Like shining swords the green leaves toss about they. With bated breath the Judas-trees there stand by; And each for other running brook and breeze sigh. The gales tag with the basil play in high glee; To dance with cypress gives its hand the plane-tree. The soft winds have adorned the wanton bough fair, The leader of the frolics ’midst the parterre. The narcisse toward the almond-tree its glance throws; With vineyard-love the pink upbraids the dog-rose. The water’s mirror clear doth as the Sphere gleam; Its stars, the flowers reflected, fair and bright beam. The meads are skies; their stars, the drops of dew, glow; The jasmine is the moon; the stream, the halo. In short, each spot as Resurrection-plane seems; None who beholds of everlasting pain dreams. Those who it view, and ponder well with thought’s eye, Is’t strange, if they be mazed and wildered thereby? Up! breeze-like, Lāmi’ī, thy hermitage leave! The roses’ days in sooth no time for fasts give _Lāmi’ī_. FROM AN ELEGY ON SULTAN SELĪM I He, an old man in prudence, a youth in might; His sword aye triumphant, his word ever right Like Āsef in wisdom, the pride of his host; He needed no vezīr, no mushīr in fight. His hand was a sabre; a dagger, his tongue; His finger, an arrow; his arm, a spear bright. In shortest of time many high deeds he wrought, Encircle the world did the shade of his might. The Sun of his Day, but the sun at day’s close, Throwing long shadow, but brief while in sight. Of throne and of diadem sovereigns boast, But boasted of him throne and diadem bright. Delight would his heart in that festival find, Whither doth sabre’s and fife’s clang invite. In feats with the sword, eke at feasts at the board, On his peer ne’er alight did the aged Sphere’s sight: Sped he to the board’s feast--a Sun beaming bright! Swept he to the sword’s field--a Lion of fight! Whenever the war-cries: Seize! Hold! echo far, The sword, weeping blood, shall that Lion’s fame cite. Alas! Sultan Selīm! alas! woe is me! Let both Pen and Sabre in tears mourn for thee! _Kemāl Pasha-Zāda._ FROM AN ELEGY ON ISKENDER CHELEBI