waist so spare, Unrivalled too her wanton air; Her ways than e’en herself more fair: A lovely Scio Rose is blown. The roses like her cheeks are few; That rose—blush-pink its darling hue; This summer ere the roses blew, A lovely Scio Rose is blown. The rose—the nightingale’s amaze; The rose the nightingale dismays; A smile of hers the world outweighs: A lovely Scio Rose is blown. O Wāsif, on the rosy lea, The nightingale thus spake to me: “Be joyful tidings now to thee— A lovely Scio Rose is blown.” Wāsif.

Although my heart the truth of Those who wrong themselves doth show, O Lord! In virtue of the words Do not despair, Thy love bestow, O Lord! Beside the mead of truth and calm make aye my soul to go, O Lord! My virtue’s rose to tint and scent as captive do not throw, O Lord! From vain attachments’ stain wash pure and clean my heart as snow, O Lord! Against me place not Thou the loathsome pool of lies of foe, O Lord! The burning pain of exile no relief can ever know, O Lord! Enow, if Thou the camphor-salve, the dawn of hope, did show, O Lord! Thy slave is Rāmiz; unto none save Thee doth he bend low, O Lord! Before Thy mercy’s gate his tears from eyes and eyelids flow, O Lord! Rāmiz Pacha.

After old rags longing hath the figure tall and slight of Love? Fresh and fresh renews itself aye the brocade fire-bright of Love. ’Gainst the flames from thorns and thistles ne’er a curtain can be wove, Nor ’neath honor’s veil can hide the public shame, the blight of Love. Through a needle’s eye it sometimes vieweth far-off Hindustān— Blind anon in its own country is the piercing sight of Love. It will turn it to a ruin where naught save the owl may dwell, In a home should chance be set the erring foot of plight of Love. Will a single spark a hundred thousand homes consume at times: One to me are both the highest and the lowest site of Love. Never saw I one who knoweth—O most ignorant am I! Yet doth each one vainly deem himself a learned wight in Love. Rent and shattered—laid in ruins—all my caution’s fortress vast Have my evil Fate, my heart’s black grain, the rage, the blight of Love. In its hell alike it tortures Mussulmān and infidel, ‘Izzet, is there chance of freedom from its pangs, this plight of Love? Of reality hath made aware the seeker after Truth, Showing lessons metaphoric, He, the Teacher bright, St. Love! ’Izzet Molla.

That I’m fall’n her conquered slave, yon maiden bright feigns not to know; Thus pretending, she who doth the soul despite feigns not to know. Though I fail naught in her service, she doth me as alien treat; Know not I why yonder Darling, earth’s Delight, feigns not to know. If I dare to speak my eager longing those her lips to kiss, Friendship she disclaims, in sooth with cruel slight feigns not to know. That she whets her glance’s arrow and therewith doth pierce the heart, E’en her bow-like eyebrow, yonder Ban of might feigns not to know. Well the loved one knows the Sphere doth keep no faithful troth; but, ah! How she copies it, that Heart-ensnarer bright feigns not to know. There is ne’er a refuge, ‘Adlī, from the grief of rivals’ taunts; I my love conceal not, still yon maiden slight feigns not to know. ’Adlī.

‘Andelīb, th’ adopted sister, from this transient world hath flown, Yonder midst the flowers of Eden while still in her youth to stray. No physician, neither charmer, on the earth her pain could ease; So that youthful beauty bided not to smile on earth’s mead gay. With her two-and-twenty summers, cypress-like was she, ah me! But the sullen blast of autumn smote her life’s bright, lovely May. For its tyranny and rancor might have blushed the vile, hard Sphere, As the sister of earth’s Monarch pined in grief without allay. Though her kind friend never parted from her eye’s sweet, gentle beam, Still did she to God her soul yield, and the call, Return, obey. Down the wayward Sphere hath stricken that bright Jewel to the earth; What avail though men and angels tears of blood shed in dismay? Length of days to that great Sultan grant may He, the God of Truth! And yon fair Pearl’s tomb make rival His own Eden’s bright display! With the dotted letters, Leylā, thou the year tell’st of her death— Calm among delightsome bowers may ‘Andelīb her nest array! Leylā Khānim.

’Tis yonder Darling of my soul that wildering my sense o’er-throws; My waving Cypress ’tis that freshness to the garden doth disclose; The bird, my heart, my gardener is in Love’s fair parterre of the rose: Mine eyes’ field with thy cheek’s reflection as my flowery orchard shows; For long my heart the picture of thy palm-like figure doth enclose. The world seems in my eyes as prison that doth my dear love control; Through love for thee my heart acquireth many a scar, and that’s the whole; From hour to hour thine absence makes my tears like rushing waters roll: The heart bows down through grief for thee, and constant weeps the life, the soul; The fountain of this vineyard is the stream that from my weeping flows. As well thou know’st, through fire of love for thee how sad my plight of woe, My smiling Rosebud, wilt thou ne’er a glance of pity toward me throw? My sighs and wailings thou dost see, Oh, but for once compassion show: Through gazing on the rose and bower, my heart repose shall never know, The ward where doth my loved one dwell alone can yield my soul repose. Oh, how I think upon thy box-tree form in sorrow’s night so drear! My story would Mejnūn’s and Ferhād’s tales from mind make disappear. My groans and sighs and wails thus high do I unto the Heavens uprear, By reason of the sparks my sighings raise that steely bowl, the Sphere, Revolves each night, my gold-enamelled beaker at the feast of woes. From thought of yonder witching eye my heart is ne’er a moment free; When flow thy tears recall not thou to mind, O Leylā, ‘Omān’s Sea. Beneath thy shade my own heart’s blood is all that hath been gained by me: My tears, an ocean vast; my lashes, coral branches, O Bāqī! The mem’ry, ’tis of thy palm-form that as my Judas-tree bright glows. Leylā Khānim.

Our hopes, our thoughts, are for the weal of our dear native land; Our bodies form the rampart strong to guard our frontier strand: We’re Ottomans—a gory shroud our robe of honor grand. “God is Most Great!” we shout in rush and charge on field of fight; We’re Ottomans! our lives we give, our gain is glory bright. The name of Ottoman with terror doth the hearer thrill; The glories of our valiant fathers all the wide world fill; Think not that nature changeth—nay, this blood is yon blood still. “God is Most Great!” we shout in rush and charge on field of fight; We’re Ottomans! our lives we give, our gain is glory bright. A sabre on a blood-red field—our banner famed behold! Fear in our country dwelleth not, in mountain or in wold: In every corner of our land croucheth a lion bold. “God is Most Great!” we shout in rush and charge on field of fight; We’re Ottomans! our lives we give, our gain is glory bright. Then let the cannon roar, and shower its flames on every side! For those our brothers brave let Heaven ope its portals wide! What have we found on earth that one from death should flee or hide? “God is Most Great!” we shout in rush and charge on field of fight; We’re Ottomans! our lives we give, our gain is glory bright. Ref’et Beg.

A tavern which each moment takes a life as pleasure’s pay is earth; A glass which for a thousand souls doth sell each drop of spray is earth. The world’s a Magian that adores the flame of power and fortune high; If thou should brightly shine, a moth about thy taper’s ray is earth. Anon one is, anon is not—thus ever runs the course of time; From end to end a warning-fraught, a strange, romantic lay is earth, ’Twixt sense and frenzy ’tis indeed right hard to draw the sund’ring line, Ah me! if understanding’s wise, demented sooth alway is earth. The desolation of the world beside its weal is truth itself; Just as prosperity it seems, so ruin and decay is earth. How many Khusrevs and Jemshīds have come, and from its bower have passed! A theatre that vieweth many and many an act and play is earth. Ziyā, a thousand caravans of wise men through its realms have passed; But yet not one can tell its tale, and all unknown this day is earth. Ziyā Beg.

Heart! heart! how long shall last this sorrow, anguish, and dismay? All things upon earth’s ruin-cumbered waste must needs decay. What was the splendor of Jemshīd? where Khusrev and where Key? Hold fast the goblet and the wine, let chance not fleet away! “Our coming to this world is one; man must reflect, survey; Care must one banish, and look out for calm and quiet aye.” Be he Khusrev, or Rustem, or Nerīmān, or Jemshīd, Or be he beggar; be Islām or heathenesse his creed; A few days in earth’s inn a guest is he, then must he speed: Something to render gay that time is surely wisdom’s need. “Our coming to this world is one; man must reflect, survey; Care must one banish, and look out for calm and quiet aye.” When viewed with understanding’s eye, the mote hath no repose; The world must thus be imaged for exemption from its woes: Of my coming and my going it no lasting picture shows— That a departure surely is which no returning knows. “Our coming to this world is one; man must reflect, survey; Care must one banish, and look out for calm and quiet aye.” Events the workings of the Lord Most High make manifest; Being the mirror is in which the Absolute’s exprest; He who this mystery perceives in every state is blest; The exit of each one who enters earth decreed doth rest. “Our coming to this world is one; man must reflect, survey; Care must one banish, and look out for calm and quiet aye.” See that thou grievest not thyself with sorrows all unwise; ’Tis need all pleasure to enjoy as far as in thee lies; Alike is he who lives in joy and he whom trouble tries; If thou be prudent, ne’er thine opportunities despise. “Our coming to this world is one; man must reflect, survey; Care must one banish, and look out for calm and quiet aye.” Since first the banquet fair, this world, was cast in form’s designs, How many rakes have passed away! how many libertines! As counsel meet for revellers, when he perceived those signs, Around the goblet’s rim the Magian priest engraved these lines: “Our coming to this world is one; man must reflect, survey; Care must one banish, and look out for calm and quiet aye.” At length, Ziya, shall joy beam forth, and grief an end shall find; But yet, O man, these ever enter Fortune’s feast combined. This hidden mystery learn thou, by Mahmūd Beg defined, Who has the secret of the same within this verse enshrined: “Our coming to this world is one; man must reflect, survey; Care must one banish, and look out for calm and quiet aye.” Ziyā Beg.