and ready, on trestles, hang the mantles of scarlet silk. 
     Yea, softly they wrap their limbs, well-knowing of wealth and ease,
       in rich raiment, white-sleeved, green at the shoulder—­in royal
           guise. 
     They look not on Weal as men who know not that Woe comes, too: 
       they look not on evil days as though they would never mend.

Lo, this was my gift to Ghassan, what time I sought
My people; and all my paths were darkened, and strait my ways.

NUSAIB

The poem characterizes the separation of a wife and mother—­a slave—­from her family:  Translation of C.J.  Lyall.

     They said last night—­To-morrow at first of dawning,
       or maybe at eventide, must Laila go!—­
     My heart at the word lay helpless, as lies a Kat[=a]
       in net night-long, and struggles with fast-bound wing. 
     Two nestlings she left alone, in a nest far distant,
       a nest which the winds smite, tossing it to and fro. 
     They hear but the whistling breeze, and stretch necks to greet her;
       but she they await—­the end of her days is come! 
     So lies she, and neither gains in the night her longing,
       nor brings her the morning any release from pain.

          VENGEANCE

By al-Find, of the Zimman Tribe:  Translation of C.J.  Lyall

     Forgiveness had we for Hind’s sons: 
       We said, “The men our brothers are;
     The days may bring that yet again
       They be the folk that once they were.”

     But when the Ill stood clear and plain,
       And naked Wrong was bold to brave,
     And naught was left but bitter Hate—­
       We paid them in the coin they gave.

     We strode as stalks a lion forth
       At dawn, a lion wrathful-eyed;
     Blows rained we, dealing shame on shame,
       And humbling pomp and quelling pride.

     Too kind a man may be with fools,
       And nerve them but to flout him more;
     And Mischief oft may bring thee peace,
       When Mildness works not Folly’s cure.

          PATIENCE

From Ibrahim, Son of Kunaif of Nabhan:  Translation of C.J.  Lyall

     Be patient:  for free-born men to bear is the fairest thing,
     And refuge against Time’s wrong or help from his hurt is none;
     And if it availed man aught to bow him to fluttering Fear,
     Or if he could ward off hurt by humbling himself to Ill,
     To bear with a valiant front the full brunt of every stroke
     And onset of Fate were still the fairest and best of things. 
     But how much the more, when none outruns by a span his Doom,
     And refuge from God’s decree nor was nor will ever be,
     And sooth, if the changing Days have wrought us—­their wonted way—­
     A lot mixed of weal and woe, yet one thing they could not do: