Classic Poem

Gone is Youth, gone with praise — Youth full of marvelous things! gone and that is a race wherein none may overtake.
Fled is it swiftly, and this hoary Eld comes on its track — ah, would that the galloping steeds could reach it and bring it back!
Gone is fair Youth, that time whose gains are fullness of praise: in it was delight for us: no delight is left for the old!
Yea, two days were good — the day of assemblies and moots of the tribe, and the day of journeying through light and darkness to fall on our foes —

The day we pushed on our steeds homewards the way they had gone, with hoofs chipped, jaded and worn by onset again and again;
And the galloping steeds came home with streaks of blood on their breasts, as though their necks were the stones where victims in Rajab are slain;
Yea, each one fleet, when the sweat soaks through the saddle-pad clear of skin, smooth cheeked, bright of hair, a galloper tireless of pace.
Not thin his forelock, nor humped his nose, no weakling of limb: preferred is he in the dealing of milk, well nurtured at home.
Each leg apart in its gallop seems to stream with a rush of speed as though from a bucket of water poured o'er the field.
Up starts he briskly, as starts a shepherd who in his sleep has left his flock to a wolf to harry, and wakes in alarm.
His withers rise to a neck far reaching upwards, below a breast blood-stained, like a stone on which red saffron is ground.
He races the wild asses, brown, green-lipped with the grass: a thousand drop off behind him, easily wins he unspurred.
To how many wretches have these by God's will brought wealth and ease! how many rich have they spoiled and stript of all luxury!
With such as these do men enter battle with confident heart in spite of spear-play: with such, hard pressed, secure is their flight.

Of late Ma'add thought to do us hurt: but cooled was their wrath before our spears, and the stroke of swords not meant but to bruise:
Yea, swords of proof, and the spear-heads furbished bright, set on shafts hard-grained, not hollow, with knots to bind together their length;
Their heads gained glitter from hands of men that fight in the van — no mongrels they, dark of hue, no slinkers puny of build!
The clip made even their shafts, and straight they carry the steel: no crooked stem canst thou see, but polished well-fitted spears;
Blue steel their points, red and straight their slender Indian stems: atop they bear after fight the heads of chieftains slain.
Our men, when battle is joined, ply briskly, skilled in the play, lances like ropes at the well, where many drawers combine.
Both armies led from Ma'add, the men from Upland and Plain, both feel the pain of our spears, and cannot hide it with lies.
For me, I find that the Sons of Sa'd shine before all with warriors first in the fight like firebrands kindled to blaze;
Tamim the stock they uphold in wealth of glory and fame: — whoso bears credit among mankind, he owes it to race.
A people they, when a year of famine presses, their tents bring strength to starvelings, and rest to wandering sons of the Wild.
When bites Calamity, sharp-toothed, cruel, patience is theirs to bear unflinching, and countless men to stand for the lost.
When wind blows chill from the North, we pitch our tents in the dales where drought has left in their bottoms stumps and brushes to burn:
Their paddocks hoary with frost, their brook-beds trampled and bare, their wallowing-grounds nought but dust, rainless, all greenery gone.
When one comes calling to us for help and succor in need, clear is our answer to him — forth start we straight in his cause;
Swiftly we saddle the camels strong and eager to go, and quick we set on our short-haired steeds the gear for the road.
Men say — " Their beasts are kept tethered close to where they are fed: though scant the milk of their camels, spared is it ever for them. "
So stand we, great in men's eyes: our ladies ne'er turn aside whenso they travel from Khatt to upland lava plains.