CHAPTER III

PRE-ISLAMIC POETRY, MANNERS, AND RELIGION

"When there appeared a poet in a family of the Arabs, the other tribes round about would gather together to that family and wish them joy of their good luck. Feasts would be got ready, the women of the tribe would join together in bands, playing upon lutes, as they were wont to do at bridals, and the men and boys would congratulate one another; for a poet was a defence to the honour of them all, a weapon to ward off insult from their good name, and a means of perpetuating their glorious deeds and of establishing their fame for ever. And they used not to wish one another joy but for three things--the birth of a boy, the coming to light of a poet, and the foaling of a noble mare."[139]

As far as extant literature is concerned--and at this time there was only a spoken literature, which was preserved by oral tradition, and first committed to writing long afterwards--the _Jáhiliyya_ or Pre-islamic Age covers scarcely more than a century, from about 500 A.D., when the oldest poems of which we have any record were composed, to the year of Muḥammad's Flight to Medína (622 A.D.), which is the starting-point of a new era in Arabian history. The influence of these hundred and twenty years was great and lasting. They saw the rise and incipient decline of a poetry which most Arabic-speaking Moslems have always regarded as a model of unapproachable excellence; a poetry rooted in the life of the people, that insensibly moulded their minds and fixed their character and made them morally and spiritually a nation long before Muḥammad welded the various conflicting groups into a single organism, animated, for some time at least, by a common purpose. In those days poetry was no luxury for the cultured few, but the sole medium of literary expression. Every tribe had its poets, who freely uttered what they felt and thought. Their unwritten words "flew across the desert faster than arrows," and came home to the hearts and bosoms of all who heard them. Thus in the midst of outward strife and disintegration a unifying principle was at work. Poetry gave life and currency to an ideal of Arabian virtue (_muruwwa_), which, though based on tribal community of blood and insisting that only ties of blood were sacred, nevertheless became an invisible bond between diverse clans, and formed, whether consciously or not, the basis of a national community of sentiment.

[Sidenote: Origins of Arabian poetry]

In the following pages I propose to trace the origins of Arabian poetry, to describe its form, contents, and general features, to give some account of the most celebrated Pre-islamic poets and collections of Pre-islamic verse, and finally to show in what manner it was preserved and handed down.

By the ancient Arabs the poet (_shá‘ir_, plural _shu‘ará_), as his name implies, was held to be a person endowed with supernatural knowledge, a wizard in league with spirits (_jinn_) or satans (_shayáṭín_) and dependent on them for the magical powers which he displayed. This view of his personality, as well as the influential position which he occupied, are curiously indicated by the story of a certain youth who was refused the hand of his beloved on the ground that he was neither a poet nor a soothsayer nor a water-diviner.[140] The idea of poetry as an art was developed afterwards; the pagan _shá‘ir_ is the oracle of his tribe, their guide in peace and their champion in war. It was to him they turned for counsel when they sought new pastures, only at his word would they pitch or strike their 'houses of hair,' and when the tired and thirsty wanderers found a well and drank of its water and washed themselves, led by him they may have raised their voices together and sung, like Israel--

"Spring up, O well, sing ye unto it."[141]

[Sidenote: Satire.]

Besides fountain-songs, war-songs, and hymns to idols, other kinds of poetry must have existed in the earliest times--_e.g._, the love-song and the dirge. The powers of the _shá‘ir_, however, were chiefly exhibited in Satire (_hijá_), which in the oldest known form "introduces and accompanies the tribal feud, and is an element of war just as important as the actual fighting."[142] The menaces which he hurled against the foe were believed to be inevitably fatal. His rhymes, often compared to arrows, had all the effect of a solemn curse spoken by a divinely inspired prophet or priest,[143] and their pronunciation was attended with peculiar ceremonies of a symbolic character, such as anointing the hair on one side of the head, letting the mantle hang down loosely, and wearing only one sandal.[144] Satire retained something of these ominous associations at a much later period when the magic utterance of the _shá‘ir_ had long given place to the lampoon by which the poet reviles his enemies and holds them up to shame.

[Sidenote: Saj‘.]

The obscure beginnings of Arabian poetry, presided over by the magician and his familiar spirits, have left not a rack behind in the shape of literature, but the task of reconstruction is comparatively easy where we are dealing with a people so conservative and tenacious of antiquity as the Arabs. Thus it may be taken for certain that the oldest form of poetical speech in Arabia was rhyme without metre (_Saj‘_), or, as we should say, 'rhymed prose,' although the fact of Muḥammad's adversaries calling him a poet because he used it in the Koran shows the light in which it was regarded even after the invention and elaboration of metre. Later on, as we shall see, _Saj‘_ became a merely rhetorical ornament, the distinguishing mark of all eloquence whether spoken or written, but originally it had a deeper, almost religious, significance as the special form adopted by poets, soothsayers, and the like in their supernatural revelations and for conveying to the vulgar every kind of mysterious and esoteric lore.

[Sidenote: Rajaz.]

Out of _Saj‘_ was evolved the most ancient of the Arabian metres, which is known by the name of _Rajaz_.[145] This is an irregular iambic metre usually consisting of four or six--an Arab would write 'two or three'--feet to the line; and it is a peculiarity of _Rajaz_, marking its affinity to _Saj‘_, that all the lines rhyme with each other, whereas in the more artificial metres only the opening verse[146] is doubly rhymed. A further characteristic of _Rajaz_ is that it should be uttered extempore, a few verses at a time--commonly verses expressing some personal feeling, emotion, or experience, like those of the aged warrior Durayd b. Zayd b. Nahd when he lay dying:--

"The house of death[147] is builded for Durayd to-day. Could Time be worn out, sure had I worn Time away. No single foe but I had faced and brought to bay. The spoils I gathered in, how excellent were they! The women that I loved, how fine was their array!"[148]

[Sidenote: Other metres.]

Here would have been the proper place to give an account of the principal Arabian metres--the 'Perfect' (_Kámil_), the 'Ample' (_Wáfir_) the 'Long' (_Ṭawíl_), the 'Wide' (_Basiṭ_), the 'Light' (_Khafíf_), and several more--but in order to save valuable space I must content myself with referring the reader to the extremely lucid treatment of this subject by Sir Charles Lyall in the Introduction to his _Ancient Arabian Poetry_, pp. xlv-lii. All the metres are quantitative, as in Greek and Latin. Their names and laws were unknown to the Pre-islamic bards: the rules of prosody were first deduced from the ancient poems and systematised by the grammarian, Khalíl b. Ahmad († 791 A.D.), to whom the idea is said to have occurred as he watched a coppersmith beating time on the anvil with his hammer.

[Sidenote: The oldest extant poems.]

We have now to consider the form and matter of the oldest extant poems in the Arabic language. Between these highly developed productions and the rude doggerel of _Saj‘_ or _Rajaz_ there lies an interval, the length of which it is impossible even to conjecture. The first poets are already consummate masters of the craft. "The number and complexity of the measures which they use, their established laws of quantity and rhyme, and the uniform manner in which they introduce the subject of their poems,[149] notwithstanding the distance which often separated one composer from another, all point to a long previous study and cultivation of the art of expression and the capacities of their language, a study of which no record now remains."[150]

[Sidenote: Their date.]

It is not improbable that the dawn of the Golden Age of Arabian Poetry coincided with the first decade of the sixth century after Christ. About that time the War of Basús, the chronicle of which has preserved a considerable amount of contemporary verse, was in full blaze; and the first Arabian ode was composed, according to tradition, by Muhalhil b. Rabí‘a the Taghlibite on the death of his brother, the chieftain Kulayb, which caused war to break out between Bakr and Taghlib. At any rate, during the next hundred years in almost every part of the peninsula we meet with a brilliant succession of singers, all using the same poetical dialect and strictly adhering to the same rules of composition. The fashion which they set maintained itself virtually unaltered down to the end of the Umayyad period (750 A.D.), and though challenged by some daring spirits under the ‘Abbásid Caliphate, speedily reasserted its supremacy, which at the present day is almost as absolute as ever.

[Sidenote: The Qaṣída.]

This fashion centres in the _Qaṣída_,[151] or Ode, the only form, or rather the only finished type of poetry that existed in what, for want of a better word, may be called the classical period of Arabic literature. The verses (_abyát_, singular _bayt_) of which it is built vary in number, but are seldom less than twenty-five or more than a hundred; and the arrangement of the rhymes is such that, while the two halves of the first verse rhyme together, the same rhyme is repeated once in the second, third, and every following verse to the end of the poem. Blank-verse is alien to the Arabs, who regard rhyme not as a pleasing ornament or a "troublesome bondage," but as a vital organ of poetry. The rhymes are usually feminine, _e.g._, sa_khíná_, tu_líná_, mu_híná_; mukh_lidí_, _yadí_, ‘uw_wadí_; ri_jámuhá_, si_lámuhá_, ḥa_rámuhá_. To surmount the difficulties of the monorhyme demands great technical skill even in a language of which the peculiar formation renders the supply of rhymes extraordinarily abundant. The longest of the _Mu‘allaqát_, the so-called 'Long Poems,' is considerably shorter than Gray's _Elegy_. An Arabian Homer or Chaucer must have condescended to prose. With respect to metre the poet may choose any except _Rajaz_, which is deemed beneath the dignity of the Ode, but his liberty does not extend either to the choice of subjects or to the method of handling them: on the contrary, the course of his ideas is determined by rigid conventions which he durst not overstep.

[Sidenote: Ibn Qutayba's account of the contents and divisions of the Ode.]

"I have heard," says Ibn Qutayba, "from a man of learning that the composer of Odes began by mentioning the deserted dwelling-places and the relics and traces of habitation. Then he wept and complained and addressed the desolate encampment, and begged his companion to make a halt, in order that he might have occasion to speak of those who had once lived there and afterwards departed; for the dwellers in tents were different from townsmen or villagers in respect of coming and going, because they moved from one water-spring to another, seeking pasture and searching out the places where rain had fallen. Then to this he linked the erotic prelude (_nasíb_), and bewailed the violence of his love and the anguish of separation from his mistress and the extremity of his passion and desire, so as to win the hearts of his hearers and divert their eyes towards him and invite their ears to listen to him, since the song of love touches men's souls and takes hold of their hearts, God having put it in the constitution of His creatures to love dalliance and the society of women, in such wise that we find very few but are attached thereto by some tie or have some share therein, whether lawful or unpermitted. Now, when the poet had assured himself of an attentive hearing, he followed up his advantage and set forth his claim: thus he went on to complain of fatigue and want of sleep and travelling by night and of the noonday heat, and how his camel had been reduced to leanness. And when, after representing all the discomfort and danger of his journey, he knew that he had fully justified his hope and expectation of receiving his due meed from the person to whom the poem was addressed, he entered upon the panegyric (_madíḥ_), and incited him to reward, and kindled his generosity by exalting him above his peers and pronouncing the greatest dignity, in comparison with his, to be little."[152]

Hundreds of Odes answer exactly to this description, which must not, however, be regarded as the invariable model. The erotic prelude is often omitted, especially in elegies; or if it does not lead directly to the main subject, it may be followed by a faithful and minute delineation of the poet's horse or camel which bears him through the wilderness with a speed like that of the antelope, the wild ass, or the ostrich: Bedouin poetry abounds in fine studies of animal life.[153] The choice of a motive is left open. Panegyric, no doubt, paid better than any other, and was therefore the favourite; but in Pre-islamic times the poet could generally please himself. The _qaṣída_ is no organic whole: rather its unity resembles that of a series of pictures by the same hand or, to employ an Eastern trope, of pearls various in size and quality threaded on a necklace.

The ancient poetry may be defined as an illustrative criticism of Pre-islamic life and thought. Here the Arab has drawn himself at full length without embellishment or extenuation.

It is not mere chance that Abú Tammám's famous anthology is called the _Ḥamása_, _i.e._, 'Fortitude,' from the title of its first chapter, which occupies nearly a half of the book. 'Ḥamása' denotes the virtues most highly prized by the Arabs--bravery in battle, patience in misfortune, persistence in revenge, protection of the weak and defiance of the strong; the will, as Tennyson has said,

"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

[Sidenote: The Ideal Arab hero.]

[Sidenote: Shanfará.]

As types of the ideal Arab hero we may take Shanfará of Azd and his comrade in foray, Ta’abbaṭa Sharran. Both were brigands, outlaws, swift runners, and excellent poets. Of the former

"it is said that he was captured when a child from his tribe by the Banú Salámán, and brought up among them: he did not learn his origin until he had grown up, when he vowed vengeance against his captors, and returned to his own tribe. His oath was that he would slay a hundred men of Salámán; he slew ninety-eight, when an ambush of his enemies succeeded in taking him prisoner. In the struggle one of his hands was hewn off by a sword stroke, and, taking it in the other, he flung it in the face of a man of Salámán and killed him, thus making ninety-nine. Then he was overpowered and slain, with one still wanting to make up his number. As his skull lay bleaching on the ground, a man of his enemies passed by that way and kicked it with his foot; a splinter of bone entered his foot, the wound mortified, and he died, thus completing the hundred."[154]

The following passage is translated from Shanfará's splendid Ode named _Lámiyyatu ’l-‘Arab_ (the poem rhymed in _l_ of the Arabs), in which he describes his own heroic character and the hardships of a predatory life:--[155]

"And somewhere the noble find a refuge afar from scathe, The outlaw a lonely spot where no kin with hatred burn. Oh, never a prudent man, night-faring in hope or fear, Hard pressed on the face of earth, but still he hath room to turn.

To me now, in your default, are comrades a wolf untired, A sleek leopard, and a fell hyena with shaggy mane:[156] True comrades: they ne'er let out the secret in trust with them, Nor basely forsake their friend because that he brought them bane.

And each is a gallant heart and ready at honour's call, Yet I, when the foremost charge, am bravest of all the brave; But if they with hands outstretched are seizing the booty won, The slowest am I whenas most quick is the greedy knave.

By naught save my generous will I reach to the height of worth Above them, and sure the best is he with the will to give. Yea, well I am rid of those who pay not a kindness back, Of whom I have no delight though neighbours to me they live.

Know are companions three at last: an intrepid soul, A glittering trenchant blade, a tough bow of ample size, Loud-twanging, the sides thereof smooth-polished, a handsome bow Hung down from the shoulder-belt by thongs in a comely wise, That groans, when the arrow slips away, like a woman crushed By losses, bereaved of all her children, who wails and cries."

On quitting his tribe, who cast him out when they were threatened on all sides by enemies seeking vengeance for the blood that he had spilt, Shanfará said:--

"Bury me not! Me you are forbidden to bury, But thou, O hyena, soon wilt feast and make merry, When foes bear away mine head, wherein is the best of me, And leave on the battle-field for thee all the rest of me. Here nevermore I hope to live glad--a stranger Accurst, whose wild deeds have brought his people in danger."[157]

[Sidenote: Ta’abbaṭa Sharran.]

Thábit b. Jábir b. Sufyán of Fahm is said to have got his nickname, Ta’abbaṭa Sharran, because one day his mother, who had seen him go forth from his tent with a sword under his arm, on being asked, "Where is Thábit?" replied, "I know not: he put a mischief under his arm-pit (_ta’abbaṭa sharran_) and departed." According to another version of the story, the 'mischief' was a Ghoul whom he vanquished and slew and carried home in this manner. The following lines, which he addressed to his cousin, Shams b. Málik, may be applied with equal justice to the poet himself:--

"Little he complains of labour that befalls him; much he wills; Diverse ways attempting, mightily his purpose he fulfils. Through one desert in the sun's heat, through another in starlight, Lonely as the wild ass, rides he bare-backed Danger noon and night. He the foremost wind outpaceth, while in broken gusts it blows, Speeding onward, never slackening, never staying for repose. Prompt to dash upon the foeman, every minute watching well-- Are his eyes in slumber lightly sealed, his heart stands sentinel. When the first advancing troopers rise to sight, he sets his hand From the scabbard forth to draw his sharp-edged, finely-mettled brand. When he shakes it in the breast-bone of a champion of the foe, How the grinning Fates in open glee their flashing side-teeth show! Solitude his chosen comrade, on he fares while overhead By the Mother of the mazy constellations he is led."[158]

[Sidenote: The old Arabian points of honour.]

These verses admirably describe the rudimentary Arabian virtues of courage, hardness, and strength. We must now take a wider survey of the moral ideas on which pagan society was built, and of which Pre-islamic poetry is at once the promulgation and the record. There was no written code, no legal or religious sanction--nothing, in effect, save the binding force of traditional sentiment and opinion, _i.e._, Honour. What, then, are the salient points of honour in which Virtue (_Muruwwa_), as it was understood by the heathen Arabs, consists?

[Sidenote: Courage.]

Courage has been already mentioned. Arab courage is like that of the ancient Greeks, "dependent upon excitement and vanishing quickly before depression and delay."[159] Hence the Arab hero is defiant and boastful, as he appears, _e.g._, in the _Mu‘allaqa_ of ‘Amr b. Kulthúm. When there is little to lose by flight he will ride off unashamed; but he will fight to the death for his womenfolk, who in serious warfare often accompanied the tribe and were stationed behind the line of battle.[160]

"When I saw the hard earth hollowed By our women's flying footprints, And Lamís her face uncovered Like the full moon of the skies, Showing forth her hidden beauties-- Then the matter was grim earnest: I engaged their chief in combat, Seeing help no other wise."[161]

The tribal constitution was a democracy guided by its chief men, who derived their authority from noble blood, noble character, wealth, wisdom, and experience. As a Bedouin poet has said in homely language--

"A folk that hath no chiefs must soon decay, And chiefs it hath not when the vulgar sway. Only with poles the tent is reared at last, And poles it hath not save the pegs hold fast But when the pegs and poles are once combined, Then stands accomplished that which was designed."[162]

[Sidenote: Loyalty.]

The chiefs, however, durst not lay commands or penalties on their fellow-tribesmen. Every man ruled himself, and was free to rebuke presumption in others. "_If you are our lord_" (_i.e._, if you act discreetly as a _sayyid_ should), "_you will lord over us, but if you are a prey to pride, go and be proud!_" (_i.e._, we will have nothing to do with you).[163] Loyalty in the mouth of a pagan Arab did not mean allegiance to his superiors, but faithful devotion to his equals; and it was closely connected with the idea of kinship. The family and the tribe, which included strangers living in the tribe under a covenant of protection--to defend these, individually and collectively, was a sacred duty. Honour required that a man should stand by his own people through thick and thin.

"I am of Ghaziyya: if she be in error, then I will err; And if Ghaziyya be guided right, I go right with her!"

sang Durayd b. Ṣimma, who had followed his kin, against his better judgment, in a foray which cost the life of his brother ‘Abdulláh.[164] If kinsmen seek help it should be given promptly, without respect to the merits of the case; if they do wrong it should be suffered as long as possible before resorting to violence.[165] The utilitarian view of friendship is often emphasised, as in these verses:--

Take for thy brother whom thou wilt in the days of peace, But know that when fighting comes thy kinsman alone is near. Thy true friend thy kinsman is, who answers thy call for aid With good will, when deeply drenched in bloodshed are sword and spear. Oh, never forsake thy kinsman e'en tho' he do thee wrong, For what he hath marred he mends thereafter and makes sincere."[166]

At the same time, notwithstanding their shrewd common sense, nothing is more characteristic of the Arabs--heathen and Muḥammadan alike--than the chivalrous devotion and disinterested self-sacrifice of which they are capable on behalf of their friends. In particular, the ancient poetry affords proof that they regarded with horror any breach of the solemn covenant plighted between patron and client or host and guest. This topic might be illustrated by many striking examples, but one will suffice:--

[Sidenote: The story of Samaw’al b. ‘Adiyá.]

The Arabs say: "_Awfá mina ’l-Samaw’ali_"--"More loyal than al-Samaw’al"; or _Wafáun ka-wafá’i ’l-Samaw’ali_"--" A loyalty like that of al-Samaw’al." These proverbs refer to Samaw’al b. ‘Adiyá, an Arab of Jewish descent and Jew by religion, who lived in his castle, called al-Ablaq (The Piebald), at Taymá, some distance north of Medína. There he dug a well of sweet water, and would entertain the Arabs who used to alight beside it; and they supplied themselves with provisions from his castle and set up a market. It is related that the poet Imru’u ’l-Qays, while fleeing, hotly pursued by his enemies, towards Syria, took refuge with Samaw’al, and before proceeding on his way left in charge of his host five coats of mail which had been handed down as heirlooms by the princes of his family. Then he departed, and in due course arrived at Constantinople, where he besought the Byzantine emperor to help him to recover his lost kingdom. His appeal was not unsuccessful, but he died on the way home. Meanwhile his old enemy, the King of Ḥíra, sent an army under Ḥárith b. Ẓálim against Samaw’al, demanding that he should surrender the coats of mail. Samaw’al refused to betray the trust committed to him, and defended himself in his castle. The besiegers, however, captured his son, who had gone out to hunt. Ḥárith asked Samaw’al: "Dost thou know this lad?" "Yes, he is my son." "Then wilt thou deliver what is in thy possession, or shall I slay him?" Samaw’al answered: "Do with him as thou wilt. I will never break my pledge nor give up the property of my guest-friend." So Ḥárith smote the lad with his sword and clove him through the middle. Then he raised the siege. And Samaw’al said thereupon:--

"_I was true with the mail-coats of the Kindite,[167] I am true though many a one is blamed for treason. Once did ‘Ádiyá, my father, exhort me: 'O Samaw’al, ne'er destroy what I have builded.' For me built ‘Ádiyá a strong-walled castle With a well where I draw water at pleasure; So high, the eagle slipping back is baffled. When wrong befalls me I endure not tamely._"[168]

The Bedouin ideal of generosity and hospitality is personified in Ḥátim of Ṭayyi’, of whom many anecdotes are told. We may learn from the following one how extravagant are an Arab's notions on this subject:--

[Sidenote: Ḥátim of Ṭayyi’.]

When Ḥátim's mother was pregnant she dreamed that she was asked, "Which dost thou prefer?--a generous son called Ḥátim, or ten like those of other folk, lions in the hour of battle, brave lads and strong of limb?" and that she answered, "Ḥátim." Now, when Ḥátim grew up he was wont to take out his food, and if he found any one to share it he would eat, otherwise he threw it away. His father, seeing that he wasted his food, gave him a slave-girl and a mare with her foal and sent him to herd the camels. On reaching the pasture, Ḥátim began to search for his fellows, but none was in sight; then he came to the road, but found no one there. While he was thus engaged he descried a party of riders on the road and went to meet them. "O youth," said they, "hast thou aught to entertain us withal?" He answered: "Do ye ask me of entertainment when ye see the camels?" Now, these riders were ‘Abíd b. al-Abras and Bishr b. Abí Kházim and Nábigha al-Dhubyání, and they were on their way to King Nu‘mán.[169] Ḥátim slaughtered three camels for them, whereupon ‘Abíd said: "We desired no entertainment save milk, but if thou must needs charge thyself with something more, a single young she-camel would have sufficed us." Ḥátim replied: "That I know, but seeing different faces and diverse fashions I thought ye were not of the same country, and I wished that each of you should mention what ye saw, on returning home." So they spoke verses in praise of him and celebrated his generosity, and Ḥátim said: "I wished to bestow a kindness upon you, but your bounty is greater than mine. I swear to God that I will hamstring every camel in the herd unless ye come forward and divide them among yourselves." The poets did as he desired, and each man received ninety-nine camels; then they proceeded on their journey to Nu‘mán. When Ḥátim's father heard of this he came to him and asked, "Where are the camels?" "O my father," replied Ḥátim, "by means of them I have conferred on thee everlasting fame and honour that will cleave to thee like the ring of the ringdove, and men will always bear in mind some verse of poetry in which we are praised. This is thy recompense for the camels." On hearing these words his father said, "Didst thou with my camels thus?" "Yes." "By God, I will never dwell with thee again." So he went forth with his family, and Ḥátim was left alone with his slave-girl and his mare and the mare's foal.[170]

[Sidenote: Ḥátim's daughter before the Prophet.]

We are told that Ḥátim's daughter was led as a captive before the Prophet and thus addressed him: "'O Muḥammad, my sire is dead, and he who would have come to plead for me is gone. Release me, if it seem good to thee, and do not let the Arabs rejoice at my misfortune; for I am the daughter of the chieftain of my people. My father was wont to free the captive, and protect those near and dear to him, and entertain the guest, and satisfy the hungry, and console the afflicted, and give food and greeting to all; and never did he turn away any who sought a boon. I am Ḥátim's daughter.' The Prophet (on whom be the blessing and peace of God) answered her: 'O maiden, the true believer is such as thou hast described. Had thy father been an Islamite, verily we should have said, "God have mercy upon him!" Let her go,' he continued, 'for her sire loved noble manners, and God loves them likewise.'"[171]

Ḥátim was a poet of some repute.[172] The following lines are addressed to his wife, Máwiyya:--

"O daughter of ‘Abdulláh and Málik and him who wore The two robes of Yemen stuff--the hero that rode the roan, When thou hast prepared the meal, entreat to partake thereof A guest--I am not the man to eat, like a churl, alone--: Some traveller thro' the night, or house-neighbour; for in sooth I fear the reproachful talk of men after I am gone. The guest's slave am I, 'tis true, as long as he bides with me, Although in my nature else no trait of the slave is shown."[173]

[Sidenote: Position of women.]

[Sidenote: Arabian heroines.]

[Sidenote: Fáṭima daughter of Khurshub.]

[Sidenote: Fukayha.]

Here it will be convenient to make a short digression in order that the reader may obtain, if not a complete view, at least some glimpses of the position and influence of women in Pre-islamic society. On the whole, their position was high and their influence great. They were free to choose their husbands, and could return, if ill-treated or displeased, to their own people; in some cases they even offered themselves in marriage and had the right of divorce. They were regarded not as slaves and chattels, but as equals and companions. They inspired the poet to sing and the warrior to fight. The chivalry of the Middle Ages is, perhaps, ultimately traceable to heathen Arabia. "Knight-errantry, the riding forth on horseback in search of adventures, the rescue of captive maidens, the succour rendered everywhere to women in adversity--all these were essentially Arabian ideas, as was the very name of _chivalry_, the connection of honourable conduct with the horse-rider, the man of noble blood, the cavalier."[174] But the nobility of the women is not only reflected in the heroism and devotion of the men; it stands recorded in song, in legend, and in history. Fáṭima, the daughter of Khurshub, was one of three noble matrons who bore the title _al-Munjibát_, 'the Mothers of Heroes.' She had seven sons, three of whom, viz., Rabí‘ and ‘Umára and Anas, were called 'the Perfect' (_al-Kamala_). One day Ḥamal b. Badr the Fazárite raided the Banú ‘Abs, the tribe to which Fáṭima belonged, and made her his prisoner. As he led away the camel on which she was mounted at the time, she cried: "Man, thy wits are wandering. By God, if thou take me captive, and if we leave behind us this hill which is now in front of us, surely there will never be peace between thee and the sons of Ziyád" (Ziyád was the name of her husband), "because people will say what they please, and the mere suspicion of evil is enough." "I will carry thee off," said he, "that thou mayest herd my camels." When Fáṭima knew that she was certainly his prisoner she threw herself headlong from her camel and died; so did she fear to bring dishonour on her sons.[175] Among the names which have become proverbial for loyalty we find those of two women, Fukayha and Umm Jamíl. As to Fukayha, it is related that her clansmen, having been raided by the brigand Sulayk b. Sulaka, resolved to attack him; but since he was a famous runner, on the advice of one of their shaykhs they waited until he had gone down to the water and quenched his thirst, for they knew that he would then be unable to run. Sulayk, however, seeing himself caught, made for the nearest tents and sought refuge with Fukayha. She threw her smock over him, and stood with drawn sword between him and his pursuers; and as they still pressed on, she tore the veil from her hair and shouted for help. Then her brothers came and defended Sulayk, so that his life was saved.[176] Had space allowed, it would have been a pleasant task to make some further extracts from the long Legend of Noble Women. I have illustrated their keen sense of honour and loyalty, but I might equally well have chosen examples of gracious dignity and quick intelligence and passionate affection. Many among them had the gift of poetry, which they bestowed especially on the dead; it is a final proof of the high character and position of women in Pre-islamic Arabia that the hero's mother and sisters were deemed most worthy to mourn and praise him. The praise of living women by their lovers necessarily takes a different tone; the physical charms of the heroine are fully described, but we seldom find any appreciation of moral beauty. One notable exception to this rule occurs at the beginning of an ode by Shanfará. The passage defies translation. It is, to quote Sir Charles Lyall, with whose faithful and sympathetic rendering of the ancient poetry every student of Arabic literature should be acquainted, "the most lovely picture of womanhood which heathen Arabia has left us, drawn by the same hand that has given us, in the unrivalled _Lâmîyah_, its highest ideal of heroic hardness and virile strength."[177]

UMAYMA.

"She charmed me, veiling bashfully her face, Keeping with quiet looks an even pace; Some lost thing seem to seek her downcast eyes: Aside she bends not--softly she replies. Ere dawn she carries forth her meal--a gift To hungry wives in days of dearth and thrift. No breath of blame up to her tent is borne, While many a neighbour's is the house of scorn. Her husband fears no gossip fraught with shame, For pure and holy is Umayma's name. Joy of his heart, to her he need not say When evening brings him home--'Where passed the day?' Slender and full in turn, of perfect height, A very fay were she, if beauty might Transform a child of earth into a fairy sprite!"[178]

Only in the freedom of the desert could the character thus exquisitely delineated bloom and ripen. These verses, taken by themselves, are a sufficient answer to any one who would maintain that Islam has increased the social influence of Arabian women, although in some respects it may have raised them to a higher level of civilisation.[179]

[Sidenote: Infanticide.]

There is, of course, another side to all this. In a land where might was generally right, and where

"the simple plan That he should take who has the power And he should keep who can,"

was all but universally adopted, it would have been strange if the weaker sex had not often gone to the wall. The custom which prevailed in the _Jáhiliyya_ of burying female infants alive, revolting as it appears to us, was due partly to the frequent famines with which Arabia is afflicted through lack of rain, and partly to a perverted sense of honour. Fathers feared lest they should have useless mouths to feed, or lest they should incur disgrace in consequence of their daughters being made prisoners of war. Hence the birth of a daughter was reckoned calamitous, as we read in the Koran: "_They attribute daughters unto God--far be it from Him!--and for themselves they desire them not. When a female child is announced to one of them, his face darkens wrathfully: he hides himself from his people because of the bad news, thinking--'Shall I keep the child to my disgrace or cover it away in the dust?'_"[180] It was said proverbially, "The despatch of daughters is a kindness" and "The burial of daughters is a noble deed."[181] Islam put an end to this barbarity, which is expressly forbidden by the Koran: "_Kill not your children in fear of impoverishment: we will provide for them and for you: verily their killing was a great sin._"[182] Perhaps the most touching lines in Arabian poetry are those in which a father struggling with poverty wishes that his daughter may die before him and thus be saved from the hard mercies of her relatives:--

THE POOR MAN'S DAUGHTER

"But for Umayma's sake I ne'er had grieved to want nor braved Night's blackest horror to bring home the morsel that she craved. Now my desire is length of days because I know too well The orphan girl's hard lot, with kin unkind enforced to dwell. I dread that some day poverty will overtake my child, And shame befall her when exposed to every passion wild.[183] She wishes me to live, but I must wish her dead, woe's me: Death is the noblest wooer a helpless maid can see. I fear an uncle may be harsh, a brother be unkind, When I would never speak a word that rankled in her mind."[184]

And another says:--

"Were not my little daughters Like soft chicks huddling by me, Through earth and all its waters To win bread would I roam free.

Our children among us going, Our very hearts they be; The wind upon them blowing Would banish sleep from me."[185]

[Sidenote: Treatment of enemies.]

"Odi et amo": these words of the poet might serve as an epitome of Bedouin ethics. For, if the heathen Arab was, as we have seen, a good friend to his friends, he had in the same degree an intense and deadly feeling of hatred towards his enemies. He who did not strike back when struck was regarded as a coward. No honourable man could forgive an injury or fail to avenge it. An Arab, smarting under the loss of some camels driven off by raiders, said of his kin who refused to help him:--

"For all their numbers, they are good for naught, My people, against harm however light: They pardon wrong by evildoers wrought, Malice with loving kindness they requite."[186]

The last verse, which would have been high praise in the mouth of a Christian or Muḥammadan moralist, conveyed to those who heard it a shameful reproach. The approved method of dealing with an enemy is set forth plainly enough in the following lines:--

"Humble him who humbles thee, close tho' be your kindredship: If thou canst not humble him, wait till he is in thy grip. Friend him while thou must; strike hard when thou hast him on the hip."[187]

[Sidenote: Blood-revenge.]

Above all, blood called for blood. This obligation lay heavy on the conscience of the pagan Arabs. Vengeance, with them, was "almost a physical necessity, which if it be not obeyed will deprive its subject of sleep, of appetite, of health." It was a tormenting thirst which nothing would quench except blood, a disease of honour which might be described as madness, although it rarely prevented the sufferer from going to work with coolness and circumspection. Vengeance was taken upon the murderer, if possible, or else upon one of his fellow-tribesmen. Usually this ended the matter, but in some cases it was the beginning of a regular blood-feud in which the entire kin of both parties were involved; as, _e.g._, the murder of Kulayb led to the Forty Years' War between Bakr and Taghlib.[188] The slain man's next of kin might accept a blood-wit (_diya_), commonly paid in camels--the coin of the country--as atonement for him. If they did so, however, it was apt to be cast in their teeth that they preferred milk (_i.e._, she-camels) to blood.[189] The true Arab feeling is expressed in verses like these:--

"With the sword will I wash my shame away, Let God's doom bring on me what it may!"[190]

It was believed that until vengeance had been taken for the dead man, his spirit appeared above his tomb in the shape of an owl (_háma_ or _ṣadá_), crying "_Isqúní_" ("Give me to drink"). But pagan ideas of vengeance were bound up with the Past far more than with the Future. The shadowy after-life counted for little or nothing beside the deeply-rooted memories of fatherly affection, filial piety, and brotherhood in arms.

Though liable to abuse, the rough-and-ready justice of the vendetta had a salutary effect in restraining those who would otherwise have indulged their lawless instincts without fear of punishment. From our point of view, however, its interest is not so much that of a primitive institution as of a pervading element in old Arabian life and literature. Full, or even adequate, illustration of this topic would carry me far beyond the limits of my plan. I have therefore selected from the copious material preserved in the _Book of Songs_ a characteristic story which tells how Qays b. al-Khaṭím took vengeance on the murderers of his father and his grandfather.[191]

[Sidenote: The story of the vengeance of Qays b. al-Khaṭím.]

It is related on the authority of Abú ‘Ubayda that ‘Adí b. ‘Amr, the grandfather of Qays, was slain by a man named Málik belonging to the Banú ‘Amr b. ‘Ámir b. Rabí‘a b. ‘Ámir b. Ṣa‘ṣa‘a; and his father, Khaṭím b. ‘Adí, by one of the Banú ‘Abd al-Qays who were settled in Hajar. Khaṭím died before avenging his father, ‘Adí, when Qays was but a young lad. The mother of Qays, fearing that he would sally forth to seek vengeance for the blood of his father and his grandfather and perish, went to a mound of dust beside the door of their dwelling and laid stones on it, and began to say to Qays, "This is the grave of thy father and thy grandfather;" and Qays never doubted but that it was so. He grew up strong in the arms, and one day he had a tussle with a youth of the Banú Ẓafar, who said to him: "By God, thou would'st do better to turn the strength of thine arms against the slayers of thy father and grandfather instead of putting it forth upon me." "And who are their slayers?" "Ask thy mother, she will tell thee." So Qays took his sword and set its hilt on the ground and its edge between his two breasts, and said to his mother: "Who killed my father and my grandfather?" "They died as people die, and these are their graves in the camping-ground." "By God, verily thou wilt tell me who slew them or I will bear with my whole weight upon this sword until it cleaves through my back." Then she told him, and Qays swore that he would never rest until he had slain their slayers. "O my son," said she, "Málik, who killed thy grandfather, is of the same folk as Khidásh b. Zuhayr, and thy father once bestowed a kindness on Khidásh, for which he is grateful. Go, then, to him and take counsel with him touching thine affair and ask him to help thee." So Qays set out immediately, and when he came to the garden where his water-camel was watering his date-palms, he smote the cord (of the bucket) with his sword and cut it, so that the bucket dropped into the well. Then he took hold of the camel's head, and loaded the beast with two sacks of dates, and said: "Who will care for this old woman" (meaning his mother) "in my absence? If I die, let him pay her expenses out of this garden, and on her death it shall be his own; but if I live, my property will return to me, and he shall have as many of its dates as he wishes to eat." One of his folk cried, "I am for it," so Qays gave him the garden and set forth to inquire concerning Khidásh. He was told to look for him at Marr al-Ẓahrán, but not finding him in his tent, he alighted beneath a tree, in the shade of which the guests of Khidásh used to shelter, and called to the wife of Khidásh, "Is there any food?" Now, when she came up to him, she admired his comeliness--for he was exceeding fair of countenance--and said: "By God, we have no fit entertainment for thee, but only dates." He replied, "I care not, bring out what thou hast." So she sent to him dates in a large measure (_qubá‘_), and Qays took a single date and ate half of it and put back the other half in the _qubá‘_, and gave orders that the _qubá‘_ should be brought in to the wife of Khidásh; then he departed on some business. When Khidásh returned and his wife told him the news of Qays, he said, "This is a man who would render his person sacred."[192] While he sat there with his wife eating fresh ripe dates, Qays returned on camel-back; and Khidásh, when he saw the foot of the approaching rider, said to his wife, "Is this thy guest?" "Yes." "'Tis as though his foot were the foot of my good friend, Khaṭím the Yathribite." Qays drew nigh, and struck the tent-rope with the point of his spear, and begged leave to come in. Having obtained permission, he entered to Khidásh and told his lineage and informed him of what had passed, and asked him to help and advise him in his affair. Khidásh bade him welcome, and recalled the kindness which he had of his father, and said, "As to this affair, truly I have been expecting it of thee for some time. The slayer of thy grandfather is a cousin of mine, and I will aid thee against him. When we are assembled in our meeting-place, I will sit beside him and talk with him, and when I strike his thigh, do thou spring on him and slay him." Qays himself relates: "Accompanied by Khidásh, I approached him until I stood over his head when Khidásh sat with him, and as soon as he struck the man's thigh I smote his head with a sword named _Dhu ’l-Khurṣayn_" (the Two-ringed). "His folk rushed on me to slay me, but Khidásh came between us, crying, 'Let him alone, for, by God, he has slain none but the slayer of his grandfather.'" Then Khidásh called for one of his camels and mounted it, and started with Qays to find the ‘Abdite who killed his father. And when they were near Hajar Khidásh advised him to go and inquire after this man, and to say to him when he discovered him: "I encountered a brigand of thy people who robbed me of some articles, and on asking who was the chieftain of his people I was directed to thee. Go with me, then, that thou mayest take from him my property. If," Khidásh continued, "he follow thee unattended, thou wilt gain thy desire of him; but should he bid the others go with thee, laugh, and if he ask why thou laughest, say, 'With us, the noble does not as thou dost, but when he is called to a brigand of his people, he goes forth alone with his whip, not with his sword; and the brigand when he sees him gives him everything that he took, in awe of him.' If he shall dismiss his friends, thy course is clear; but if he shall refuse to go without them, bring him to me nevertheless, for I hope that thou wilt slay both him and them." So Khidásh stationed himself under the shade of a tree, while Qays went to the ‘Abdite and addressed him as Khidásh had prompted; and the man's sense of honour was touched to the quick, so that he sent away his friends and went with Qays. And when Qays came back to Khidásh, the latter said to him, "Choose, O Qays! Shall I help thee or shall I take thy place?" Qays answered, "I desire neither of these alternatives, but if he slay me, let him not slay thee!" Then he rushed upon him and wounded him in the flank and drove his lance through the other side, and he fell dead on the spot. When Qays had finished with him, Khidásh said, "If we flee just now, his folk will pursue us; but let us go somewhere not far off, for they will never think that thou hast slain him and stayed in the neighbourhood. No; they will miss him and follow his track, and when they find him slain they will start to pursue us in every direction, and will only return when they have lost hope." So those two entered some hollows of the sand, and after staying there several days (for it happened exactly as Khidásh had foretold), they came forth when the pursuit was over, and did not exchange a word until they reached the abode of Khidásh. There Qays parted from him and returned to his own people.

[Sidenote: Song of Vengeance by Ta’abbaṭa Sharran.]

The poems relating to blood-revenge show all that is best and much that is less admirable in the heathen Arab--on the one hand, his courage and resolution, his contempt of death and fear of dishonour, his single-minded devotion to the dead as to the living, his deep regard and tender affection for the men of his own flesh and blood; on the other hand, his implacable temper, his perfidious cruelty and reckless ferocity in hunting down the slayers, and his savage, well-nigh inhuman exultation over the slain. The famous Song or Ballad of Vengeance that I shall now attempt to render in English verse is usually attributed to Ta’abbaṭa Sharran,[193] although some pronounce it to be a forgery by Khalaf al-Aḥmar, the reputed author of Shanfará's masterpiece, and beyond doubt a marvellously skilful imitator of the ancient bards. Be that as it may, the ballad is utterly pagan in tone and feeling. Its extraordinary merit was detected by Goethe, who, after reading it in a Latin translation, published a German rendering, with some fine criticism of the poetry, in his _West-oestlicher Divan_.[194] I have endeavoured to suggest as far as possible the metre and rhythm of the original, since to these, in my opinion, its peculiar effect is largely due. The metre is that known as the 'Tall' (_Madíd_), viz.:--

⌣ |⌣ | - ⌣ - -|- ⌣ -|- ⌣ - -

Thus the first verse runs in Arabic:--

_Inna bi’l-shi‘ | bi ’lladhi |‘inda Sal‘in la-qatílan | damuhú | má yuṭallu._

Of course, Arabic prosody differs radically from English, but _mutatis mutandis_ several couplets in the following version (_e.g._ the third, eighth, and ninth) will be found to correspond exactly with their model. As has been said, however, my object was merely to suggest the abrupt metre and the heavy, emphatic cadences, so that I have been able to give variety to the verse, and at the same time to retain that artistic freedom without which the translator of poetry cannot hope to satisfy either himself or any one else.

The poet tells how he was summoned to avenge his uncle, slain by the tribesmen of Hudhayl: he describes the dead man's heroic character, the foray in which he fell, his former triumphs over the same enemy, and finally the terrible vengeance taken for him.[195]

"In the glen there a murdered man is lying-- Not in vain for vengeance his blood is crying. He hath left me the load to bear and departed; I take up the load and bear it true-hearted. I, his sister's son, the bloodshed inherit, I whose knot none looses, stubborn of spirit;[196] Glowering darkly, shame's deadly out-wiper, Like the serpent spitting venom, the viper. Hard the tidings that befell us, heart-breaking; Little seemed thereby the anguish most aching. Fate hath robbed me--still is Fate fierce and froward-- Of a hero whose friend ne'er called him coward: As the warm sun was he in wintry weather, 'Neath the Dog-star shade and coolness together: Spare of flank--yet this in him showed not meanness; Open-handed, full of boldness and keenness: Firm of purpose, cavalier unaffrighted-- Courage rode with him and with him alighted: In his bounty, a bursting cloud of rain-water; Lion grim when he leaped to the slaughter. Flowing hair, long robe his folk saw aforetime, But a lean-haunched wolf was he in war-time. Savours two he had, untasted by no men: Honey to his friends and gall to his foemen. Fear he rode nor recked what should betide him: Save his deep-notched Yemen blade, none beside him.

Oh, the warriors girt with swords good for slashing, Like the levin, when they drew them, outflashing! Through the noonday heat they fared: then, benighted, Farther fared, till at dawning they alighted.[197] Breaths of sleep they sipped; and then, while they nodded, Thou didst scare them: lo, they scattered and scudded. Vengeance wreaked we upon them, unforgiving: Of the two clans scarce was left a soul living.[198]

Ay, if _they_ bruised his glaive's edge 'twas in token That by him many a time their own was broken. Oft he made them kneel down by force and cunning-- Kneel on jags where the foot is torn with running. Many a morn in shelter he took them napping; After killing was the rieving and rapine.

They have gotten of me a roasting--I tire not Of desiring them till me they desire not. First, of foemen's blood my spear deeply drinketh, Then a second time, deep in, it sinketh. Lawful now to me is wine, long forbidden: Sore my struggle ere the ban was o'erridden.[199] Pour me wine, O son of ‘Amr! I would taste it, Since with grief for mine uncle I am wasted. O'er the fallen of Hudhayl stands screaming The hyena; see the wolf's teeth gleaming! Dawn will hear the flap of wings, will discover Vultures treading corpses, too gorged to hover."

[Sidenote: Honour conferred by noble ancestry.]

All the virtues which enter into the Arabian conception of Honour were regarded not as personal qualities inherent or acquired, but as hereditary possessions which a man derived from his ancestors, and held in trust that he might transmit them untarnished to his descendants. It is the desire to uphold and emulate the fame of his forbears, rather than the hope of winning immortality for himself, that causes the Arab "to say the say and do the deeds of the noble." Far from sharing the sentiment of the Scots peasant--"a man's a man for a' that"--he looks askance at merit and renown unconsecrated by tradition.

"The glories that have grown up with the grass Can match not those inherited of old."[200]

Ancestral renown (_ḥasab_) is sometimes likened to a strong castle built by sires for their sons, or to a lofty mountain which defies attack.[201] The poets are full of boastings (_mafákhir_) and revilings (_mathálib_) in which they loudly proclaim the nobility of their own ancestors, and try to blacken those of their enemy without any regard to decorum.

It was my intention to add here some general remarks on Arabian poetry as compared with that of the Hebrews, the Persians, and our own, but since example is better than precept I will now turn directly to those celebrated odes which are well known by the title of _Mu‘-allaqát_, or 'Suspended Poems,' to all who take the slightest interest in Arabic literature.[202]

[Sidenote: The Mu‘allaqát, or 'Suspended Poems.']

_Mu‘allaqa_ (plural, _Mu‘allaqát_) "is most likely derived from the word _‘ilq_, meaning 'a precious thing or a thing held in high estimation,' either because one 'hangs on' tenaciously to it, or because it is 'hung up' in a place of honour, or in a conspicuous place, in a treasury or storehouse."[203] In course of time the exact signification of _Mu‘allaqa_ was forgotten, and it became necessary to find a plausible explanation. Hence arose the legend, which frequent repetition has made familiar, that the 'Suspended Poems' were so called from having been hung up in the Ka‘ba on account of their merit; that this distinction was awarded by the judges at the fair of ‘Ukáẓ, near Mecca, where poets met in rivalry and recited their choicest productions; and that the successful compositions, before being affixed to the door of the Ka‘ba, were transcribed in letters of gold upon pieces of fine Egyptian linen.[204] Were these statements true, we should expect them to be confirmed by some allusion in the early literature. But as a matter of fact nothing of the kind is mentioned in the Koran or in religious tradition, in the ancient histories of Mecca, or in such works as the _Kitábu ’l-Aghání_, which draw their information from old and trustworthy sources.[205] Almost the first authority who refers to the legend is the grammarian Aḥmad al-Naḥḥás († 949 A.D.), and by him it is stigmatised as entirely groundless. Moreover, although it was accepted by scholars like Reiske, Sir W. Jones, and even De Sacy, it is incredible in itself. Hengstenberg, in the Prolegomena to his edition of the _Mu‘-allaqa_ of Imru’u ’l-Qays (Bonn, 1823) asked some pertinent questions: Who were the judges, and how were they appointed? Why were only these seven poems thus distinguished? His further objection, that the art of writing was at that time a rare accomplishment, does not carry so much weight as he attached to it, but the story is sufficiently refuted by what we know of the character and customs of the Arabs in the sixth century and afterwards. Is it conceivable that the proud sons of the desert could have submitted a matter so nearly touching their tribal honour, of which they were jealous above all things, to external arbitration, or meekly acquiesced in the partial verdict of a court sitting in the neighbourhood of Mecca, which would certainly have shown scant consideration for competitors belonging to distant clans?[206]

[Sidenote: Origin of the collection.]

However _Mu‘allaqa_ is to be explained, the name is not contemporary with the poems themselves. In all probability they were so entitled by the person who first chose them out of innumerable others and embodied them in a separate collection. This is generally allowed to have been Ḥammád al-Ráwiya, a famous rhapsodist who flourished in the latter days of the Umayyad dynasty, and died about 772 A.D., in the reign of the ‘Abbásid Caliph Mahdí. What principle guided Ḥammád in his choice we do not know. Nöldeke conjectures that he was influenced by the fact that all the _Mu‘allaqát_ are long poems--they are sometimes called 'The Seven Long Poems' (_al-Sab‘ al-Ṭiwál_)--for in Ḥammád's time little of the ancient Arabian poetry survived in a state even of relative completeness.

[Sidenote: Difficulty of translating the Mu‘allaqát.]

It must be confessed that no rendering of the _Mu‘allaqát_ can furnish European readers with a just idea of the originals, a literal version least of all. They contain much that only a full commentary can make intelligible, much that to modern taste is absolutely incongruous with the poetic style. Their finest pictures of Bedouin life and manners often appear uncouth or grotesque, because without an intimate knowledge of the land and people it is impossible for us to see what the poet intended to convey, or to appreciate the truth and beauty of its expression; while the artificial framework, the narrow range of subject as well as treatment, and the frank realism of the whole strike us at once. In the following pages I shall give some account of the _Mu‘allaqát_ and their authors, and endeavour to bring out the characteristic qualities of each poem by selecting suitable passages for translation.[207]

[Sidenote: Imru’u ’l-Qays.]

The oldest and most famous of the _Mu‘allaqát_ is that of Imru’u ’l-Qays, who was descended from the ancient kings of Yemen. His grandfather was King Ḥárith of Kinda, the antagonist of Mundhir III, King of Ḥíra, by whom he was defeated and slain.[208] On Ḥárith's death, the confederacy which he had built up split asunder, and his sons divided among themselves the different tribes of which it was composed. Ḥujr, the poet's father, ruled for some time over the Banú Asad in Central Arabia, but finally they revolted and put him to death. "The duty of avenging his murder fell upon Imru’u ’l-Qays, who is represented as the only capable prince of his family; and the few historical data which we have regarding him relate to his adventures while bent upon this vengeance."[209] They are told at considerable length in the _Kitábu ’l-Aghání_, but need not detain us here. Suffice it to say that his efforts to punish the rebels, who were aided by Mundhir, the hereditary foe of his house, met with little success. He then set out for Constantinople, where he was favourably received by the Emperor Justinian, who desired to see the power of Kinda re-established as a thorn in the side of his Persian rivals. The emperor appointed him Phylarch of Palestine, but on his way thither he died at Angora (about 540 A.D.). He is said to have perished, like Nessus, from putting on a poisoned robe sent to him as a gift by Justinian, with whose daughter he had an intrigue. Hence he is sometimes called 'The Man of the Ulcers' (_Dhu ’l-Qurúḥ_).

Many fabulous traditions surround the romantic figure of Imru’u ’l-Qays.[210] According to one story, he was banished by his father, who despised him for being a poet and was enraged by the scandals to which his love adventures gave rise. Imru’u ’l-Qays left his home and wandered from tribe to tribe with a company of outcasts like himself, leading a wild life, which caused him to be known as 'The Vagabond Prince' (_al-Malik al-Ḑillíl_). When the news of his father's death reached him he cried, "My father wasted my youth, and now that I am old he has laid upon me the burden of blood-revenge. Wine to-day, business to-morrow!" Seven nights he continued the carouse; then he swore not to eat flesh, nor drink wine, nor use ointment, nor touch woman, nor wash his head until his vengeance was accomplished. In the valley of Tabála, north of Najrán, there was an idol called Dhu ’l-Khalaṣa much reverenced by the heathen Arabs. Imru’u ’l-Qays visited this oracle and consulted it in the ordinary way, by drawing one of three arrows entitled 'the Commanding,' 'the Forbidding,' and 'the Waiting.' He drew the second, whereupon he broke the arrows and dashed them on the face of the idol, exclaiming with a gross imprecation, "If _thy_ father had been slain, thou would'st not have hindered me!"

Imru’u ’l-Qays is almost universally reckoned the greatest of the Pre-islamic poets. Muḥammad described him as 'their leader to Hell-fire,' while the Caliphs ‘Umar and ‘Alí, _odium theologicum_ notwithstanding, extolled his genius and originality.[211] Coming to the _Mu‘allaqa_ itself, European critics have vied with each other in praising its exquisite diction and splendid images, the sweet flow of the verse, the charm and variety of the painting, and, above all, the feeling by which it is inspired of the joy and glory of youth. The passage translated below is taken from the first half of the poem, in which love is the prevailing theme:--[212]

"Once, on the hill, she mocked at me and swore, 'This hour I leave thee to return no more,' Soft! if farewell is planted in thy mind, Yet spare me, Fáṭima, disdain unkind. Because my passion slays me, wilt thou part? Because thy wish is law unto mine heart? Nay, if thou so mislikest aught in me, Shake loose my robe and let it fall down free. But ah, the deadly pair, thy streaming eyes! They pierce a heart that all in ruin lies.

How many a noble tent hath oped its treasure To me, and I have ta'en my fill of pleasure, Passing the warders who with eager speed Had slain me, if they might but hush the deed, What time in heaven the Pleiades unfold A belt of orient gems distinct with gold. I entered. By the curtain there stood she, Clad lightly as for sleep, and looked on me. 'By God,' she cried, 'what recks thee of the cost? I see thine ancient madness is not lost.' I led her forth--she trailing as we go Her broidered skirt, lest any footprint show-- Until beyond the tents the valley sank With curving dunes and many a pilèd bank, Then with both hands I drew her head to mine, And lovingly the damsel did incline Her slender waist and legs more plump than fine;-- A graceful figure, a complexion bright, A bosom like a mirror in the light; A white pale virgin pearl such lustre keeps, Fed with clear water in untrodden deeps. Now she bends half away: two cheeks appear, And such an eye as marks the frighted deer Beside her fawn; and lo, the shapely neck Not bare of ornament, else without a fleck; While from her shoulders in profusion fair, Like clusters on the palm, hangs down her coal-dark hair."

In strange contrast with this tender and delicate idyll are the wild, hard verses almost immediately following, in which the poet roaming through the barren waste hears the howl of a starved wolf and hails him as a comrade:--

"Each one of us what thing he finds devours: Lean is the wretch whose living is like ours."[213]

The noble qualities of his horse and its prowess in the chase are described, and the poem ends with a magnificent picture of a thunder-storm among the hills of Najd.

[Sidenote: Ṭarafa.]

Ṭarafa b. al-‘Abd was a member of the great tribe of Bakr. The particular clan to which he belonged was settled in Baḥrayn on the Persian Gulf. He early developed a talent for satire, which he exercised upon friend and foe indifferently; and after he had squandered his patrimony in dissolute pleasures, his family chased him away as though he were 'a mangy camel.' At length a reconciliation was effected. He promised to mend his ways, returned to his people, and took part, it is said, in the War of Basús. In a little while his means were dissipated once more and he was reduced to tend his brother's herds. His _Mu‘allaqa_ composed at this time won for him the favour of a rich kinsman and restored him to temporary independence. On the conclusion of peace between Bakr and Taghlib the youthful poet turned his eyes in the direction of Ḥíra, where ‘Amr b. Hind had lately succeeded to the throne (554 A.D.). He was well received by the king, who attached him, along with his uncle, the poet Mutalammis, to the service of the heir-apparent. But Ṭarafa's bitter tongue was destined to cost him dear. Fatigued and disgusted by the rigid ceremony of the court, he improvised a satire in which he said--

"Would that we had instead of ‘Amr A milch-ewe bleating round our tent!"

Shortly afterwards he happened to be seated at table opposite the king's sister. Struck with her beauty, he exclaimed--

"Behold, she has come back to me, My fair gazelle whose ear-rings shine; Had not the king been sitting here, I would have pressed her lips to mine!"

‘Amr b. Hind was a man of violent and implacable temper. Ṭarafa's satire had already been reported to him, and this new impertinence added fuel to his wrath. Sending for Ṭarafa and Mutalammis, he granted them leave to visit their homes, and gave to each of them a sealed letter addressed to the governor of Baḥrayn. When they had passed outside the city the suspicions of Mutalammis were aroused. As neither he nor his companion could read, he handed his own letter to a boy of Ḥíra[214] and learned that it contained orders to bury him alive. Thereupon he flung the treacherous missive into the stream and implored Ṭarafa to do likewise. Ṭarafa refused to break the royal seal. He continued his journey to Baḥrayn, where he was thrown into prison and executed.

Thus perished miserably in the flower of his youth--according to some accounts he was not yet twenty--the passionate and eloquent Ṭarafa. In his _Mu‘allaqa_ he has drawn a spirited portrait of himself. The most striking feature of the poem, apart from a long and, to us who are not Bedouins, painfully tedious description of the camel, is its insistence on sensual enjoyment as the sole business of life:--

"Canst thou make me immortal, O thou that blamest me so For haunting the battle and loving the pleasures that fly? If thou hast not the power to ward me from Death, let me go To meet him and scatter the wealth in my hand, ere I die.

Save only for three things in which noble youth take delight, I care not how soon rises o'er me the coronach loud: Wine that foams when the water is poured on it, ruddy, not bright. Dark wine that I quaff stol'n away from the cavilling crowd;

"And second, my charge at the cry of distress on a steed Bow-legged like the wolf you have startled when thirsty he cowers; And third, the day-long with a lass in her tent of goat's hair To hear the wild rain and beguile of their slowness the hours."[215]

Keeping, as far as possible, the chronological order, we have now to mention two _Mu‘allaqas_ which, though not directly related to each other,[216] are of the same period--the reign of ‘Amr b. Hind, King of Ḥíra (554-568 A.D.). Moreover, their strong mutual resemblance and their difference from the other _Mu‘allaqas_, especially from typical _qaṣídas_ like those of ‘Antara and Labíd, is a further reason for linking them together. Their distinguishing mark is the abnormal space devoted to the main subject, which leaves little room for the subsidiary motives.

[Sidenote: ‘Amr b. Kulthúm.]

‘Amr b. Kulthúm belonged to the tribe of Taghlib. His mother was Laylá, a daughter of the famous poet and warrior Muhalhil. That she was a woman of heroic mould appears from the following anecdote, which records a deed of prompt vengeance on the part of ‘Amr that gave rise to the proverb, "Bolder in onset than ‘Amr b. Kulthúm"[217]:--

[Sidenote: How ’Amr avenged an insult to his mother.]

One day ‘Amr. b. Hind, the King of Ḥíra, said to his boon-companions, "Do ye know any Arab whose mother would disdain to serve mine?" They answered, "Yes, the mother of ‘Amr b. Kulthúm." "Why so?" asked the king. "Because," said they, "her father is Muhalhil b. Rabí‘a and her uncle is Kulayb b. Wá’il, the most puissant of the Arabs, and her husband is Kulthúm b. Málik, the knightliest, and her son is ‘Amr, the chieftain of his tribe." Then the king sent to ‘Amr b. Kulthúm, inviting him to pay a visit to himself, and asking him to bring his mother, Laylá, to visit his own mother, Hind. So ‘Amr came to Ḥíra with some men of Taghlib, and Laylá came attended by a number of their women; and while the king entertained ‘Amr and his friends in a pavilion which he had caused to be erected between Ḥíra and the Euphrates, Laylá found quarters with Hind in a tent adjoining. Now, the king had ordered his mother, as soon as he should call for dessert, to dismiss the servants, and cause Laylá to wait upon her. At the pre-arranged signal she desired to be left alone with her guest, and said, "O Laylá, hand me that dish." Laylá answered, "Let those who want anything rise up and serve themselves." Hind repeated her demand, and would take no denial. "O shame!" cried Laylá. "Help! Taghlib, help!" When ‘Amr heard his mother's cry the blood flew to his cheeks. He seized a sword hanging on the wall of the pavilion--the only weapon there--and with a single blow smote the king dead.[218]

‘Amr's _Mu‘allaqa_ is the work of a man who united in himself the ideal qualities of manhood as these were understood by a race which has never failed to value, even too highly, the display of self-reliant action and decisive energy. And if in ‘Amr's poem these virtues are displayed with an exaggerated boastfulness which offends our sense of decency and proper reserve, it would be a grave error to conclude that all this sound and fury signifies nothing. The Bedouin poet deems it his bounden duty to glorify to the utmost himself, his family, and his tribe; the Bedouin warrior is never tired of proclaiming his unshakable valour and recounting his brilliant feats of arms: he hurls menaces and vaunts in the same breath, but it does not follow that he is a _Miles Gloriosus_. ‘Amr certainly was not: his _Mu‘allaqa_ leaves a vivid impression of conscious and exultant strength. The first eight verses seem to have been added to the poem at a very early date, for out of them arose the legend that ‘Amr drank himself to death with unmixed wine. It is likely that they were included in the original collection of the _Mu‘allaqát_, and they are worth translating for their own sake:---

"Up, maiden! Fetch the morning-drink and spare not The wine of Andarín, Clear wine that takes a saffron hue when water Is mingled warm therein. The lover tasting it forgets his passion, His heart is eased of pain; The stingy miser, as he lifts the goblet, Regardeth not his gain.

Pass round from left to right! Why let'st thou, maiden, Me and my comrades thirst? Yet am I, whom thou wilt not serve this morning, Of us three not the worst! Many a cup in Baalbec and Damascus And Qáṣirín I drained, Howbeit we, ordained to death, shall one day Meet death, to us ordained."[219]

In the next passage he describes his grief at the departure of his beloved, whom he sees in imagination arriving at her journey's end in distant Yamáma:--

"And oh, my love and yearning when at nightfall I saw her camels haste, Until sharp peaks uptowered like serried sword-blades, And me Yamáma faced! Such grief no mother-camel feels, bemoaning Her young one lost, nor she, The grey-haired woman whose hard fate hath left her Of nine sons graves thrice three."[220]

Now the poet turns abruptly to his main theme. He addresses the King of Ḥíra, ‘Amr b. Hind, in terms of defiance, and warns the foes of Taghlib that they will meet more than their match:--

"Father of Hind,[221] take heed and ere thou movest Rashly against us, learn That still our banners go down white to battle And home blood-red return. And many a chief bediademed, the champion Of the outlaws of the land, Have we o'erthrown and stripped him, while around him Fast-reined the horses stand. Our neighbours lopped like thorn-trees, snarls in terror Of us the demon-hound;[222] Never we try our hand-mill on the foemen But surely they are ground. We are the heirs of glory, all Ma‘add knows,[223] Our lances it defend, And when the tent-pole tumbles in the foray, Trust us to save our friend![224]

O ‘Amr, what mean'st thou? Are we, we of Taghlib, Thy princeling's retinue? O ‘Amr, what mean'st thou, rating us and hearkening To tale-bearers untrue? O ‘Amr, ere thee full many a time our spear-shaft Has baffled foes to bow;[225] Nipped in the vice it kicks like a wild camel That will no touch allow-- Like a wild camel, so it creaks in bending And splits the bender's brow!"[226]

The _Mu‘allaqa_ ends with a eulogy, superb in its extravagance, of the poet's tribe:--

"Well wot, when our tents rise along their valleys, The men of every clan That we give death to them that durst attempt us, To friends what food we can; That staunchly we maintain a cause we cherish, Camp where we choose to ride, Nor will we aught of peace, when we are angered, Till we be satisfied. We keep our vassals safe and sound, but rebels We soon force to their knees; And if we reach a well, we drink pure water, Others the muddy lees. Ours is the earth and all thereon: when _we_ strike, There needs no second blow; Kings lay before the new-weaned boy of Taghlib Their heads in homage low. We are called oppressors, being none, but shortly A true name shall it be![227] We have so filled the earth 'tis narrow for us, And with our ships the sea![228]

[Sidenote: Ḥárith b. Ḥilliza.]

Less interesting is the _Mu‘allaqa_ of Ḥárith b. Ḥilliza of Bakr. Its inclusion among the _Mu‘allaqát_ is probably due, as Nöldeke suggested, to the fact that Ḥammád, himself a client of Bakr, wished to flatter his patrons by selecting a counterpart to the _Mu‘allaqa_ of ‘Amr b. Kulthúm, which immortalised their great rivals, the Banú Taghlib. Ḥárith's poem, however, has some historical importance, as it throws light on feuds in Northern Arabia connected with the antagonism of the Roman and Persian Empires. Its purpose is to complain of unjust accusations made against the Banú Bakr by a certain group of the Banú Taghlib known as the Aráqim:--

"Our brothers the Aráqim let their tongues Against us rail unmeasuredly. The innocent with the guilty they confound: Of guilt what boots it to be free? They brand us patrons of the vilest deed, Our clients in each miscreant see."[229]

A person whom Ḥárith does not name was 'blackening' the Banú Bakr before the King of Ḥíra. The poet tells him not to imagine that his calumnies will have any lasting effect: often had Bakr been slandered by their foes, but (he finely adds):--

"Maugre their hate we stand, by firm-based might Exalted and by ancestry-- Might which ere now hath dazzled men's eyes: thence scorn To yield and haughty spirit have we. On us the Days beat as on mountain dark That soars in cloudless majesty, Compact against the hard calamitous shocks And buffetings of Destiny."[230]

He appeals to the offenders not wantonly to break the peace which ended the War of Basús:--

"Leave folly and error! If ye blind yourselves, Just therein lies the malady. Recall the oaths of Dhu ’l-Majáz[231] for which Hostages gave security, Lest force or guile should break them: can caprice Annul the parchments utterly?[232]

[Sidenote: ‘Antara.]

‘Antara b. Shaddád, whose father belonged to the tribe of ‘Abs, distinguished himself in the War of Dáḥis.[233] In modern times it is not as a poet that he is chiefly remembered, but as a hero of romance--the Bedouin Achilles. Goddess-born, however, he could not be called by any stretch of imagination. His mother was a black slave, and he must often have been taunted with his African blood, which showed itself in a fiery courage that gained the respect of the pure-bred but generally less valorous Arabs. ‘Antara loved his cousin ‘Abla, and following the Arabian custom by which cousins have the first right to a girl's hand, he asked her in marriage. His suit was vain--the son of a slave mother being regarded as a slave unless acknowledged by his father--until on one occasion, while the ‘Absites were hotly engaged with some raiders who had driven off their camels, ‘Antara refused to join in the mêlée, saying, "A slave does not understand how to fight; his work is to milk the camels and bind their udders." "Charge!" cried his father, "thou art free." Though ‘Antara uttered no idle boast when he sang--

"On one side nobly born and of the best Of ‘Abs am I: my sword makes good the rest!"

his contemptuous references to 'jabbering barbarians,' and to 'slaves with their ears cut off, clad in sheepskins,' are characteristic of the man who had risen to eminence in spite of the stain on his scutcheon. He died at a great age in a foray against the neighbouring tribe of Ṭayyi’. His _Mu‘allaqa_ is famous for its stirring battle-scenes, one of which is translated here:--[234]

"Learn, Málik's daughter, how I rush into the fray, And how I draw back only At sharing of the prey.

I never quit the saddle, My strong steed nimbly bounds; Warrior after warrior Have covered him with wounds.

Full-armed against me stood One feared of fighting men: He fled not oversoon Nor let himself be ta'en.

With straight hard-shafted spear I dealt him in his side A sudden thrust which opened Two streaming gashes wide,

Two gashes whence outgurgled His life-blood: at the sound Night-roaming ravenous wolves Flock eagerly around.

So with my doughty spear I trussed his coat of mail-- For truly, when the spear strikes, The noblest man is frail--

And left him low to banquet The wild beasts gathering there; They have torn off his fingers, His wrist and fingers fair!"

[Sidenote: Zuhayr.]

While ‘Antara's poem belongs to the final stages of the War of Dáḥis, the _Mu‘allaqa_ of his contemporary, Zuhayr b. Abí Sulmá, of the tribe of Muzayna, celebrates an act of private munificence which brought about the conclusion of peace. By the self-sacrificing intervention of two chiefs of Dhubyán, Harim b. Sinán and Ḥárith b. ‘Awf, the whole sum of blood-money to which the ‘Absites were entitled on account of the greater number of those who had fallen on their side, was paid over to them. Such an example of generous and disinterested patriotism--for Harim and Ḥárith had shed no blood themselves--was a fit subject for one of whom it was said that he never praised men but as they deserved:--

Noble pair of Ghayẓ ibn Murra,[235] well ye laboured to restore Ties of kindred hewn asunder by the bloody strokes of war. Witness now mine oath the ancient House in Mecca's hallowed bound,[236] Which its builders of Quraysh and Jurhum solemnly went round,[237] That in hard or easy issue never wanting were ye found! Peace ye gave to ‘Abs and Dhubyán when each fell by other's hand And the evil fumes they pestled up between them filled the land."[238]

At the end of his panegyric the poet, turning to the lately reconciled tribesmen and their confederates, earnestly warns them against nursing thoughts of vengeance:--

"Will ye hide from God the guilt ye dare not unto Him disclose? Verily, what thing soever ye would hide from God, He knows. Either it is laid up meantime in a scroll and treasured there For the day of retribution, or avenged all unaware.[239] War ye have known and war have tasted: not by hearsay are ye wise. Raise no more the hideous monster! If ye let her raven, she cries Ravenously for blood and crushes, like a mill-stone, all below, And from her twin-conceiving womb she brings forth woe on woe."[240]

After a somewhat obscure passage concerning the lawless deeds of a certain Ḥusayn b. Ḑamḍam, which had well-nigh caused a fresh outbreak of hostilities, Zuhayr proceeds, with a natural and touching allusion to his venerable age, to enforce the lessons of conduct and morality suggested by the situation:--

"I am weary of life's burden: well a man may weary be After eighty years, and this much now is manifest to me: Death is like a night-blind camel stumbling on:--the smitten die But the others age and wax in weakness whom he passes by. He that often deals with folk in unkind fashion, underneath They will trample him and make him feel the sharpness of their teeth. He that hath enough and over and is niggard with his pelf Will be hated of his people and left free to praise himself. He alone who with fair actions ever fortifies his fame Wins it fully: blame will find him out unless he shrinks from blame. He that for his cistern's guarding trusts not in his own stout arm Sees it ruined: he must harm his foe or he must suffer harm. He that fears the bridge of Death across it finally is driven, Though he span as with a ladder all the space 'twixt earth and heaven. He that will not take the lance's butt-end while he has the chance Must thereafter be contented with the spike-end of the lance. He that keeps his word is blamed not; he whose heart repaireth straight To the sanctuary of duty never needs to hesitate. He that hies abroad to strangers doth account his friends his foes; He that honours not himself lacks honour wheresoe'er he goes. Be a man's true nature what it will, that nature is revealed To his neighbours, let him fancy as he may that 'tis concealed."[241]

The ripe sententious wisdom and moral earnestness of Zuhayr's poetry are in keeping with what has been said above concerning his religious ideas and, from another point of view, with the tradition that he used to compose a _qaṣída_ in four months, correct it for four months, submit it to the poets of his acquaintance during a like period, and not make it public until a year had expired.

Of his life there is little to tell. Probably he died before Islam, though it is related that when he was a centenarian he met the Prophet, who cried out on seeing him, "O God, preserve me from his demon!"[242] The poetical gifts which he inherited from his uncle Basháma he bequeathed to his son Ka‘b, author of the famous ode, _Bánat Su‘ád_.

[Sidenote: Labíd.]

Labíd b. Rabí‘a, of the Banú ‘Ámir b. Ṣa‘ṣa‘a, was born in the latter half of the sixth century, and is said to have died soon after Mu‘áwiya's accession to the Caliphate, which took place in A.D. 661. He is thus the youngest of the Seven Poets. On accepting Islam he abjured poetry, saying, "God has given me the Koran in exchange for it." Like Zuhayr, he had, even in his heathen days, a strong vein of religious feeling, as is shown by many passages in his Díwán.

Labíd was a true Bedouin, and his _Mu‘allaqa_, with its charmingly fresh pictures of desert life and scenery, must be considered one of the finest examples of the Pre-islamic _qaṣída_ that have come down to us. The poet owes something to his predecessors, but the greater part seems to be drawn from his own observation. He begins in the conventional manner by describing the almost unrecognisable vestiges of the camping-ground of the clan to which his mistress belonged:--

"Waste lies the land where once alighted and did wone The people of Miná: Rijám and Ghawl are lone. The camp in Rayyán's vale is marked by relics dim Like weather-beaten script engraved on ancient stone. Over this ruined scene, since it was desolate, Whole years with secular and sacred months had flown. In spring 'twas blest by showers 'neath starry influence shed, And thunder-clouds bestowed a scant or copious boon. Pale herbs had shot up, ostriches on either slope Their chicks had gotten and gazelles their young had thrown; And large-eyed wild-cows there beside the new-born calves Reclined, while round them formed a troop the calves half-grown. Torrents of rain had swept the dusty ruins bare, Until, as writing freshly charactered, they shone, Or like to curved tattoo-lines on a woman's arm, With soot besprinkled so that every line is shown. I stopped and asked, but what avails it that we ask Dumb changeless things that speak a language all unknown?"[243]

After lamenting the departure of his beloved the poet bids himself think no more about her: he will ride swiftly away from the spot. Naturally, he must praise his camel, and he introduces by way of comparison two wonderful pictures of animal life. In the former the onager is described racing at full speed over the backs of the hills when thirst and hunger drive him with his mate far from the barren solitudes into which they usually retire. The second paints a wild-cow, whose young calf has been devoured by wolves, sleeping among the sand-dunes through a night of incessant rain. At daybreak "her feet glide over the firm wet soil." For a whole week she runs to and fro, anxiously seeking her calf, when suddenly she hears the sound of hunters approaching and makes off in alarm. Being unable to get within bowshot, the hunters loose their dogs, but she turns desperately upon them, wounding one with her needle-like horn and killing another.

Then, once more addressing his beloved, the poet speaks complacently of his share in the feasting and revelling, on which a noble Arab plumes himself hardly less than on his bravery:--

"Know'st thou not, O Nawár, that I am wont to tie The cords of love, yet also snap them without fear? That I abandon places when I like them not, Unless Death chain the soul and straiten her career? Nay, surely, but thou know'st not I have passed in talk Many a cool night of pleasure and convivial cheer, And often to a booth, above which hung for sign A banner, have resorted when old wine was dear. For no light price I purchased many a dusky skin Or black clay jar, and broached it that the juice ran clear; And many a song of shrill-voiced singing-girl I paid, And her whose fingers made sweet music to mine ear."[244]

Continuing, he boasts of dangerous service as a spy in the enemy's country, when he watched all day on the top of a steep crag; of his fearless demeanour and dignified assertion of his rights in an assembly at Ḥíra, to which he came as a delegate, and of his liberality to the poor. The closing verses are devoted, in accordance with custom, to matters of immediate interest and to a panegyric on the virtues of the poet's kin.

Besides the authors of the _Mu‘allaqát_ three poets may be mentioned, of whom the two first-named are universally acknowledged to rank with the greatest that Arabia has produced--Nábigha, A‘shá, and ‘Alqama.

[Sidenote: Nábigha of Dhubyán.]

Nábigha[245]--his proper name is Ziyád b. Mu‘áwiya, of the tribe Dhubyán--lived at the courts of Ghassán and Ḥíra during the latter half of the century before Islam. His chief patron was King Nu‘mán b. Mundhir Abú Qábús of Ḥíra. For many years he basked in the sunshine of royal favour, enjoying every privilege that Nu‘mán bestowed on his most intimate friends. The occasion of their falling out is differently related. According to one story, the poet described the charms of Queen Mutajarrida, which Nu‘mán had asked him to celebrate, with such charm and liveliness as to excite her husband's suspicion; but it is said--and Nábigha's own words make it probable--that his enemies denounced him as the author of a scurrilous satire against Nu‘mán which had been forged by themselves. At any rate he had no choice but to quit Ḥíra with all speed, and ere long we find him in Ghassán, welcomed and honoured, as the panegyrist of King ‘Amr b. Ḥárith and the noble house of Jafna. But his heart was in Ḥíra still. Deeply wounded by the calumnies of which he was the victim, he never ceased to affirm his innocence and to lament the misery of exile. The following poem, which he addressed to Nu‘mán, is at once a justification and an appeal for mercy[246]:--

"They brought me word, O King, thou blamedst me; For this am I o'erwhelmed with grief and care. I passed a sick man's night: the nurses seemed, Spreading my couch, to have heaped up briars there. Now (lest thou cherish in thy mind a doubt) Invoking our last refuge, God, I swear That he, whoever told thee I was false, Is the more lying and faithless of the pair. Exiled perforce, I found a strip of land Where I could live and safely take the air: Kings made me arbiter of their possessions, And called me to their side and spoke me fair-- Even as thou dost grace thy favourites Nor deem'st a fault the gratitude they bear.[247] O leave thine anger! Else, in view of men A mangy camel, smeared with pitch, I were. Seest thou not God hath given thee eminence Before which monarchs tremble and despair? All other kings are stars and thou a sun: When the sun rises, lo, the heavens are bare! A friend in trouble thou wilt not forsake; I may have sinned: in sinning all men share. If I am wronged, thou hast but wronged a slave, And if thou spar'st, 'tis like thyself to spare."

It is pleasant to record that Nábigha was finally reconciled to the prince whom he loved, and that Ḥíra again became his home. The date of his death is unknown, but it certainly took place before Islam was promulgated. Had the opportunity been granted to him he might have died a Moslem: he calls himself 'a religious man' (_dhú ummatin_),[248] and although the tradition that he was actually a Christian lacks authority, his long residence in Syria and ‘Iráq must have made him acquainted with the externals of Christianity and with some, at least, of its leading ideas.

[Sidenote: A‘shá.]

The grave and earnest tone characteristic of Nábigha's poetry seldom prevails in that of his younger contemporary, Maymún b. Qays, who is generally known by his surname, al-A‘shá--that is, 'the man of weak sight.' A professional troubadour, he roamed from one end of Arabia to the other, harp in hand, singing the praises of those who rewarded him; and such was his fame as a satirist that few ventured to withhold the bounty which he asked. By common consent he stands in the very first rank of Arabian poets. Abu ’l-Faraj, the author of the _Kitábu ’l-Aghání_, declares him to be superior to all the rest, adding, however, "this opinion is not held unanimously as regards A‘shá or any other." His wandering life brought him into contact with every kind of culture then existing in Arabia. Although he was not an avowed Christian, his poetry shows to what an extent he was influenced by the Bishops of Najrán, with whom he was intimately connected, and by the Christian merchants of Ḥíra who sold him their wine. He did not rise above the pagan level of morality.

It is related that he set out to visit Muḥammad for the purpose of reciting to him an ode which he had composed in his honour. When the Quraysh heard of this, they feared lest their adversary's reputation should be increased by the panegyric of a bard so famous and popular. Accordingly, they intercepted him on his way, and asked whither he was bound. "To your kinsman," said he, "that I may accept Islam." "He will forbid and make unlawful to thee certain practices of which thou art fond." "What are these?" said A‘shá. "Fornication," said Abú Sufyán, "I have not abandoned it," he replied, "but it has abandoned me. What else?" "Gambling." "Perhaps I shall obtain from him something to compensate me for the loss of gambling. What else?" "Usury." "I have never borrowed nor lent. What else?" "Wine." "Oh, in that case I will drink the water I have left stored at al-Mihrás." Seeing that A‘shá was not to be deterred, Abú Sufyán offered him a hundred camels on condition that he should return to his home in Yamáma and await the issue of the struggle between Muḥammad and the Quraysh. "I agree," said A‘shá. "O ye Quraysh," cried Abú Sufyán, "this is A‘shá, and by God, if he becomes a follower of Muḥammad, he will inflame the Arabs against you by his poetry. Collect, therefore, a hundred camels for him."[249]

A‘shá excels in the description of wine and wine-parties. One who visited Manfúḥa in Yamáma, where the poet was buried, relates that revellers used to meet at his grave and pour out beside it the last drops that remained in their cups. As an example of his style in this _genre_ I translate a few lines from the most celebrated of his poems, which is included by some critics among the _Mu‘allaqát_:--

"Many a time I hastened early to the tavern--while there ran At my heels a ready cook, a nimble, active serving-man-- 'Midst a gallant troop, like Indian scimitars, of mettle high; Well they know that every mortal, shod and bare alike, must die. Propped at ease I greet them gaily, them with myrtle-boughs I greet, Pass among them wine that gushes from the jar's mouth bittersweet. Emptying goblet after goblet--but the source may no man drain-- Never cease they from carousing save to cry, 'Fill up again!' Briskly runs the page to serve them: on his ears hang pearls: below, Tight the girdle draws his doublet as he bustles to and fro. 'Twas the harp, thou mightest fancy, waked the lute's responsive note, When the loose-robed chantress touched it and sang shrill with quavering throat. Here and there among the party damsels fair superbly glide: Each her long white skirt lets trail and swings a wine-skin at her side."[250]

[Sidenote: ‘Alqama.]

Very little is known of the life of ‘Alqama b. ‘Abada, who was surnamed _al-Faḥl_ (the Stallion). His most famous poem is that which he addressed to the Ghassánid Ḥárith al-A‘raj after the Battle of Ḥalíma, imploring him to set free some prisoners of Tamím--the poet's tribe--among whom was his own brother or nephew, Shás. The following lines have almost become proverbial:--

"Of women do ye ask me? I can spy Their ailments with a shrewd physician's eye. The man whose head is grey or small his herds No favour wins of them but mocking words. Are riches known, to riches they aspire, And youthful bloom is still their heart's desire."[251]

[Sidenote: Elegiac poetry.]

In view of these slighting verses it is proper to observe that the poetry of Arabian women of the Pre-islamic period is distinctly masculine in character. Their songs are seldom of Love, but often of Death. Elegy (_rithá_ or _marthiya_) was regarded as their special province. The oldest form of elegy appears in the verses chanted on the death of Ta’abbaṭa Sharran by his sister:--

"O the good knight ye left low at Rakhmán, Thábit son of Jábir son of Sufyán! He filled the cup for friends and ever slew his man."[252]

"As a rule the Arabian dirge is very simple. The poetess begins with a description of her grief, of the tears that she cannot quench, and then she shows how worthy to be deeply mourned was he whom death has taken away. He is described as a pattern of the two principal Arabian virtues, bravery and liberality, and the question is anxiously asked, 'Who will now make high resolves, overthrow the enemy, and in time of want feed the poor and entertain the stranger?' If the hero of the dirge died a violent death we find in addition a burning lust of revenge, a thirst for the slayer's blood, expressed with an intensity of feeling of which only women are capable."[253]

[Sidenote: Khansá.]

Among Arabian women who have excelled in poetry the place of honour is due to Khansá--her real name was Tumáḍir--who flourished in the last years before Islam. By far the most famous of her elegies are those in which she bewailed her valiant brothers, Mu‘áwiya and Ṣakhr, both of whom were struck down by sword or spear. It is impossible to translate the poignant and vivid emotion, the energy of passion and noble simplicity of style which distinguish the poetry of Khansá, but here are a few verses:--

Death's messenger cried aloud the loss of the generous one, So loud cried he, by my life, that far he was heard and wide. Then rose I, and scarce my soul could follow to meet the news, For anguish and sore dismay and horror that Ṣakhr had died. In my misery and despair I seemed as a drunken man, Upstanding awhile--then soon his tottering limbs subside."[254]

_Yudhakkiruní ṭulú‘u ’l-shamsi Ṣakhran wa-adhkuruhú likulli ghurúbi shamsi._

"Sunrise awakes in me the sad remembrance Of Ṣakhr, and I recall him at every sunset."

[Sidenote: The last poets born in the Age of Paganism.]

To the poets who have been enumerated many might be added--_e.g._, Ḥassán b. Thábit, who was 'retained' by the Prophet and did useful work on his behalf; Ka‘b b. Zuhayr, author or the famous panegyric on Muḥammad beginning "_Bánat Su‘ád_" (Su‘ád has departed); Mutammim b. Nuwayra, who, like Khansá, mourned the loss of a brother; Abú Miḥjan, the singer of wine, whose devotion to the forbidden beverage was punished by the Caliph ‘Umar with imprisonment and exile; and al-Ḥuṭay’a (the Dwarf), who was unrivalled in satire. All these belonged to the class of _Mukhaḍramún_, _i.e._, they were born in the Pagan Age but died, if not Moslems, at any rate after the proclamation of Islam.

[Sidenote: Collections of ancient poetry.]

The grammarians of Baṣra and Kúfa, by whom the remains of ancient Arabian poetry were rescued from oblivion, arranged and collected their material according to various principles. Either the poems of an individual or those of a number of individuals belonging to the same tribe or class were brought together--such a collection was called _Díwán_, plural _Dawáwín_; or, again, the compiler edited a certain number of _qaṣídas_ chosen for their fame or excellence or on other grounds, or he formed an anthology of shorter pieces or fragments, which were arranged under different heads according to their subject-matter.

[Sidenote: Díwáns.]

Among _Díwáns_ mention may be made of _The Díwáns of the Six Poets_, viz. Nábigha, ‘Antara, Ṭarafa, Zuhayr, ‘Alqama, and Imru’u ’l-Qays, edited with a full commentary by the Spanish philologist al-A‘lam († 1083 A.D.) and published in 1870 by Ahlwardt; and of _The Poems of the Hudhaylites_ (_Ash‘áru ’l-Hudhaliyyín_) collected by al-Sukkarí († 888 A.D.), which have been published by Kosegarten and Wellhausen.

The chief Anthologies, taken in the order of their composition, are:--

[Sidenote: Anthologies. 1. The _Mu‘allaqát_.]

1. The _Mu‘allaqát_, which is the title given to a collection of seven odes by Imru’u ’l-Qays, Ṭarafa, Zuhayr, Labíd, ‘Antara, ‘Amr b. Kulthúm, and Ḥárith b. Ḥilliza; to these two odes by Nábigha and A‘shá are sometimes added. The compiler was probably Ḥammád al-Ráwiya, a famous rhapsodist of Persian descent, who flourished under the Umayyads and died in the second half of the eighth century of our era. As the _Mu‘allaqát_ have been discussed above, we may pass on directly to a much larger, though less celebrated, collection dating from the same period, viz.:--

[Sidenote: 2. The _Mufaḍḍaliyyát_.]

2. The _Mufaḍḍaliyyát_,[255] by which title it is generally known after its compiler, Mufaḍḍal al-Ḑabbí († circa 786 A.D.), who made it at the instance of the Caliph Manṣúr for the instruction of his son and successor, Mahdí. It comprises 128 odes and is extant in two recensions, that of Anbárí († 916 A.D.), which derives from Ibnu ’l-A‘rábí, the stepson of Mufaḍḍal, and that of Marzúqí († 1030 A.D.). About a third of the _Mufaḍḍaliyyát_ was published in 1885 by Thorbecke, and Sir Charles Lyall has recently edited the complete text with Arabic commentary and English translation and notes.[256]

All students of Arabian poetry are familiar with--

[Sidenote: 3. The _Ḥamása_ of Abú Tammám.]

3. The _Ḥamása_ of Abú Tammám Ḥabíb b. Aws, himself a distinguished poet, who flourished under the Caliphs Ma’mún and Mu‘taṣim, and died about 850 A.D. Towards the end of his life he visited ‘Abdulláh b. Ṭáhir, the powerful governor of Khurásán, who was virtually an independent sovereign. It was on this journey, as Ibn Khallikán relates, that Abú Tammám composed the _Ḥamása_; for on arriving at Hamadhán (Ecbatana) the winter had set in, and as the cold was excessively severe in that country, the snow blocked up the road and obliged him to stop and await the thaw. During his stay he resided with one of the most eminent men of the place, who possessed a library in which were some collections of poems composed by the Arabs of the desert and other authors. Having then sufficient leisure, he perused those works and selected from them the passages out of which he formed his _Ḥamása_.[257] The work is divided into ten sections of unequal length, the first, from which it received its name, occupying (together with the commentary) 360 pages in Freytag's edition, while the seventh and eighth require only thirteen pages between them. These sections or chapters bear the following titles:--

I. The Chapter of Fortitude (_Bábu ’l-Ḥamása_). II. The Chapter of Dirges (_Bábu ’l-Maráthí_). III. The Chapter of Good Manners (_Bábu ’l-Adab_). IV. The Chapter of Love-Songs (_Bábu ’l-Nasíb_). V. The Chapter of Satire (_Bábu ’l-Hijá_). VI. The Chapter of Guests (Hospitality) and Panegyric (_Bábu ’l-Aḍyáf wa ’l-Madíh_). VII. The Chapter of Descriptions (_Bábu ’l-Ṣifát_). VIII. The Chapter of Travel and Repose (_Bábu ’l-Sayr wa ’l-Nu‘ás_). IX. The Chapter of Facetiæ (_Bábu ’l-Mulaḥ_). X. The Chapter of Vituperation of Women (_Bábu Madhammati ’l-Nisá_).

The contents of the _Ḥamása_ include short poems complete in themselves as well as passages extracted from longer poems; of the poets represented, some of whom belong to the Pre-islamic and others to the early Islamic period, comparatively few are celebrated, while many are anonymous or only known by the verses attached to their names. If the high level of excellence attained by these obscure singers shows, on the one hand, that a natural genius for poetry was widely diffused and that the art was successfully cultivated among all ranks of Arabian society, we must not forget how much is due to the fine taste of Abú Tammám, who, as the commentator Tibrízí has remarked, "is a better poet in his _Ḥamása_ than in his poetry."

[Sidenote: 4. The _Ḥamása_ of Buḥturí.]

4. The _Ḥamása_ of Buḥturí († 897 A.D.), a younger contemporary of Abú Tammám, is inferior to its model.[258] However convenient from a practical standpoint, the division into a great number of sections, each illustrating a narrowly defined topic, seriously impairs the artistic value of the work; moreover, Buḥturí seems to have had a less catholic appreciation of the beauties of poetry--he admired, it is said, only what was in harmony with his own style and ideas.

[Sidenote: 5. The _Jamhara_.]

5. The _Jamharatu Ash‘ári ’l-‘Arab_, a collection of forty-nine odes, was put together probably about 1000 A.D. by Abú Zayd Muḥammad al-Qurashí, of whom we find no mention elsewhere.

[Sidenote: Prose sources.]

Apart from the _Díwáns_ and anthologies, numerous Pre-islamic verses are cited in biographical, philological, and other works, _e.g._, the _Kitábu ’l-Aghání_ by Abu ’l-Faraj of Iṣfahán († 967 _A.D._), the _Kitábu ’l-Amálí_ by Abú ‘Alí al-Qálí († 967 _A.D._), the _Kámil_ of Mubarrad († 898 A.D.), and the _Khizánatu ’l-Adab_ of ‘Abdu ’l-Qádir of Baghdád († 1682 A.D.).

[Sidenote: The tradition of Pre-islamic poetry.]

[Sidenote: The Ráwís.]

[Sidenote: The Humanists.]

We have seen that the oldest existing poems date from the beginning of the sixth century of our era, whereas the art of writing did not come into general use among the Arabs until some two hundred years afterwards. Pre-islamic poetry, therefore, was preserved by oral tradition alone, and the question arises, How was this possible? What guarantee have we that songs living on men's lips for so long a period have retained their original form, even approximately? No doubt many verses, _e.g._, those which glorified the poet's tribe or satirised their enemies, were constantly being recited by his kin, and in this way short occasional poems or fragments of longer ones might be perpetuated. Of whole _qaṣídas_ like the _Mu‘allaqát_, however, none or very few would have reached us if their survival had depended solely on their popularity. What actually saved them in the first place was an institution resembling that of the Rhapsodists in Greece. Every professed poet had his _Ráwí_ (reciter), who accompanied him everywhere, committed his poems to memory, and handed them down, as well as the circumstances connected with them, to others. The characters of poet and _ráwí_ were often combined; thus Zuhayr was the _ráwí_ of his stepfather, Aws b. Ḥajar, while his own _ráwí_ was al-Ḥuṭay’a. If the tradition of poetry was at first a labour of love, it afterwards became a lucrative business, and the _Ráwís_, instead of being attached to individual poets, began to form an independent class, carrying in their memories a prodigious stock of ancient verse and miscellaneous learning. It is related, for example, that Ḥammád once said to the Caliph Walíd b. Yazíd: "I can recite to you, for each letter of the alphabet, one hundred long poems rhyming in that letter, without taking into count the short pieces, and all that composed exclusively by poets who lived before the promulgation of Islamism." He commenced and continued until the Caliph, having grown fatigued, withdrew, after leaving a person in his place to verify the assertion and hear him to the last. In that sitting he recited two thousand nine hundred _qaṣídas_ by poets who flourished before Muḥammad. Walíd, on being informed of the fact, ordered him a present of one hundred thousand dirhems.[259] Thus, towards the end of the first century after the Hijra, _i.e._, about 700 A.D., when the custom of _writing_ poetry began, there was much of Pre-islamic origin still in circulation, although it is probable that far more had already been irretrievably lost. Numbers of _Ráwís_ perished in the wars, or passed away in the course of nature, without leaving any one to continue their tradition. New times had brought new interests and other ways of life. The great majority of Moslems had no sympathy whatever with the ancient poetry, which represented in their eyes the unregenerate spirit of heathendom. They wanted nothing beyond the Koran and the Ḥadíth. But for reasons which will be stated in another chapter the language of the Koran and the Ḥadíth was rapidly becoming obsolete as a spoken idiom outside of the Arabian peninsula: the 'perspicuous Arabic' on which Muḥammad prided himself had ceased to be fully intelligible to the Moslems settled in ‘Iráq and Khurásán, in Syria, and in Egypt. It was essential that the Sacred Text should be explained, and this necessity gave birth to the sciences of Grammar and Lexicography. The Philologists, or, as they have been aptly designated, the Humanists of Baṣra and Kúfa, where these studies were prosecuted with peculiar zeal, naturally found their best material in the Pre-islamic poems--a well of Arabic undefiled. At first the ancient poetry merely formed a basis for philological research, but in process of time a literary enthusiasm was awakened. The surviving _Ráwís_ were eagerly sought out and induced to yield up their stores, the compositions of famous poets were collected, arranged, and committed to writing, and as the demand increased, so did the supply.[260]

[Sidenote: Corrupt tradition of the old poetry.]

[Sidenote: Ḥammád al-Ráwiya.]

[Sidenote: Khalaf al-Aḥmar.]

In these circumstances a certain amount of error was inevitable. Apart from unconscious failings of memory, there can be no doubt that in many cases the _Ráwís_ acted with intent to deceive. The temptation to father their own verses, or centos which they pieced together from sources known only to themselves, upon some poet of antiquity was all the stronger because they ran little risk of detection. In knowledge of poetry and in poetical talent they were generally far more than a match for the philologists, who seldom possessed any critical ability, but readily took whatever came to hand. The stories which are told of Ḥammád al-Ráwiya, clearly show how unscrupulous he was in his methods, though we have reason to suppose that he was not a typical example of his class. His contemporary, Mufaḍḍal al-Ḑabbí, is reported to have said that the corruption which poetry suffered through Ḥammád could never be repaired, "for," he added, "Ḥammád is a man skilled in the language and poesy of the Arabs and in the styles and ideas of the poets, and he is always making verses in imitation of some one and introducing them into genuine compositions by the same author, so that the copy passes everywhere for part of the original, and cannot be distinguished from it except by critical scholars--and where are such to be found?"[261] This art of forgery was brought to perfection by Khalaf al-Aḥmar († about 800 A.D.), who learned it in the school of Ḥammád. If he really composed the famous _Lámiyya_ ascribed to Shanfará, his own poetical endowments must have been of the highest order. In his old age he repented and confessed that he was the author of several poems which the scholars of Baṣra and Kúfa had accepted as genuine, but they laughed him to scorn, saying, "What you said then seems to us more trustworthy than your present assertion."

[Sidenote: Other causes of corruption.]

Besides the corruptions due to the _Ráwís_, others have been accumulated by the philologists themselves. As the Koran and the Ḥadíth were, of course, spoken and afterwards written in the dialect of Quraysh, to whom Muḥammad belonged, this dialect was regarded as the classical standard;[262] consequently the variations therefrom which occurred in the ancient poems were, for the most part, 'emended' and harmonised with it. Many changes were made under the influence of Islam, _e.g._, 'Allah' was probably often substituted for the pagan goddess 'al-Lát.' Moreover, the structure of the _qaṣída_, its disconnectedness and want of logical cohesion, favoured the omission and transposition of whole passages or single verses. All these modes of depravation might be illustrated in detail, but from what has been said the reader can judge for himself how far the poems, as they now stand, are likely to have retained the form in which they were first uttered to the wild Arabs of the Pre-islamic Age.

[Sidenote: Religion.]

[Sidenote: The Fair of ‘Ukáẓ.]

Religion had so little influence on the lives of the Pre-islamic Arabs that we cannot expect to find much trace of it in their poetry. They believed vaguely in a supreme God, Allah, and more definitely in his three daughters--al-Lát, Manát, and al-‘Uzzá--who were venerated all over Arabia and whose intercession was graciously accepted by Allah. There were also numerous idols enjoying high favour while they continued to bring good luck to their worshippers. Of real piety the ordinary Bedouin knew nothing. He felt no call to pray to his gods, although he often found them convenient to swear by. He might invoke Allah in the hour of need, as a drowning man will clutch at a straw; but his faith in superstitious ceremonies was stronger. He did not take his religion too seriously. Its practical advantages he was quick to appreciate. Not to mention baser pleasures, it gave him rest and security during the four sacred months, in which war was forbidden, while the institution of the Meccan Pilgrimage enabled him to take part in a national fête. Commerce went hand in hand with religion. Great fairs were held, the most famous being that of ‘Ukáẓ, which lasted for twenty days. These fairs were in some sort the centre of old Arabian social, political, and literary life. It was the only occasion on which free and fearless intercourse was possible between the members of different clans.[263]

Plenty of excitement was provided by poetical and oratorical displays--not by athletic sports, as in ancient Greece and modern England. Here rival poets declaimed their verses and submitted them to the judgment of an acknowledged master. Nowhere else had rising talents such an opportunity of gaining wide reputation: what ‘Ukáẓ said to-day all Arabia would repeat to-morrow. At ‘Ukáẓ, we are told, the youthful Muḥammad listened, as though spellbound, to the persuasive eloquence of Quss b. Sá‘ida, Bishop of Najrán; and he may have contrasted the discourse of the Christian preacher with the brilliant odes chanted by heathen bards.

The Bedouin view of life was thoroughly hedonistic. Love, wine, gambling, hunting, the pleasures of song and romance, the brief, pointed, and elegant expression of wit and wisdom--these things he knew to be good. Beyond them he saw only the grave.

"Roast meat and wine: the swinging ride On a camel sure and tried, Which her master speeds amain O'er low dale and level plain: Women marble-white and fair Trailing gold-fringed raiment rare: Opulence, luxurious ease, With the lute's soft melodies-- Such delights hath our brief span; Time is Change, Time's fool is Man. Wealth or want, great store or small, All is one since Death's are all."[264]

It would be a mistake to suppose that these men always, or even generally, passed their lives in the aimless pursuit of pleasure. Some goal they had--earthly, no doubt--such as the accumulation of wealth or the winning of glory or the fulfilment of blood-revenge. "_God forbid_" says one, "_that I should die while a grievous longing, as it were a mountain, weighs on my breast!_"[265] A deeper chord is touched by Imru’u ’l-Qays: "_If I strove for a bare livelihood, scanty means would suffice me and I would seek no more. But I strive for lasting renown, and 'tis men like me that sometimes attain lasting renown. Never, while life endures, does a man reach the summit of his ambition or cease from toil._"[266]

[Sidenote: Judaism and Christianity in Arabia.]

[Sidenote: The ‘Ibád of Ḥíra.]

[Sidenote: ‘Adí b. Zayd.]

These are noble sentiments nobly expressed. Yet one hears the sigh of weariness, as if the speaker were struggling against the conviction that his cause is already lost, and would welcome the final stroke of destiny. It was a time of wild uproar and confusion. Tribal and family feuds filled the land, as Zuhayr says, with evil fumes. No wonder that earnest and thoughtful minds asked themselves--What worth has our life, what meaning? Whither does it lead? Such questions paganism could not answer, but Arabia in the century before Muḥammad was not wholly abandoned to paganism. Jewish colonists had long been settled in the Ḥijáz. Probably the earliest settlements date from the conquest of Palestine by Titus or Hadrian. In their new home the refugees, through contact with a people nearly akin to themselves, became fully Arabicised, as the few extant specimens of their poetry bear witness. They remained Jews, however, not only in their cultivation of trade and various industries, but also in the most vital particular--their religion. This, and the fact that they lived in isolated communities among the surrounding population, marked them out as the salt of the desert. In the Ḥijáz their spiritual predominance was not seriously challenged. It was otherwise in Yemen. We may leave out of account the legend according to which Judaism was introduced into that country from the Ḥijáz by the Tubba‘ As‘ad Kámil. What is certain is that towards the beginning of the sixth century it was firmly planted there side by side with Christianity, and that in the person of the Ḥimyarite monarch Dhú Nuwás, who adopted the Jewish faith, it won a short-lived but sanguinary triumph over its rival. But in Yemen, except among the highlanders of Najrán, Christianity does not appear to have flourished as it did in the extreme north and north-east, where the Roman and Persian frontiers were guarded by the Arab levies of Ghassán and Ḥíra. We have seen that the latter city contained a large Christian population who were called distinctively ‘Ibád, _i.e._, Servants (of God). Through them the Aramaic culture of Babylonia was transmitted to all parts of the peninsula. They had learned the art of writing long before it was generally practised in Arabia, as is shown by the story of Ṭarafa and Mutalammis, and they produced the oldest _written_ poetry in the Arabic language--a poetry very different in character from that which forms the main subject of this chapter. Unfortunately the bulk of it has perished, since the rhapsodists, to whom we owe the preservation of so much Pre-islamic verse, were devoted to the traditional models and would not burden their memories with anything new-fashioned. The most famous of the ‘Ibádí poets is ‘Adí b. Zayd, whose adventurous career as a politician has been sketched above. He is not reckoned by Muḥammadan critics among the _Fuḥúl_ or poets of the first rank, because he was a townsman (_qarawí_). In this connection the following anecdote is instructive. The poet al-‘Ajjáj († about 709 A.D.) said of his contemporaries al-Ṭirimmáḥ and al-Kumayt: "They used to ask me concerning rare expressions in the language of poetry, and I informed them, but afterwards I found the same expressions wrongly applied in their poems, the reason being that they were townsmen who described what they had not seen and misapplied it, whereas I who am a Bedouin describe what I have seen and apply it properly."[267] ‘Adí is chiefly remembered for his wine-songs. Oriental Christianity has always been associated with the drinking and selling of wine. Christian ideas were carried into the heart of Arabia by ‘Ibádí wine merchants, who are said to have taught their religion to the celebrated A‘shá. ‘Adí drank and was merry like the rest, but the underlying thought, 'for to-morrow we die,' repeatedly makes itself heard. He walks beside a cemetery, and the voices of the dead call to him--[268]

"Thou who seest us unto thyself shalt say, 'Soon upon me comes the season of decay.' Can the solid mountains evermore sustain Time's vicissitudes and all they bring in train? Many a traveller lighted near us and abode, Quaffing wine wherein the purest water flowed-- Strainers on each flagon's mouth to clear the wine, Noble steeds that paw the earth in trappings fine! For a while they lived in lap of luxury, Fearing no misfortune, dallying lazily. Then, behold, Time swept them all, like chaff, away: Thus it is men fall to whirling Time a prey. Thus it is Time keeps the bravest and the best Night and day still plunged in Pleasure's fatal quest."

It is said that the recitation of these verses induced Nu‘mán al-Akbar, one of the mythical pagan kings of Ḥíra, to accept Christianity and become an anchorite. Although the story involves an absurd anachronism, it is _ben trovato_ in so far as it records the impression which the graver sort of Christian poetry was likely to make on heathen minds.

[Sidenote: Pre-Islamic poetry not exclusively pagan in sentiment.]

The courts of Ḥíra and Ghassán were well known to the wandering minstrels of the time before Muḥammad, who flocked thither in eager search of patronage and remuneration. We may be sure that men like Nábigha, Labíd, and A‘shá did not remain unaffected by the culture around them, even if it seldom entered very deeply into their lives. That considerable traces of religious feeling are to be found in Pre-islamic poetry admits of no denial, but the passages in question were formerly explained as due to interpolation. This view no longer prevails. Thanks mainly to the arguments of Von Kremer, Sir Charles Lyall, and Wellhausen, it has come to be recognised (1) that in many cases the above-mentioned religious feeling is not Islamic in tone; (2) that the passages in which it occurs are not of Islamic origin; and (3) that it is the natural and necessary result of the widely spread, though on the whole superficial, influence of Judaism, and especially of Christianity.[269] It shows itself not only in frequent allusions, _e.g._, to the monk in his solitary cell, whose lamp serves to light belated travellers on their way, and in more significant references, such as that of Zuhayr already quoted, to the Heavenly Book in which evil actions are enscrolled for the Day of Reckoning, but also in the tendency to moralise, to look within, to meditate on death, and to value the life of the individual rather than the continued existence of the family. These things are not characteristic of old Arabian poetry, but the fact that they do appear at times is quite in accord with the other facts which have been stated, and justifies the conclusion that during the sixth century religion and culture were imperceptibly extending their sphere of influence in Arabia, leavening the pagan masses, and gradually preparing the way for Islam.