‘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 ‘Antara. 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!"