face the onset of Death, high-hearted,
       for none upon earth shall win to abide forever. 
     No raiment of praise the cloak of old age and weakness;
       none such for the coward who bows like a reed in the tempest. 
     The pathway of death is set for all men to travel.
       the crier of Death proclaims through the earth his empire. 
     Who dies not when young and sound, dies old and weary—­
       cut off in his length of days from all love and kindness;
     And what for a man is left of delight of living,—­
       past use—­flung away—­a worthless and worn-out chattel?”

          IMPLACABILITY

By al-Fadl, ibn al-Abbas, ibn Utbah.  From the ‘Hamasah’:  Translation of C.J.  Lyall.

     Sons of our uncle, peace!  Cousins of ours, be still!
       drag not to light from its grave the strife that we buried there. 
     Hope not for honor from us, while ye heap upon us shame,
       or think that we shall forbear from vexing when ye vex us. 
     Sons of our uncle, peace! lay not our rancor raw;
       walk now gently awhile, as once ye were wont to go. 
     Ay, God knows that we, we love you not, in sooth!
       and that we blame ye not that ye have no love for us. 
     Each of us has his ground for the loathing his fellow moves: 
       a grace it is from the Lord that we hate ye—­ye us!

          PARENTAL AFFECTION

A poem by Hittan ibn al-Mu’alla of Tayyi.  From the ‘Hamasah’:  Translation of C.J.  Lyall.

     Fortune has brought me down—­her wonted way—­
       from stature high and great, to low estate;
     Fortune has rent away my plenteous store;
       of all my wealth, honor alone is left. 
     Fortune has turned my joy to tears—­how oft
       did Fortune make me laugh with what she gave! 
     But for these girls, the kata’s downy brood,
       unkindly thrust from door to door as hard—­
     Far would I roam, and wide, to seek my bread,
       in earth, that has no lack of breadth and length. 
     Nay, but our children in our midst, what else
       but our hearts are they, walking on the ground? 
     If but the breeze blow harsh on one of them,
       mine eye says “no” to slumber, all night long!

          A TRIBESMAN’S VALOR

Poem by Sa’d, son of Malik, of the Kais Tribe:  Translation of C. J. Lyall

     How evil a thing is war, that bows men to shameful rest! 
     War burns away in her blaze all glory and boasting of men: 
     Naught stands but the valiant heart to face pain—­the hard-hoofed
               steed
     The ring-mail set close and firm, the nail-crowned helms and the
               spears;
     And onset, again after rout, when men shrink from the serried array—­
     Then, then, fall away all the vile, the hirelings! and shame is
               strong! 
     War girds up her skirts before them, and evil unmixed is bare. 
     For their hearts were for maidens veiled, not for driving the gathered
               spoil: 
     Yea, evil the heirs we leave, sons of Yakshar and al-Laksh!