The Poetical Works of Wilfrid Scawen Blunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

Weep, ah weep love's losing, love's with its dwelling-place
set where the hills divide Dakhúli and Háumali.
Túdiha and Mikrat! There the hearths-stones of her
stand where the South and North winds cross-weave the sand-furrows.
See the white-doe droppings strewn by the wind on them,
black on her floors forsaken, fine-grain of peppercorns.
Here it was I watched her, lading her load-camels,
stood by these thorn-trees weeping tears as of colocynth.
Here my twin-friends waited, called to me camel-borne:
Man! not of grief thou diest. Take thy pain patiently.
Not though tears assuage thee, deem it beseemeth thee
thus for mute stones to wail thee, all thy foes witnesses.
What though fortune flout thee! Thus Om Howéyrith did,
thus did thy Om Rebábi, fooled thee in Másali.
O, where these two tented, sweet was the breath of them,
sweet as of musk their fragrance, sweet as garánfoli.
Mourned I for them long days, wept for the love of them,
tears on my bosom raining, tears on my sword-handle.
Yet, was I unvanquished. Had I not happiness,
I, at their hands in Dáret, Dáret, of Júljuli?

O that day of all days! Slew I my milch-camel,
feasted the maidens gaily: well did they load for me!
Piled they high the meat-strings. All day they pelted me,
pelted themselves with fatness, fringes of camel-meat.

Climbed I to her howdah, sat with Onéyzata,
while at my raid she chided: Man! Must I walk afoot?
Swayed the howdah wildly, she and I close in it:
There! my beast's back is galled now. Slave of Grief, down with thee.
Answered I: Nay, sweet heart, loosen the rein of him.
Think not to stay my kisses. Here will I harvest them.
Grieve not for thy camel. Grudge not my croup-riding.
Give me—and thee—to taste things sweeter than clove-apples,
Kisses on thy white teeth, teeth, nay the pure petals,
even and clean and close-set, wreathing a camomile.
Wooed have I thy equals, maidens and wedded ones.
Her, the nursling's mother, did I not win to her?
What though he wailed loudly, babe of the amulets,
turned she not half towards him, half of her clasped to me?
Woe is me, the hard heart! How did she mock at me,
high on the sand-hill sitting, vowing to leave and go!
Fátma, nay, my own love, though thou wouldst break with me,
still be thou kind awhile now, leave me not utterly.
Clean art thou mistaken. Love is my malady.
Ask me the thing thou choosest. Straight will I execute.
If so be thou findest ought in thy lover wrong,
cast from thy back my garments, moult thee my finery.
Woe is me, the hard heart! When did tears trouble thee,
save for my soul's worse wounding, stricken and near to die?

Fair too was that other, she the veil-hidden one,
howdahed how close, how guarded! Yet did she welcome me.
Passed I twixt her tent-ropes: what though her near-of-kin
lay in the dark to slay me, blood-shedders all of them.

Came I at the mid-night, hour when the Pleiades
showed as the links of seed-pearls binding the sky's girdle.
Stealing in, I stood there. She had cast off from her
every robe but one robe, all but her night-garment.
Tenderly she scolded: What is this stratagem?
Speak, on thine oath, thou mad one. Stark is thy lunacy.
Passed we out together, while she drew after us
on our twin track to hide it, wise, her embroideries,
Fled beyond the camp-lines. There in security
dark in the sand we lay down far from the prying eyes.
By her plaits I wooed her, drew her face near to me,
won to her waist how frail-lined, hers of the ankle-rings.
Fair-faced she—no redness—noble of countenance,
smooth as of glass her bosom, bare with its necklaces.
Thus are pearls yet virgin, seen through the dark water, clear in the sea-depths gleaming, pure, inaccessible.
Coyly she withdraws her, shows us a cheek, a lip,
she a gazelle of Wújra: yearling the fawn with her.
Roe-like her throat slender, white as an áriel's,
sleek to thy lips up-lifted: pearls are its ornament.
On her shoulders fallen thick lie the locks of her,
dark as the dark date-clusters hung from the palm-branches.
See the side-plaits pendent, high on the brows of her,
tressed in a knot, the caught ones fast with the fallen ones.
Slim her waist: a well-cord scarce has its slenderness.
Smooth are her legs as reed-stems stripped at a water-head.
The morn through she sleepeth, musk-strewn in indolence,
hardly at noon hath risen, girded her day dresses.
Soft her touch: her fingers fluted as water-worms,
sleek as the snakes of Thóbya, tooth-sticks of 'Ishali.

Lighteneth she night's darkness, ay, as an evening lamp
hung for a sign of guidance lone on a hermitage.
Who but shall desire her, seeing her standing thus,
half in her childhood's short frock, half in her woman's robe!
Strip thee of youth's fooling, thou in thy manhood's prime.
Yet to her love be faithful: hold it a robe to thee.
Many tongues have spoken, warned me of craft in love.
Yet have they failed an answer: all were thine enemies.

Dim the drear night broodeth: veil upon veil let down,
dark as a mad sea raging, tempting the heart of me.
Spake I to Night stoutly, while he, a slow camel,
dragged with his hind-feet halting: gone the forehand of him.
Night! I cried, thou snail Night, when wilt thou turn to day?
When? Though in sooth day's dawning worse were than thou to me.
Sluggard Night, what stays thee? Chained hang the stars of thee,
fast to the rocks with hempen ropes set un-movable.

Water-skins of some folk—ay, with the thong of them
laid on my nága's wither—borne have I joyfully,
Crossed how lone the rain-ways, bare as an ass-belly:
near me the wolf, starved gamester, howled to his progeny.
Cried I: Wolf, thou wailest. Surely these lives of ours,
thine and my own, go empty, robbed of prosperity.
All we won we leave here. Whoso shall follow us,
seed in our corn-track casting, reap shall he barrenness.

Rode I forth at day-dawn: birds in their nests asleep:
stout on my steed, the sleek-coat, him the game-vanquisher.
Lo, he chargeth, turneth,—gone is he—all in one,
like to a rock stream-trundled, hurled from its eminence.
Red-bay he: his loin-cloth chafing the ribs of him
shifts as a rain-stream smoothing stones in a river-bed.
Hard is he: he snorteth loud in the pride of him,
fierce as a full pot boiling, bubbling beneath the lid.
Straineth he how stoutly, while, as spent fishes swim,
tied to his track the fleet ones plough his steps wearily.
See, in scorn he casteth youth from the back of him,
leaveth the horseman cloakless, naked the hard-rider.
As a sling-stone hand-whirled, so is the might of him,
loosed from the string that held it, hurled from the spliced ribbon.
Lean his flanks, gazelle-like, legs as the ostrich's;
he like a strong wolf trotteth; lithe as a fox-cub he.
Stout his frame; behind him, look, you shall note of him
full-filled the hind-leg gap, tail with no twist in it.
Polished, hard his quarters, smooth as the pounding-stone
used for a bridegroom's spices, grind-slab of colocynth.
As the henna juice lies dyed on a beard grown hoar,
so on his neck the blood-stains mark the game down-ridden.
Rushed we on the roe-herd. Sudden, as maids at play
circling in skirts low-trailing, forth leaped the does of it.
Flashing fled they, jewels, shells set alternately
on a young gallant's neck-string, his the high pedigreed.
Yet he gained their leaders, far while behind him lay
bunched in a knot the hindmost, ere they fled scatterwise.
'Twixt the cow and bull herds held he in wrath his road;
made he of both his booty: sweatless the neck of him.

All that day we roasted, seethed the sweet meat of them,
row upon row in cauldrons, firelighters all of us.
Nathless home at night-fall, he in the fore-front still.
Where is the eye shall bind him? How shall it follow him?
The night through he watcheth, scorneth him down to lay,
close, while I sleep, still saddled, bridled by side of me.

Friend, thou seest the lightning. Mark where it wavereth,
gleameth like finger s twisted, clasped in the cloud-rivers.
Like a lamp new-lighted, so is the flash of it,
trimmed by a hermit nightly pouring oil-sésame.
Stood I long a watcher, twin-friends how dear with me,
till in Othéyb it faded, ended in Dáriji.
By its path we judged it: rain over Káttan is; far in Sitár it falleth, streameth in Yáthboli.
Gathereth gross the flood-head dammed in Kutéyfati.
Woe to the trees, the branched ones! Woe the kanáhboli!
El Kanáan hath known it, quailed from the lash of it.
Down from their lairs it driveth hot-foot the ibexes.
Known it too hath Téyma; standeth no palm of her
there, nor no house low-founded,—none but her rock-buildings.
Stricken stood Thabíra whelmed by the rush of it,
like an old chief robe-folded, bowed in his striped mantle.
Nay, but he Mujéymir, tall-peaked at dawn of day,
showed like a spinster's distaff tossed on the flood-water.
Cloud-wrecked lay the valley piled with the load of it,
high as in sacks the Yemámi heapeth his corn-measures.
Seemed it then the song-birds, wine-drunk at sun-rising,
loud through the valley shouted, maddened with spiceries,
While the wild beast corpses, grouped like great bulbs uptorn,
cumbered the hollow places, drowned in the night-trouble.

TÁRAFA

The tent lines these of Kháula in stone-stricken Tháhmadi.
See where the fire has touched them, dyed dark as the hands of her.
'Twas here thy friends consoled thee that day with thee comforting,
cried; Not of grief, thou faint-heart! Men die not thus easily.
Ay, here the howdahs passed thee at day-dawn, how royally!
stood for the Dédi pastures: a white fleet they seemed to thee,
Ships tall-rigged from Adáuli—of Yámin the build of them—
wandering wide the night through, to meet at the sunrising.
Thus climbed they the long wave-lines, their prows set how loftily!
ploughing the drifted ridges, sand heaped by the sandseers.

Alas for the dark-lipped one, the maid of the topazes,
hardly yet grown a woman, sweet fruit-picking loiterer!
A girl, a fawn still fawnless, which browses the thorn-bushes,
close to the doe-herd feeding, aloof in the long valleys.
I see her mouth-slit smiling, her teeth,—nay, a camomile
white on the white sand blooming and moist with the night-showers.
Sun-steeped it is, pure argent, white all but the lips of her,
these are too darkly painted to shrink from the sunburning.
The face of her how joyous, the day's robe enfolding her,
clean as a thing fresh fashioned, untouched by sad time-fingers.

Enough! New joys now claim me. Ay, mount and away from her!
Here on my swift-foot camel I laugh at love's bitterness.
Ship-strong is she, my nága, my stout-timbered road-goer,
footing the long-lined path-way—a striped cloak—in front of us.
Steel tempered are her sinews. She runs like an ostrich-hen,
one which has fled defying the ash-plumed proud lord of her.
Out-paces she the best-born, shank still on shank following,
threading the mazes lightly. Ah, what foot shall follow her?
The spring-long on Kufféyn she has wandered, her kind with her,
pastured in pleasant places, the rain-watered thyme-valleys,
Has turned to her herd's calling, aloft in wrath brandishing,
scared by the thick-furred red thief, that proud tuft the tail of her.
Her tail sways this and that way—a falcon, the wings of him
bating her flanks impatient: erect stands the bone of it—
So lasheth she in anger anon her croup-rider's knee,
then her own shrunken udder, a drought-withered water-skin.
Note well her limbs' perfection, her thighs like the elbow-worn
jambs of a city gateway, two smooth shafts of porphyry.
Her barrel, a stone well-mouth, like bent bows the curves of it,
caved where the neck-shaft enters, ends in an arched hollow.
Deep dens are her two arm-pits, a tree-trunk with cavities.
Bows are her rib-bones bended, her spine the hands holding them.

Her elbows are twin buckets, the pails of a water-man
wide-set, the neck between them the strong man who carries them.
Bridge-like, and Roman-builded! How swore he its architect
none should leave work or loiter, its key-stone unlaid by them!
Red chestnut is her chin-tuft, a vast vault the back of her.
Swift-step her hind-feet follow the path of her fore-footing.
Her legs are a cord twisted. Towards them the arms of her
slant from the shoulders outward, a tent-roof the slope of them.
So sways she, the strong-skulled one, and lightly her shoulder blades
rise from her spine alternate, arhyme with the march of her.
Like rain-pools in the smooth rock, so, flecking the sides of her,
white stand the girth-marks, witness once of the sores on them.
Her neck, how tall, how proud-set! Behold her! She raises it
high as in ships of Díjleh the point of a stern-rudder.
Her head-piece a stout anvil, and, joined to it hardily
sharp as a file the neck-ridge, fixed as a vice to it.
Her jowl a Syrian parchment, clean vellum the lip of her,
smooth as a hide of Yémen, no skin-crease nor fold in it.
Her eyes two mirrors shining, her bent brows the shade of them, pitted with deep-set hollows, as rock-holes for rain-water.
Eyes dark-rimmed, pure of dust-stains. You gaze in the depths of them as in a wild cow's wide eyes, scared for the calf of her.

Ears fearful of the night-sounds, the whispers, the murmurings
caught in the darkness passing—night—day: they can rest never.
Their thorn-tips tell her lineage, a wild bull's of Háumala
raging alone forsaken; her breeding you read in them.
Heart watchful of strange dangers, yet stout in the face of them.
Firm as a test-stone standing where cleft lie the base pebbles.
Lip slit, nose pierced for nose-ring, how slender its cartilage!
Nobly she lowers it running and stretched to the front of her.
I strike at her, my nága: I force her: I hurry her,
while in our path the false-lights lure us to follow them.
The gait of her how rhythmic! She sways like a dancing-girl,
one with the white skirts trailing, who bends to the lord of her.
Obedient to your riding, she slackens her outrunning,
watches the hide-thong twisted, the speed that you need of her.
Her head by your hand close held, your knee-crutch how near to it!
Then with her fore-arms swimming, an ostrich, she flies with you.

Thus rode I, and thus spake he, the friend of my tear-sheddings:
O for the wit to cure thee, but and my own sorrows!
His soul within him trembled; it seemed to his hardihood
death and a sure destruction, though far we from roadfarers.

For which of us is valiant? When men speak of true valour,
I feel my own the name named. Straight am I roused by it.
No recreant I, my tent-ridge I hide from no enemy.
Nor in the far hills build it who bring men a swift succour.
The hand that seeks shall find me. I stand at the gatherings.
Ay, where men tap the wine-skin, 'tis there they shall speak with me.
What day the tribes assemble, behold me conspicuous,
sitting as fits my lineage, nor go I in fear of them.
Beside me my companions, bright stars of nobility.
Dyed is her robe with saffron the girl who pours out to us.
O sweet is her shirt's neck-slit, set wide to the eyes of us.
Soft is the thing it hides there. We bade her: Now, sing to us.
Ay sing to us: we prayed her. And she, with monotony
striking a low note slowly, chaunted unchangingly.
O strange it was that cadence: it came back the wail of it,
grave as a mother's grieving the one son new-slain from her.

Thus sang she. And I spared not the full cups of revelry,
not till my spoil was wasted, my whole wealth's inheritance.
Then left me they that loved me. Then shunned me my tribe-fellows.
Sat I alone forsaken, a mange-stricken male camel.
Nathless the poor showed pity, the sons of Earth's particles,
these and the alien tent-lords, the far chiefs befriended me.
You only did revile me. Yet, say, ye philosophers,
was that same wealth eternal I squandered in feasting you?
Could all you my fate hinder? Friends, run we ahead of it,
rather our lives enjoying, since Time will not wait for us.

And, truly, but for three things in youth's day of vanity,
fain would I see them round me the friends at my deathbedding,
As first: to outstrip the sour ones, be first at the winebibbing,
ay, at the blink of day-dawn when mixed the cup foams for me;
And next, to ride their champion, who none have to succour them,
fierce on my steed, the led one, a wolf roused and thirst-stricken;
And third, to lie the day-long, while wild clouds are wildering,
close in her tent of goat's hair, the dearest beloved of me.
O noble she, a tree-stem unpruned in her maidenhood,
tall as a branch of Khírwa, where men hang their ornaments.
'Tis thus I slake my soul's rage, the life-thirst so wild in me.
If we two died to-morrow, think, which would go thirstier?
For lo, his grave the miser's! Lo, next it the prodigal's!
Both are alike, scant favour to hoarder or squanderer.
'Neath mounds of earth the twain lie, a low stone atop of them,
heavy and broad and shapeless, with new slabs o'erlaying it.
Death is no subtle chooser. He takes all, the free-givers,
ay, and the rogues close-fisted, the fast-handed goldhiders.
And life's heap lies unguarded. The night-thieves make spoil of it.
All that these leave the day-thieves straightway come plundering.
Nay, by thy life—I swear it, though fast fly the heels of him,
Death has a lead-rope round him, loose though it seem to you.

Ha! How is this? My kinsman? my fool-cousin Máleki?
Daily, as I draw near him, he turns his mad back on me.
He frowns I know not wherefore. He flouts me, as once with them
Kurt, in the face of all men, flouted and jibed at me.
His help he has denied me; and, truly, our brotherhood
tried in the fire of asking lies dead in love's sepulchre.
My word his words discredit. Yet all I for Mábadi
asked was a poor assistance to gather his lost camels,
I who hold fast to kinship. I swear by the luck of thee,
when they shall want hard riding, that day they shall fawn on me,
What day their tribes need succour, when loudly their womenfolk
cry from his hand the oppressor's to hands that are mightier.
Be but their honour tainted, I straight will pour out for them
death as from brimming cisterns, nor ask for an argument.
They rail at and revile me, who know me no ill-doer;
me, who have borne their burdens, cast would they out from them.
Yet, had my friend been other, this Málek of larger soul,
long had my pain been ended, a respiting found for me.
Shame on him for his baseness. His black hand would strangle me,
whether I thanked or sued him, or turned but my back on him.
O cruel is the sword-stroke: it bites with an Indian edge:
yet is their temper keener, the clowns I call kin to me.
Then leave me to my own ways, my tent set in Dárghadi,
far from the eyes of all men, and earn thee my gratitude.
Had he, the Lord, so willed it, my name had been Khálidi,
or had he willed it Ámer, or Káis, or Márthadi.

Wealth had been mine and increase, ay, all that men most covet,
sons as a gift of heaven, a proud-lined posterity.
Yet see me a man subtle, one lithe-souled and lithe-bodied,
quick as a snake for wounding, whose head is a hurt to them.
The oath my tongue has sworn to is this, to keep close to me
ever my sword-blade loosened; of Indies the edge of it.
Such blade, if I take vengeance and rise up and smite with it,
needs not a second down-stroke; I wield me no wood-chopper.
My sword is my true brother. It grudges no blood-spilling.
Called on to spare, it answers: My lord alone holdeth me.
Thus was I when men armed them and rushed to the battle-field:
grasped I my sword-hilt foremost, nor feared what fate doomed for me.

Herds knelt, their necks stretched earth-long. How scared them the eyes of me,
me with my sword drawn marching, its sheath cast away from me.
There passed a strong fair nága, a full-uddered milch-camel,
joy of her lord, the gray-beard, a hot man, though time-troubled.
He shouted when she fell there, her stout sinews houghed by me:
Man, art thou blind who seest not thy sword hath done robbery?
He spake, and to his friends turned: Behold him, this wine-bibber!
What is his rage against us, his wild words, his drinkfolly?

Yet paused: Nay, give him wide room and leave it to profit him: herd
we the scared ones rather, lest more he should slay of them.
Then fell the maids aroasting its fair flesh the foal of her,
nor of the fat denied us, the whole hump our prize of it.
We cast the arrows gaily, the dun shafts, the fire-hardened:
each time the holder held them, straightway I won with them.

When I am dead, speak kindly, thou daughter of Mábadi:
rend for my sake thy garments as one worth the love of thee.
Nor count me with the lewd folk, the night-knaves, the roysterers,
men with nor wit nor wisdom nor will to do weightily,
Men slow to deeds of virtue, men swift but in ill-doing,
men by the brave held lightly, with spread palms and brow-knitting.
For, had I been a weakling, know well, their mad hate of me
long had been my destruction, their blind wrath my butchery.
Only it wards me from them the fear of my hand's valour,
this, and my faith untainted, my fame too of ancestry.
Once on a time I bound me with vows, on the battlefield
ever to guard the weak posts, points where the foe threatened,
Points where the bravest faltered, where pale men stood panic-struck,
where they the strong-hearts trembled, faint through the fear in them.
Nay, by thy life, I fear not. I hold not time weariness;
neither hath day distressed me, nor night what it brought to me.

Because I see Death spares none. It smites with an even hand,
bows not to names exalted, nor knows it men's dignities;
Because with Death behind me, my flight can avail me not,
neither can I outwit him, he lying in wait for me.
Because if one be proved vain by those who seek aid of him,
helpless to hurt the harmful, better he perishèd.
The days to come, what are they? A handful, a borrowing:
vain is the thing thou fearest. To-day is the life of thee.
And death is as a well-spring; to it men pass and pass:
near them is each to-morrow; near them was yesterday.
Only shall Age, the slow-foot, arraign thee of ignorance:
only shall One bring tidings, when least thou desirest him,
One who is hard to deal with, of whom thou art ransomer
neither for pay nor raiment, nor madest thou tryst with him.

ZOHÉYR

Woe is me for 'Ommi 'Aufa! Woe for the tents of her
lost on thy stony plain, Durráj, on thine, Mutethéllemi!
In Rákmatéyn I found our dwelling, faint lines how desolate,
tent-markstraced like the vein-tracings blue on the wrists of her.
Large-eyed there the wild-kine pastured, white roes how fearlessly,
leaped, their fawns beside them, startled: I in the midst of them.
Twenty years abroad I wander. Lo, here I stand to-day,
hardly know the remembered places, seek I how painfully.
Here our hearth-stones stand, ay, blackened still with her cooking-pots,
here our tent-trench squarely graven, grooved here our camel-trough.
Love, when my eyes behold thy dwelling, to it I call aloud:
Blessed be thou, O house of pleasure, greeting and joy to thee!

Friend of my soul! Dost thou behold them? Say, are there maidens there,
camel-borne, high in their howdahs, over the Júrthum spring?
Say, are their curtains lined with scarlet, sanguine embroideries,
veiling them from eyes of all men, rose-tinted coverings?
Slantwise up El Subáan they mounted: high-set the pass of it.
With them the new-born morning's beauty, fair-faced and fortunate.

At the blink of dawn they rose and laded. Now, ere the sun is up,
point they far to Wády Ras, straight as hand points to mouth.
Joy! Sweet joy of joys! Fair visions, human in tenderness,
dear to the human eye that truly sees them and understands!
As the scarlet fringe of fénna seed-pods no lip hath browsed upon,
so is the dye of their scarlet wool new-fringing the camping-grounds.
And they came to the watering pool in the red rocks: blue-black the depths of it.
And they planted the tent-poles, straight and fairly, firm for a dwelling-place.
They have left Kanáan on the far right hand: dark-crowned the crest of it.
How many foes in El Kanáan! And friends, too, ah, how many!
But they came to El Subáan in their might, impetuous, beautiful,
they in their howdahs of scarlet wool. O friend, dost thou look on them?

I have sworn by the most illustrious dwelling, shrine of processioners,
house revered of Koréysh and Júrhum, founded in piety.
I have sworn my praise to the two chieftains, men of what hardihood,
prompt todo when need shall call them, light deeds and doughty deeds.
Strove ye well, ye Lords of Mórra, what though the clans of you
long had drwoned in blood their friendship, drowned it in war-clamours.

Ye with Abs and Dóbián that day ye persuaded them,
spite of feud and their death-dealing perfumes of mínshami.
For thus ye spake: Let peace be garnered, all the fair wealth of it,
based onpay and fair exchanges, ours to establish it.
Theirs the peace and yours the glory, high names and dignities,
you the nobletwain prevailing, purging the rage of them.
Lo, in Maád ye stand exalted, ye the high-guided ones.
He who a booty brings of glory, shall he not share in it?
Healing of wounds ye dealed in hundreds, hundreds of debt-camels,
guiltless you for the death-guilty, ending the feud of them.
Tribe and tribe, you paid the ransom, what though the hands of you
clean were of blood and the red shedding, ay, the least cup of it.
Yet ye brought the payment bravely, all your fair heritage,
camels yours by right of plunder, these and your earmarked ones.

Ho! To the oath-bound tribes a greeting: Have ye not sworn to it?
Ay, and to Dóbián a message: Will ye not keep the peace?
For you may not hide from God your dealings, what though in secrecy
deep in your heart of hearts you seal it. Nathless He knoweth it,
Knoweth and taketh note in patience, sure of His reckoning
till the day of the great counting, waiteth or hasteneth.

War! Ye have learned it all, its teachings, well have ye tasted them.
These no tales are that I tell you. Each is a certainty.
A smouldering coal ye flung it lightly, blindly despising it.
Lo, into raging flame it leapeth, wind-lit, destroyeth you.
Ye are ground as corn by Hate's ill-grinding, flat on her grinding-skin.
Nay, a too fruitful camel she. Twins hath she borne to you,
Sinister sons of fear and anger, milk-fed on bitterness;
dark as his, Aád's, their nursing. Lo, she is weaned of them.
And her hand is large to rain you harvests, evil the wealth of them.
No such plenty Irák hath garnered, hell-grain and hate-money.

Ay, by my life, the kin was noble. Yet did it fare with them
ill when they the peace-terms flouted. Démdem's the sin of it,
His, Huséyn's, who held his counsel, hiding the thought in him,
yielding naught and naught revealing, steeled in his stubbornness.
For he thought: My end will I accomplish. No ill shall come to me,
fenced and armed, with might behind me, warriors, horse-riders.
Proud he stood, nor feared the tent-lords, what though Om-Káshami
watched them near, the vulture-mother, eyeing the multitude.
Strode he forth, full-armed, a wild beast, fierce for the blood-letting,
mane and claws unclipped, a lion. Who shall his anger brave?

Fearless, one who doth his vengeance swift on his wrongdoer,
one who unassailed yet rendeth, he the first injurer.
And they pastured there their fair milch-camels, drove to the waterings,
drank of the full pools brimming over, gall in the hearts of them,
This side and that by blood divided, rank hate the meat of them,
poison-grass to their herds' hurting, mired in blood-bitterness.
Yet, by thy life, not these the guilty. Clean was the steel of them,
pure of blood, Nahík's. They slew not him nor Muthéllemi,
Shareless sharers of the death-due. No blood of Náufali
stood to their account, nor Wáhab's, nay, nor Mukházzemi's.
Blameless! Clean! Yet have I seen them drive to the ransoming
camel herds untouched, unblemished, fresh from the rock-valleys.
Succour to the tribe that succoured! Who but shall haste to them
in their night of fear, of blackness! All men shall speed to them,
Since they gave, since them the avenger gained not to ill-willing,
nay, nor suppliant failed of favour. Him they abandoned not.

I am weary of life who bear its burdens fourscore and how many
years of glory and grief counted. Well may he weary be.

I know to-day, the day before it, ay, and the days that were,
yet of to-morrow I know nothing. Blind are the eyes of me.
I have seen Fate strike out in the darkness, strike like a blind camel:
some it touched died straight, some lingered on to decrepitude.
I have learned that he who giveth nothing, deaf to his friends' begging,
loosed shall be to the world's tooth-strokes: fools' feet shall tread on him;
That he that doeth for his name's sake fair deeds shall further it,
but he that of men's praise is careless dwindleth in dignity;
That he, the lord of wealth, who spendeth naught of his heaped money,
him his kinsfolk shall hold lightly: children shall mouth at him;
That he who keepeth faith shall find faith; who in simplicity
shall pursue the ways accustomed, no tongue shall wag at him;
That he who flieth his fate shall meet it, not, though a sky-ladder
he should climb, shall his fear fend him: dark death shall noose him down;
That he who gifteth the unworthy, spendthrift through idleness,
praised shall be to his dispraising, shamed at his fooldoing;
That he, who shall refuse the lance-butts borne by the peace-bearers,
him the lance-heads shall find fenceless, naked the flesh of him;

That he who guardeth not his tent-floor, with the whole might of him,
cold shall be his hearth-stone broken, ay, though he smote at none;
That he who fleeth his kin shall fare far, foes for his guest-fellows;
that he who his own face befouleth none else shall honour him;
That he, who casteth not the burdens laid on the back of him,
sheer disgrace shall be his portion, waged as he merited;
That whatso a man hath by nature, wit-wealth or vanity,
hidden deep, the day shall prove it: all shall be manifest.
For how many sat wise while silent, yet was their foolishness
proved when their too much, too little, slid through their mouth-slitting!
The tongue is the strong man's half; the other half is the heart of him:
all the rest is a brute semblance, rank corporality.
Truly, folly in the old is grievous; no cure is known for it:
yet may the young their soul's unwisdom win to new sanity.

We asked once, and you gave a guerdon,—twice and again you gave:
only the mouth that hath no silence endeth in emptiness.

100

LEBÍD

Gone are they the lost camps, light flittings, long sojournings
in Miná, in Gháula, Rijám left how desolate.
Lost are they. Rayyán lies lorn with its white torrent beds,
scored in lines like writings left by the flood-water.
Tent-floors smooth, forsaken, bare of all that dwelt in them,
years how long, the war-months, months too of peace-pleasures.
Spots made sweet with Spring-rains fresh-spilled from the Zodiac,
showers from clouds down-shaken, wind-wracks and thunder-clouds;
Clouds how wild of night-time, clouds of the dawn darkening,
clouds of the red sunset,—all speak the name of her.

Here, in green thorn-thickets, does bring forth how fearlessly;
here the ostrich-troops come, here too the antelopes.
Wild cows, with their wild calf-sucklings, standing over them,
while their weanlings wander wide in the bare valleys.
Clean-swept lie their hearth-stones, white as a new manuscript
writ with texts fresh-graven, penned by the cataracts,
Scored with lines and circles, limned with rings and blazonings,
as one paints a maid's cheek point-lined in indigo.
All amazed I stood there. How should I make questionings?
Dumb the rocks around me, silent the precipice,
Voices lost, where these dwelt who at dawn abandoning
tent and thorn-bush fencing fled to the wilderness.

101

Now thy sad heart acheth, grieveth loud remembering
girls how closely howdahed, awned with what canopies.
Every howdah curtained, lined with gauze embroideries,
figured with festoons hung red from the pole of it.
Trooped they there the maid-folk, wild white cows of Túdiha,
ay, or does of Wújra, long-necked, their fawns with them,
Fled as the miráge flees, fills the vale of Bíshata,
fills the tree-cladwádies, íthel and rock-mazes.

What of her, Nowára, thy lost love, who fled from thee,
every heart-link sundered, close loop and free fetter!
Hers the Mórra camp-fires lit how far in Fáïda,
in Hejáz what marches! How shalt thou win to her?
Eastward move they marching, to Muhájjer wandering
camped in Tái, in Férda, ay, in Rukhám of it.
Southward on to Yémen, to Sowéyk their sojournings,
to Waháf el Káhri, ay, and Tilkhám of it.
Man, have done! forget her, one too far to comfort thee!
Who would his love garner first let him sunder it.
Shed the love that fails thee. Strong be thou, and break with her.
Keep thy gifts for friendship, freed from thy wilderment.
Mount thee on thy nága. Travel-trained and hard she is,
low her back withleanness, lessened the hump of her;
Shrunk her sides and wasted, jaded with long journeyings,
spare as her hide shoe-straps frayed by her road-faring.
Light she to her halter, to thy hand that guideth her,
as a red cloud southwards loosed from its rain-burden.
Nay a fair wild-ass she; at her side the white-flanked one,
he the scarred ass-stallion, bitten and struck for her.
Climbed they two the hill-top, he the bite-scarred ass-tyrant
her new mood resenting, being in foal to him

102

On the crags high posted watcheth he from Thálabut
all the plain to guard her, ambushes laid for her.
Six months of Jumáda wandered have they waterless,
browsing the moist herbage, he her high sentinel.
Till returned their thirsting, need of the far water clefts,
all their will to win there speeding them waterwards.
What though with heels wounded, still the hot wind driveth them,
as a furnace burning, fire-scorched the breath of it.
In their trail a dust-cloud, like a smoke it wavereth,
like a fire new-lighted, kindling the flame of it,
Flame fanned by the North-wind, green wood mixed with dry fuel,
smoke aloft high curling. So is the dust of them.
He, when her pace slackened, pushed her still in front of him.
Nay, she might not falter, tyrant he urged her on,
Till they reached the streamlet, plunged and slaked their thirst in it,
A spring welling over, crest-high the reeds of it;
All its banks a cane-brake, thick with stems o'ershadowing;
bent are some, some standing, night-deep the shade of them.

Say is this her likeness? Or a wild cow wolf-raided
of her sweet calf loitering, she in the van of them.
She, the short-nosed, missed it. Lows she now unendingly,
roams the rocks, the sand-drifts, mourning and bellowing,
Lows in rage beholding that white shape, the limbs of it,
dragged by the grey wolf-cubs: who shall their hunger stay?
Theirs the chance to seize it, hers the short forgetfulness.
Death is no mean archer. Mark how his arrows hit.
Stopped she then at night-fall, while the rain in long furrows
scored the bush-grown hill-slopes, ceaseless the drip of it,

103

Dripped on her dark back-line, poured abroad abundantly:
not a star the heaven showed, cloud-hung the pall of it;
One tree all her shelter, standing broad-branched, separate
at the sand-hills' edge-line, steep-set the sides of them.
She, the white cow, shone there through the dark night luminous,
like a pearl of deep-seas, freed from the string of it.
Thus till morn, till day-dawn folded back night's canopy;
then she fled bewildered, sliding the feet of her,
Fled through the rain lakelets, to the pool Suwáyada,
all a seven nights' fasting twinned with the days of them,
Till despaired she wholly, till her udder milk-stricken
shrank, so full to feed him suckling or weaning him.
Voices now she hears near, human tones, they startle her,
though to her eye naught is: Man! he, the bane of her!
Seeketh a safe issue, the forenoon through listening,
now in front, behind now, fearing her enemy.
And they failed, the archers. Loosed they then to deal with her
fine-trained hounds, the lop-eared, slender the sides of them.
These outran her lightly. Turned she swift her horns on them,
like twin spears of Sámhar, sharp-set the points of them.
Well she knew her danger, knew if her fence failed with them
hers must be thered death. Hence her wrath's strategy.
And she slew Kasábi, foremost hound of all of them,
stretched the brach inblood there, ay, and Sukhám of them.
Thus is she, my nága. When at noon the plains quiver
and the hills dance sun-steeped, cloaked in the heat-tremors,
Ride I and my deeds do, nor forbear from wantoning,
lest the fools should shame me, blame me the fault-finders.

104

Do not thou misprize me, thou Nowára. One am I
binder of all love-knots, ay, and love's sunderer;
One who when love fails him, wails not long but flies from it;
one whom one alone holds, hard death the hinderer.
What dost thou of mirth know, glorious nights, ah, how many:
cold nor heat might mar them, spent in good company?
Came I thus discoursing to his sign, the wine-seller's,
drank at the flag-hoisting, drank till the wine grew dear,
Bidding up each full skin: black with age the brand of it,
pouring forth the tarred jars, breaking the seals of them;
Pure deep draughts of morning, while she played, the sweet singer
fingering the lute-strings, showing her skill to me.
Ere the cock had crowed once, a first cup was quaffed by me:
ere slow man had stretched him, gone was the second cup.
On what dawns sharp-winded clothed have I the cold with it,
dawns that held the North-wind reined in the hands of them.
Well have I my tribe served, brought them aid and armament,
slept, my mare's reins round me, night-long their sentinel;
Ridden forth at day-dawn, climbed the high-heaped sand-ridges
hard by the foe'smarches, dun-red the slopes of them;
Watched till the red sun dipped hand-like in obscurity,
till the night lay curtained, shrouding our weaknesses;
And I came down riding, my mare's neck held loftily
as a palm fruit-laden: woe to the gatherer!
Swift was she, an ostrich; galloped she how wrathfully,
from her sides the sweat streamed, lightening the ribs of her;

105

Strained on her her saddle; dripped with wet the neck of her,
the white foam-flakes wreathing, edging the girth of her;
Thrusteth her neck forward, shaketh her reins galloping;
flieth as the doves fly bound for the water-springs.

At the King's Court strangers thronged from what far provinces,
each athirst for bounty, fearing indignity.
Stiff-necked they as lions in their hate, the pride of them,
came with stubborn proud feet, Jinns of the wilderness.
Stopped I their vain boastings, took no ill-tongued words from them,
let them not take licence. What were their chiefs to me?
I it was provided camels for their slaughtering,
I who their shares portioned, drawing the lots for them.
Every mouth I feasted. Barren mount and milch-camel
slew I for all daily. All shared the meat of them.
Far guest and near neighbour, every man rose satisfied,
full as in Tebála, fed as in green valleys.
Ay, the poor my tent filled, thin poor souls like sick-camels,
nágas at a tomb tied, bare-backed, no shirt on them.
Loud the winter winds howled; piled we high the meat-dishes;
flowed the streams of fatness, feeding the fatherless.
Thus the tribes were trysted; nor failed we the provident
to name one, a wiseman, fair-tongued, as judge for them,
One who the spoil portioned, gave to each his just measure,
spake to all unfearing, gave or refused to give,
A just judge, a tribe-sheykh, wise, fair-worded, bountiful,
sweet of face to all men, feared by the warriors.

Noble we; our fathers wielded power bequeathed to them,
dealt law to the nations, each tribe its lawgiver.

106

All our lineage faultless, no light words our promises;
not for us the vain thoughts, passions of common men.
Thou fool foe, take warning, whatso the Lord portioneth
hold it a gift granted, dealt thee in equity.
Loyalty our gift was, faith unstained our heritage;
these fair things He gave us, He the distributor.
For for us a mansion built He, brave the height of it,
lodged therein our old men, ay, and the youths of us,
All that bore our burdens, all in our tribe's sore sorrow,
all that were our horsemen, all our high councillors.
Like the Spring are these men, joy to them that wait on them,
to the weak, the widows, towers in adversity.
Thus our kin stands faith-firm, purged of tribe-malingerers.
Woe be to all false friends! Woe to the envious!

107

ÁNTARA

How many singers before me! Are there yet songs unsung?
Dost thou, my sad soul, remember where was her dwellingplace?
Tents in Jiwá, the fair wádi, speak ye to me of her.
Fair house of 'Abla my true love, blessing and joy to thee!
Doubting I paused in the pastures, seeking her camel-tracks,
high on my swift-trotting nága tall as a citadel,
Weaving a dream of the past days, days when she dwelt in them,
'Abla, my true love, in Házzen, Sammán, Mutathéllemi.
There on the sand lay the hearth-stones, black in their emptiness,
desolate more for the loved ones fled with Om Héythami,
Fled to the land of the lions, roarers importunate.
Daily my quest of thee darkens, daughter of Mákhrami.

Truly at first sight I loved her, I who had slain her kin,
ay, by the life ofthy father, not in inconstancy.
Love, thou hast taken possession. Deem it not otherwise.
Thou in my heart art the first one, first in nobility.
How shall I win to her people? Far in Anéyzateyn
feed they their flocks in the Spring-time, we in the Gháïlem.
Yet it was thou, my beloved, willed we should sunder thus,
bridled thyself the swift striders, black night encompassing.
Fear in my heart lay a captive, seeing their camel-herds
herded as waiting a burden, close to the tents of them,
Browsing on berries of khímkhim, forty-two milch-camels,
black as the underwing feathers set in the raven's wing.

108

Then was it 'Abla enslaved thee showing her tenderness,
white teeth with lips for the kissing: sweet was the taste of them,
Sweet as the vials of odours sold by the musk sellers,
fragrant the white teeth she showed thee, fragrant the mouth of her.
So is a garden new planted fresh in its greenery,
watered by soft-falling raindrops, treadless, untenanted.
Lo, on it rain-clouds have lighted, soft showers, no hail in them,
leaving each furrow a lakelet bright as a silverling.
Pattering, plashing they fell there, rains at the sunsetting,
wide-spreading runlets of water, streams of fertility,
Mixed with the humming of bees' wings droning the day-light long,
never a pause in their chaunting, gay drinking-choruses.
Blithe iteration of bees' wings, wings struck in harmony,
sharply as steel on the flint-stone, light-handed smithy strokes.
Sweet, thou shalt rest till the morning all the night lightly there,
while I my red horse bestriding ride with the forayers.
Resting-place more than the saddle none have I, none than he
war-horse of might in the rib-bones: deep is the girth of him.

Say, shall a swift Shadaníeh bear me to her I love,
one under ban for the drinker, weaned of the foal of her,
One with the tail carried archwise, long though the march hath been,
one with the firm foot atrample, threading the labyrinths?
Lo, how she spurneth the sand-dunes, like to the ear-less one,
him with the feet set together: round him young ostriches

109

Troop like the cohorts of Yémen, herded by 'Ajemis,
she-camel cohorts of Yémen, herded by stammerers.
Watching a beacon they follow, led by the crown of him
carried aloft as a howdah, howdah where damsels sit,
Him the small-headed, returning, fur-furnished Ethiop,
black slave, to Thu-el-Ashíra: there lie his eggs in it.
Lo, how my nága hath drunken deeply in Dóhradeyn;
how hath she shrunk back in Déylam, pools of the enemy,
Shrunk from its perilous cisterns, scared by the hunting one,
great-headed shrieker of evening, clutched to the flank of her.
Still to her off-side she shrinketh, deemeth the led-cat there
Clawing the more that she turneth;—thus is her fear of them.
Lo, she hath knelt in Ridá-a, pleased there and murmuring
soft as the sweet-fluting rushes crushed by the weight of her.
Thickly as pitch from the boiling oozeth the sweat of her,
pitch from the cauldron new-lighted, fire at the sides of it,
Oozeth in drops from the ear-roots. Wrathful and bold is she,
proud in her gait as a stallion hearing the battle-cry.

Though thou thy fair face concealest still in thy veil from me,
yet am I he that hath captured horse-riders how many!
Give me the praise of my fair deeds. Lady, thou knowest it,
kindly am I and forbearing, save when wrong presseth me.
Only when evil assaileth, deal I with bitterness;
then am I cruel in vengeance, bitter as colocynth.

Sometime in wine was my solace. Good wine, I drank of it,
suaging the heat ofthe evening, paying in white money,
Quaffing in goblets of saffron, pale-streaked with ivory,
hard at my hand their companion, the flask to the left of me.

110

Truly thus bibbing I squandered half my inheritance;
yet was my honour a wideword. No man had wounded it.
Since that when sober my dew-fall rained no less generous:
thou too, who knowest my nature, thou too be bountiful!
How many loved of the fair ones have I not buffeted,
youths overthrown! Ha, the blood-streams shrill from the veins of them.
Swift-stroke two-handed I smote him, thrust through the ribs of him;
forth flowed the stream of his life-blood red as anemone.
Ask of the horsemen of Málek, O thou his progeny,
all they have seen of my high deeds. Then shalt thou learn of them
How that I singly among them, clad in war's panoply,
stout on my war-horse theswift one charged at their chivalry.
Lo, how he rusheth, the fierce one, singly in midst of them,
waiting anon for the archers closing in front of us.
They that were nearest in battle, they be my proof to thee
how they have quailed at my war-cry, felt my urbanity.
Many and proud are their heroes, fear-striking warriors,
men who nor flee nor surrender, yielding not easily.
Yet hath my right arm o'erborne them, thrust them aside from me,
laid in their proud backs the long spear: slender the shaft of it.
See, how it splitteth asunder mail-coat and armouring;
not the most valiant arefuge hath from the point of it.
Slain on the ground have I left him, prey to the lion's brood,
feast of the wrists and the fingers. Ha, for the sacrifice!

Heavy his mail-coat, its sutures, lo, I divided them
piercing the joints of the champion; brave was the badge of him.

111

Quick-handed he with the arrows, cast in the winter-time,
raider of wine-sellers' sign-boards, blamed as a prodigal.
He, when he saw me down riding, making my point at him,
showed me his white teeth in terror, nay, but not smilingly.
All the day long did we joust it. Then were his finger tips
stained as though dipped in the íthlem, dyed with the dragon's blood,
Till with a spear-thrust I pierced him, once and again with it,
last, with a blade of the Indies, fine steel its tempering,
Smote him, the hero of stature, tall as a tamarisk,
kinglike, in sandals of dun hide, noblest of all of them.

Oh, thou, my lamb, the forbidden! prize of competitors,
why did they bid me not love thee? why art thou veiled from me?
Sent I my hand-maiden spy-like: Go thou, I said to her,
bring me the news of my true love, news in veracity.
Go. And she went, and returning: These in unguardedness
sit, and thy fair lambamong them, waiting thy archery.
Then was it turned she towards me, fawn-necked in gentleness,
noble in bearing, gazelle-like, milk-white the lip of it.

Woe for the baseness of 'Amru, lord of ingratitude!
Verily thanklessness turneth souls from humanity.
Close have I kept to the war-words thy father once spoke to me,
how I should deal in the death-play, when lips part and teeth glitter,
When in the thick of the combat heroes unflinchingly
cry in men's ears their defiance, danger forgot by them.
Close have I kept them and stood forth their shield from the enemy,
calling onall with my war-cries, circling and challenging.

112

There where the horsemen rode strongest I rode out in front of them,
hurled forth my war-shout and charged them; no man thought blame of me.
Antar! they cried; and their lances, well-cords in slenderness,
pressed to the breast of my war-horse still as I pressed on them.
Doggedly strove we and rode we. Ha, the brave stallion!
now is his breast dyed with blood-drops, his star-front with fear of them!
Swerved he, as pierced by the spear-points. Then in his beautiful
eyes stood the tears of appealing, words inarticulate.
If he had learned our man's language, then had he called to me:
if he had known our tongue's secret, then had he cried to me.

Thus to my soul came consoling; grief passed away from it
hearing the heroes applauding, shouting: Ho, Antar, ho!
Deep through the sand-drifts the horsemen charged with teeth grimly set,
urging their war-steeds, the strong-limbed, weight bearers all of them.
Swift the delúls too I urged them, spurred by my eagerness
forward to high deeds of daring, deeds of audacity.
Only I feared lest untimely drear death should shorten me
ere on the dark sons of Démdem vengeance was filled for me.
These are the men that reviled me, struck though I struck them not,
vowed me to bloodshed and evil or ere I troubled them.
Nay, let their hatred o'erbear me! I care not. The sire of them
slain lies for wild beasts and vultures. Ha! for the sacrifice!

113

IBN KOLTHÚM

Ha! The bowl! Fill it high, a fair morning wine-cup!
Leave we naught of the lees of Andarína.
Rise, pour forth, be it mixed, let it foam like saffron!
tempered thus will we drink it, ay, free-handed.
Him who grieves shall it cure, his despites forgotten;
nay, but taste it in tears, it shall console thee.
He, the hoarder of wealth, with the hard face fear-lined,
whilst he tasteth, behold him freely giving.
Thou, O mother of Amru, the cup deniest;
yet, the right is the wine should pass thy right-hand.
Not the worst of thy three friends is he thou scornest,
he for whom thou hast poured no draught of morning.
O the cups that I quaffed in Baálabékki!
O the bowls of Damascus, Kaisarína!
Sad fate stands at the door, and uninvited takes us marked for his own at the hour predestined.

Hold, draw rein, ere we sunder, sweet camel-rider;
list awhile to my words, nor idly answer.
Wait. Of thee would I know how came the estrangement,
whence this haste to betray a friend too faithful?
Tell the fear of that day, what blows! what woundings!
what refreshment I poured on thy kin's eyelids!
Each to-day is foredoomed. And who knows to-morrow,
who the after of days, the years we see not?

She her beauty shall show thee, if thou shouldst find her
far from injurious eyes, in desert places.

114

Fair white arms shall she show, as a white she-camel's,
pure as hers the long-necked one, yet unmounted.
Twin breasts smooth, shalt thou see, as of ivory polished,
guarded close from the eyes, the hands of lovers.
Waist how supple, how slim! Thou shalt span it sweetly;
fair flanks sloped to thine eyes and downward bending.
Broad her hips for desire, than thy tent door wider;
nay, but thine is her waist, thine own for madness.
Ankles twain, as of marble, are hers. I hear them
clanking, clattering on, as her anklets rattle.
None hath grieved as I grieve, not she, Om Sákbin,
roaring loud for her lost one, her colt-camel.
None hath grieved as I grieve, not she, the mother
mourning nine of her sons, her home their red grave.
So recalled I youth's time, and aloud with longing
wept at thought of her gone, her howdah fleeting,
Till before me the plain of Yemáma spreading
flashed, its points in the sun like a foe unsheathing.

O thou Lord Ibn Hind, be thy wrath less quick-breathed;
wait the word of our mouth, the whole truth spoken,
How each day we ride forth, our banners pure-white,
how each night we return, our banners red-dyed.
Days of fighting had we, and of joyous glory,
whilst we smote at the king, his dues denying,
Whilst we vanquished the man their tribes had named king,
him, the chief they had crowned, their world's protector.
Stood our horses before him asweat with combat,
wreathed the reins on their necks, their hind-feet resting.
Near him built we our tents, Dhu-tulúh our outpost,
El Shamáat at our hand, his riders routed.
Fled the dogs of their tribes from our spear-points howling;
lo, their thorn we have cut from root to branches.

115

They who came to our wheat-mill have known our mill-stones;
they who came for our corn have been stayed for grinding.
Let the mill-cloth be spread in the East lands Nejd-wards;
be our corn the Kodáat, their tribes assembled.
You as guests to our door in your guile came smiling;
see, the high feast is served, yourselves the banquet.
Fairly entertained we and plied with victual;
just at dawn it began, our mill-stone grinding.
We the tribes have supplied, have up-held their charges,
borne the burden alone they laid upon us.
Pierced have we with our spear-points their backs the fleers,
smitten low with our swords and pruned their proud ones.
Lances black of the Khótti are ours, how slender,
swords that hiss in our hands, to impale and pare them.
Yea, the heads of their mighty have rolled before us,
loads let loose on a road from beasts unburdened.
Still with might we assailed, we pushed, we pressed them,
lopped their heads at the neck, laid bare their shoulders.
Hate for hate have we given, in deeds revealing
all the strength of our wrong, our long-pent anger.
Heirs are we of our wrath, as Maád well knoweth;
glory deal we and wounds, as our right proveth.
When surprise is our lot and the tent-roofs tumble,
—sudden raid of the foe—we defend our neighbours.
Bite we sharp with our swords, nor apportion mercy,
swift ere these shall have seen the hand that smites them.
Reckless we in the mêlée, our swords with their swords;
wooden swords you had deemed theirs in hands of children;
Deemed our garments and theirs, their robes and our robes,
dyed had been in the vats—so red a purple!
Men there were in their fear held back and faltered;
terror clutched at their lips, their fate before them.
We alone, like Mount Ráhwa unmoved, in squadrons
stood protecting the weak, their battle-winners.

116

All we held in our youth to be slain for glory,
ay, and our gray-beard fighters, our old campaigners,
Doughty challengers we of them, all ill-comers,
Girt for crossing of swords, their sons with our sons,
This day going in fear of our children's fair lives,
faring forth in a band and as swift dispersing;
That day freed and secure, the alarm forgotten,
raiding we in our turn on a far-off foray.
Ours the Captain of Júshm, our chief Ibn Béker,
Breaker he of the tribes, of the weak, the strong tribes.
Not again shall they tell it, the envious nations,
how we humbled our heads awhile before them.
Not again shall they fool us or jest against us;
lo, the cheek of the proud with pride we out-cheek.

Tell us, Prince Ibn Hind, on what guile thou buildest?
how should we to thy kingship yield obedience?
Tell us, 'Amru the King, by what subtle reason
dreamest thou to cajole our slandered homage?
Words—nay, threats—thou hast hurled. But O 'Amru, softly!
these were well for thy slaves, thy mother's bondsmen.
Think! Our lances, how oft have other foemen
failed, before thee, to bend them, to make them pliant.
So the lance-head of iron which bites the lance-shaft,
twists to grip of the hand and makes a weapon;
Stiff it grows in the grasp, till aloft it jangles,
rives the head of the foe and his who forged it.
Who has dared thee to tell of Júshm Ibn Béker,
him as wanting in war, our proud forefather?
Are not we too of 'Alkama, heirs in glory,
his, the fortress of fame? To-day we hold it.
Come not we of Muhálhil? Nay, more and better,
come not we of Zohéyr, of the nobles noblest.

117

Ours Attáb and Kolthúm, in ascent our fathers;
we the heirs of their fame, our first possession.
We with Búrati too, as all wot, claim kinship,
him, the shield of the weak, as we too shield them.
All are ours, and Koléyb the renowned great fighter.
Whatso is in the world of fame is our fame.
Who dares link our she-camel with his, lo, straightway
broken lieth the neck-rope, the neck too broken.
Firm are we in our faith. Thou shalt find none surer,
no such men of their word to bind and loosen.
We, the day of the beacons on high Khazára,
gave, and more, of our aid than all the aiders.
We the strong-hold of Thú-urát held how stoutly,
starved our nágas within it on what lean pasture!
We the right wing defended, the day of battle;
next us fought too the left wing, no less our brethren.
Whoso stood in their path have beheld them charging;
whoso paused on our way we slew before us.
These returned with the plunder, with wealth made captive,
we with lords in our train and kings in fetters.
Ho, ye children of Béker, aroint ye, boasters!
Know ye nought of our name? Must ye learn our glory?
Nay, ye know of our valour, our hands with your hands,
fights how fierce with the spears, with the arrows singing.
Helmets ours are of steel, stout shields from Yémen,
tall the swords in our hands and poised for striking.
Mail-coats ours; in the sun you have seen them gleaming;
hauberks wide for our swords, of a noble wideness.
Ay, and after the fight, you have seen us naked,
creased the skin of our limbs like leathern jerkins,
Seen the bend of our backs, where the armour pressed us,
scored with waves, like a pool the South-wind blowing.

118

Lo, the mares we bestride at the dawn of battle!
sleek-coat mares, the choice ones; ourselves have weaned them.
Charge they mail-clad together, how red with battle,
red the knots of their reins as dyed with blood-stains.
Are not these the inheritance of our fathers?
shall not we to our sons in turn bequeath them?
We the vanguard in arms? Behind us marching
trail our beautiful ones, our wives close-guarded.
They it was who imposed on our lives a promise,
still their badge to uphold from all assaulting,
Ay, and plunder to bring, fair mares and helmets,
noble prisoners, bound with ropes, to serve them.
Thus go we to the war. And behold, the clansmen
seized with fear of us fly and form alliance,
While our maidens advance with a proud gait swaying,
like to drinkers of wine, with spoils o'erladen,
Camel-riders each one, of Júshm Ibn Béker,
beauty theirs and the blood, and all noble virtues,
Feeders sure of our mares. Yet they tell us lightly:
none will we for our lovers, save the valiant.
Since the fence of the fair is but this, the sword-stroke,
this, the shredding of limbs as a plaything shredded.
Thus say they, and we hear them, our swords unsheathing
yet are all men our sons who kneel before us.
Heads we toss of the proud, as you see a ball tossed,
kicked in play by the youths that urge the football.
All men know us of old in Maád, the tribesmen,
when our tents we have built in the open pastures,
Feasters are we of men with the men that love us,
slayers are we of men, the men that hate us;
Rightful lords of the plain, to forgive and welcome;
where we will we have pitched. Who has dared gainsay us?

119

Still with ire we deny in the face of anger;
still with smiles we accede to smiles of pleading.
Faithful aye to the weak who have made submission;
ruthless aye to the proud who raise rebellion.
Ours the right of the wells, of the springs untroubled;
theirs the dregs of the plain, the rain-pools trampled.
Nay, but ask of the tribes, of Tommáh, Domíyan,
what the worth of our hands, of our hearts in battle.
Nay, but ask of the King, when he came to bend us,
what of pride we returned to his words of evil.
Lo, the lands we o'errun, till the plains grow narrow,
lo, the seas will we sack with our war-galleys.
Not a weanling of ours but shall win to manhood,
find the world at his knees, its great ones kneeling.

120

EL HÁRITH

Lightly took she her leave of me, Asmá-u,
went no whit as a guest who outstays a welcome;
Went forgetting our trysts, Burkát Shemmá-u,
all the joys of our love, our love's home, Khalsá-u.
Muhayyátu, she thee forgets, Sifáhu,
thee, Fitákon, Aádibon, thee Wafá-u.
Thee, Riád el Katá, thee, vale of Shérbub,
'Anak, thee, Shobatána, and thee, Ablá-u.
Nay, ye lost are to me with my lost glory;
nay, though tears be my meat, weeping wins no woman.
Yet, a snare to my eyes, afar was kindled
fire by night on the hill. It was Hind's love-beacon.
Blindly now do I watch her from Khezáza;
woe, the warmth of it, woe,—though the hilltops redden!
Woe its blaze from Akík, its flame from Shákhseyn!
woe the signal alight for me, Hind's love-incense!

Out on tears and despair! I go free, sundered;
here stand doors of relief. Who hath fled escapeth.
Mount I light on my nága. No hen ostrich
swift as she, the tall trotter, her brood behind her,
Hearing voices who fled from them, the hunters,
pressing fast on her way from mid-eve to nightfall.
Nay, behold her, my noble one, upheaving
motes and dust on her path, as a cloud pursuing.
All un-shooed are the feet of her, her sandals
strewn how wide on her road by the rough rocks loosened.
Joy thus take I on her, the summer heat through.
All but I had despaired,—like a blinded camel.

121

O the curse of men's eyes, of their ill-speaking!
Danger deep and a wound did their false lips deal us.
Have not these with their tongues made small things great things,
telling lies of our lives, our kind kin, the Arákim?
Mixing blame with un-blame for us, till flouted
stand we, proven of wrong, with the guilty guiltless.
All, say these, that have run with us the wild ass,
ours are they, our allies, as our own tribe their tribes.
Thus by night did they argue it and plot it,
rose at dawn to their treason and stood forth shouting.
Loud the noise of their wrath. This called, that answered;
great the neighings of steeds and the camel roarings.

Ho, thou weaver of wild words, thou tale-painter!
must it thus be for ever and thus with Amru?
Not that slanders are strange. Their words we heed not;
long ere this have we known them, their lips, the liars.
High above them we live. Hate may not harm us,
fenced in towers of renown, our unstained bright honour.
Long hath anger assailed us, rage, denial;
long hath evil prevailed in the eyes of evil.
Nathless, let them assault. As well may Fortune
hurl its spears at the rocks, at the cloud-robed mountains.
Frowneth wide of it Fear. Fate shall not shake it.
Time's worst hand of distress shall disturb it never.

O thou king Iramíyan! With thee circle
riders keen of their steel to cut off thy foemen.
King art thou, the all-just, of Earth's high walkers
foremost, first in the World, its all-praise surpassing.
If of wrong there be aught untamed, unstraightened,
bring but word to our chiefs; they shall deal out justice

122

Set thy gaze on the hills, on Mílha, Sákib.
See the slain unavenged, while alive their slayers.
Probe the wounds of our anger, though thou hurt us,
yet shall truth be approved and the falsehood flouted.
Else be thou of us silent, and we silent,
closing lids on our wrong, though the mote lies under.
Yet, refusing the peace, whomso you question,
he shall speak in our praise, shall assign us worship.

O the days of the war, of our free fighting,
raidings made in surprise, the retreats, the shoutings!
How our nágas we scourged from Sâf el Bahreyn,
pressing hard to the end, to our goal El Hása!
Turned had we on Temím before Mohárrem,
taken their daughters for wives, their maids for handmaids.
None might stay us nor strive with us. The stoutest
turned, though turning availed not nor their feet flying,
Nay, nor mountain might hide nor plain protect them;
blackness burnt in the sun, it might bring no succour.
Thou, O King, art the master. Where in all lands
standeth one of thy height? There is none beside thee.

Lo, how stiff was our stand for him, El Móndir.
Say, were we, as were these, Ibn Hind's base herdsmen?
Let the Tághlebi slain in their blood answer,
unavenged where they lie. In the dust we spilled it.
He, the king, when in that high place Maisúna's
tent he builded for her who so loved Ausá-u,
What of turbulent folk did he there gather,
broken men of the tribes, ragged, hungry vultures!
Dates and water to all he gave in bounty.
God's revenge on the guilty they called his soldiers.

123

You the weight of them proved with your mad challenge,
brought them blind on your back by your idle boasting.
Nay, they gave you no false words, laid no ambush;
broad before you at noon you beheld them marching.
Ho, thou bearer of tales to Amru, babbler!
when of this shall the end be, how soon the silence?
Proofs he hath at our hands, three honest tokens,
each enough for his eyes of our faìth unswerving.
First when came from Shakík at him the war-lords,
all Maád in their tribes, with each clan a banner.
Mail-clad men were there there, their chieftain Káis,
he, the Prince Karathíyan, a rock, a stronghold.
With him sons of the brave, of freeborn ladies;
naught might stand to their shock save alone our swordblades.
Them we drove back with wounds like the out-rushing
streams when goat-skins are pricked; it was thus their blood flowed;
Drove them back to Thahlána its strong places,
scattered, drenched in their gore where the thigh wounds spouted.
Struck we stern at the lives of them; then trembled
deep our spears in their well, like a long-roped bucket.
Only God shall appraise how we misused them;
none hath claimed for their lives the uncounted blood price.
Next with Hójra it was, Ibn om Katáma;
with him rode the Iráni: how red their armour!
Roused, a lion, he chargeth, his feet thudding,
yet as Spring to the poor in their day of hunger.
Chains we struck from the hands of Imr el Káis;
long the days of his grief were, his months of bondage.
We, when Jaun of Aál Beni 'Aus sought us,
rock-strong with him a band of unyielding horsemen,
Nothing feared, though the dust of them around us
swept the plain like a smoke by the war-flame kindled.

124

Put we swords on his neck, Ghassán, for Móndir,
wrath that less than our right was the blood price counted.
Lastly brought we the nine of the blood royal,
all their wealth in our hands, an unnumbered booty.
Amr a son was of ours Ibn Om Eyyási;
close in kinship he came, when he gave the dowry.
Let this stand to our count, our power in pleading!
land with land are we knit, by the strong ones strengthened.
Hold the tongue of your boasting, your vainglory,
else be yourselves the blind, on yourselves ill-fortune.

O, remember the oath of Thil Majázi,
all that was of old time, the fair words, the pledges.
Flee the evil, the hate! Shall men gainsay it,
that which stands on the skin, for the whim of any?
Think how we with yourselves the fair deed signed there,
did the thing we should do, and no less, our duty.
Faction all and injustice! As well, when feasting,
take, for vow of a sheep, a gazelle in payment!
Was it ours, say, the blame of it all, when Kíndah
took your booths for a spoil, that of us you claim it?
Was it ours that foul deed of him, Eyádi?
are we bound with his rope, like a loaded camel?
Not by us were these done to their death, nor Káis,
nay, nor Jéndal by us, nor he Haddá-u.
Theirs, not ours, were the crimes of Beni Atíkeh;
clean of blame are our hands since you tore the treaties.
Eighty went of Temím: in their right hands lances;
each a sentence of death, when they went against you,
Left your sons where they lay sword-slashed and blood-stained,
brought a tumult of spoil till men's ears were deafened.
Is it ours the ill-deed of the man Hanífa?
ours the strife of all time, Earth's arrears of evil?

125

Ours the wrong of Kodáat? Nay, 'tis all injustice;
not for these and their sins are our hands indicted.
Not for these, nor their raid on the Béni Rázah;
who shall approve their claim in Nitá, in Búrka?
Long they cringed for a spoil, these camel-cravers,
yet not one did we give, not a black nor white one;
Left them bare till they fled with their backs broken,
all unwatered their thirst, unassuaged their vengeance;
Horsemen hard on their track, El Fellak's riders,
pity none in their hand, in their heart no sparing.
Ours it was, the dominion of all these peoples,
ours till El Móndir ruled, the sweet rain of heaven.

Thou, O King, art the master. Thou our witness
stoodst the day of Hayáreyn. Our proof is proven!