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._ GAZEL 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._ GAZEL 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._ GAZEL 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._ DESCRIPTION OF CIRCASSIAN WOMEN