But that when he saw the first verses of the Sūratu ʾl-Baqarah (ii.) of the Qurʾān posted up, he withdrew his verses and embraced Islām. Muḥammad repaid Labīd with the compliment that the words, “Know that everything is vanity but God,” were the truest words ever uttered by a poet. (Mishkāt, book xxii. ch. x.)
In the earlier part of his mission, Muḥammad affected to despise the poets, and in the Qurʾān we find him saying ([Sūrah xxvi. 224]), “Those who go astray follow the poets”; and in the Traditions, Mishkāt, book xxii. ch. x.: “A belly full of purulent matter is better than a belly full of poetry.” But when Labīd and Ḥassān embraced Islām, the poets rise into favour, and the Prophet utters the wise but cautious saying, that “poetry is a kind of composition, which if it is good it is good, and if it is bad it is bad.” In the battle with the Banū Quraiz̤ah, the Prophet called out to Ḥassān the poet, “Abuse the infidels in your verse, for truly the Holy Spirit (in the Ḥadīs̤ it is Gabriel) will help you.” It is also related that the Prophet used to say, “O Lord! help Ḥassān the poet by the Holy Spirit (or Gabriel).”
It is generally admitted by Arabic scholars that the golden age of Arabic poetry was that immediately preceding or contemporaneous with Muḥammad, and that from the time of Muḥammad there was a gradual decline. This is not surprising, inasmuch as the Qurʾān is considered the most perfect model of composition ever revealed to mankind, and to be written in the language of Paradise.
Baron MacGuckin de Slane, in his Introduction to Ibn K͟hallikān’s Dictionary, says:—
“The oldest monuments of Arabic literature which we still possess were composed within the century which preceded the birth of Muḥammad. They consist in short pieces of verse uttered on the spur of the moment, narrations of combats between hostile tribes, passages in rhythmical prose and kasîdas (qaṣīdahs), or elegies. The study of these remains reveals the existence of a language perfect in its form and application, admirably suited to express the various ideas which the aspect of nature could suggest to a pastoral people, and as equally adapted to portray the fiercer passions of the mind. The variety of its inflections, the regularity of its syntax, and the harmony of its prosody, are not less striking, and they furnish in themselves a sufficient proof of the high degree of culture which the language of the Arabic nation had already attained. The superior merit of this early literature was ever afterwards acknowledged by the Arabs themselves. It furnished them not only with models, but ideas for their poetical productions, and its influence has always continued perceptible in the Kasîda, which still contains the same thoughts, the same allusions as of old, and drags its slow length along in monotonous dignity.… (p. xv.)
“The decline of Arabic poetry can be easily traced down from the accession of the Abbasides to the time of the Aiyubites: for many centuries the patrons of the belles-lettres were of foreign extraction, and writers who sought their favour were obliged to conform their own judgment to that of persons who were in general unable to appreciate the true beauties of literary compositions. Works which had obtained the patronage of the prince could not fail to fix the attention of other poets, who took them as models which they strove to imitate and to surpass. The opinion held in the schools that the ancient kasîdas were masterpieces of art, contributed also to the perversion of good taste, their plan and ideas were servilely copied, and it was by refinement of expression alone that writers could display their talent; verbal quibbles, far-fetched allusions, thoughts borrowed from the old writers, and strained so as to be hardly recognisable, such were the means by which they strove to attain originality; sense was sacrificed to sound, the most discordant ideas were linked together for the futile advantage of obtaining a recurrence of words having a similar written form or a similar pronunciation; poets wrote for the ear and the eye, not for the mind, and yet the high estimation in which their productions were held may be judged from the readiness of Ibn Khallikân to quote them. His taste was that of the age in which he lived, and the extracts which he gives enable the reader to form an idea of the Arab mind at the period of the Crusades. The same feeling of impartiality which induces me to express so severe a censure on the generality of the Islamic poets, obliges me also to make some exceptions. The kasîdas of al-Mutanabbi are full of fire, daring originality, and depth of thought; he often reaches the sublime, and his style, though blemished by occasional faults, is very fine; al-Bohtori is remarkable for grace and elegance; Abû-l-Alâ for dignity and beauty; but Ibn-al-Fârid seems superior to them all, his pieces teem with sentiment and poetry, in his mystic reveries he soars towards the confines of another world pervaded with spiritual beauty, and glides with the reader from one enchanting scene to another; the judgment is captivated by the genius of the poet, and can hardly perceive the traits of false taste which disfigure, from time to time, his admirable style. Having pointed out the influence of the kasîda, or elegy, it may not be amiss to sketch the plan generally followed in this species of composition. The poet, accompanied by two friends, approaches, after a long journey through the desert, to the place where he saw his mistress the year before, and where he hopes to meet her again. At his request, they direct the camels on which they are mounted towards the spot, but the ruins of the rustic dwellings, the withered moss, brushwood, and branches of trees, with which were formed the frail abodes where the tribe had passed the summer, the hearthstones blackened by the fire, the solitary raven hovering around in search of a scanty nourishment, every object he perceives strikes him with the conviction that his beloved and her family have removed to some other region in the desert. Overcome with grief, heedless of the consolations of his friends, who exhort him to be firm, he long remains plunged in silent affliction; at length he finds relief in a torrent of tears, and, raising up his head, he extemporizes a mournful elegy. He commences by mentioning the places which he had already visited in hopes of finding her whom he loved, and calls to mind the dangers which he had encountered in the desert. He describes the camel which, though fatigued, still full of ardour, had borne him into the depths of the wilderness, he vaunts his own courage and extols the glory of his tribe. An adventure which happened on the previous night then comes to his memory: a fire blazing on a lofty hill, had attracted their attention and guided them to the tent of a generous Arab, where they found shelter and hospitality. He then praises the charms of his mistress, and complains of the pains of love and absence, whilst his companions hurry him away. He casts a parting look towards the place where she had resided, and lo! a dark cloud, fringed with rain, and rent with lightnings, overhangs the spot. This sight fills his heart with joy! an abundant shower is about to shed new life upon the parched soil, and thus ensure a rich herbage for the flocks; the family of his beloved will then soon return, and settle again in their former habitation.
“Such may be considered as the outline of the pastoral kasîda. In these productions the same ideas almost constantly recur, and the same words frequently serve to express them. The eulogistic kasîda, or poem in praise of some great man, assumes also the same form, with the sole difference that in place of a mistress it is a generous patron whom the poet goes to visit, or else, after praising the object of his passion, he celebrates the noble qualities of the man who is always ready, with abundant gifts, to bestow consolation on the afflicted lover.
“It results from this that a person familiar with the mode of composition followed in the kasîda, can often, from a single word in a verse, perceive the drift of the poet, and discover, almost intuitively, the thoughts which are to follow. He has thus a means of determining the true readings amidst the mass of errors with which copyists usually disfigure Arabic poetry; knowing what the poet intends to say, he feels no longer any difficulty in disengaging the author’s words from the faults of a corrupted text. The same peculiarity is frequently perceptible in pieces of a few verses; these generally reproduce some of the ideas contained in the kasîda, and for this reason they are justly styled fragments by Arabic writers.
“There exist, also, some compositions of an original form: such are the dûbait, or distich, and the mawâlia, both borrowed from the Persians, and the muwashshaha, invented in Spain by Ibn Abd Rabbîh. Pieces of this kind became general favourites by the novelty of their form and matter; the mawâlia was adopted by the dervishes, and the muwashshaha was cultivated with passion and attained its perfection in Andalusia, whence it was transported to the East. It cannot be denied that the Moorish poets, with all their extravagance of thought and expression, were far superior in their perception of the beauties of nature and the delicacies of sentiment, to their brethren of the East, and the European reader will often discover in their poems, with some surprise, the same ideas, metaphors, and systems of versification, which characterise the works of the troubadours and the early Italian poets.
“An idea borrowed from the ante-Islamic poets, and of frequent recurrence in the kasîdas of later authors, is the taif al-khiâl (t̤āʾifu ʾl-k͟hiyāl), or phantom. The lover journeys with a caravan through the desert; for many nights his grief at being separated from his beloved prevents him from sleeping, but at length he yields to fatigue and closes his eyes. A phantom then approaches towards him, unseen by all but himself, and in it he recognises the image of his mistress, come to visit and console him. It was sent to him by the beloved, or rather it is herself in spirit, who has crossed the dreary waste and fleeted towards his couch; she, too, had slept, but it was to go and see her lover in her dreams. They thus meet in spite of the foes and spies who always surround the poet, ready to betray him if he obtain an interview with the beloved, and who are so jealous, that they hinder him from sleeping, lest he should see her image in his dream; it is only when they slumber that he dare close his eyes.