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.
Nábigha[245]—his proper name is Ziyád b. Mu‘áwiya, of the tribe Dhubyán—lived at the courts of Ghassán and Ḥíra Nábigha of Dhubyán. 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."