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._ GAZEL 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._ GAZEL 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._ GAZEL