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 Fate the Hunter
Early Arabic Hunting Poems
 Library of Arabic Literature

General Editor
Philip F. Kennedy, New York University

Executive Editors
James E. Montgomery, University of Cambridge
Shawkat M. Toorawa, Yale University

Editorial Director
Chip Rossetti

Associate Editor
Lucie Taylor

Editors
Sean Anthony, The Ohio State University
Huda Fakhreddine, University of Pennsylvania
Lara Harb, Princeton University
Maya Kesrouany, New York University Abu Dhabi
Enass Khansa, American University of Beirut
Bilal Orfali, American University of Beirut
Maurice Pomerantz, New York University Abu Dhabi
Mohammed Rustom, Carleton University

Consulting Editors
Julia Bray Michael Cooperson Joseph E. Lowry
Tahera Qutbuddin Devin J. Stewart

Digital Production Manager

Stuart Brown

Paperback Designer
Nicole Hayward

Fellowship Program Coordinator

Amani Al-Zoubi
 Letter from the General Editor

The Library of Arabic Literature makes available Arabic editions and English
translations of significant works of Arabic literature, with an emphasis on the
seventh to nineteenth centuries. The Library of Arabic Literature thus includes
texts from the pre-Islamic era to the cusp of the modern period, and encom-
passes a wide range of genres, including poetry, poetics, fiction, religion,
philosophy, law, science, travel writing, history, and historiography.
Books in the series are edited and translated by internationally recognized
scholars. They are published as hardcovers in parallel-text format with Arabic
and English on facing pages, as English-only paperbacks, and as downloadable
Arabic editions. For some texts, the series also publishes separate scholarly
editions with full critical apparatus.
The Library encourages scholars to produce authoritative Arabic editions,
accompanied by modern, lucid English translations, with the ultimate goal of
introducing Arabic’s rich literary heritage to a general audience of readers as
well as to scholars and students.
The publications of the Library of Arabic Literature are generously supported
by Tamkeen under the NYU Abu Dhabi Research Institute Award G1003 and are
published by NYU Press.

Philip F. Kennedy
General Editor, Library of Arabic Literature
 ‫�����ط د �ّ�ا � ت‬
‫ري�‬

‫� �أ � ّ‬ ‫ا �ق � � ا � تّ �‬
‫م‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬‫�‬
‫ل‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�ص‬
‫�‬‫ع‬‫ل‬ ‫�م ن� �ع�‬
‫�صر�م� ب���ل ا �لإ���س�ل� �م ح�ى ا � ر و ي�‬
‫�‬
 Fate the Hunter

Early Arabic Hunting Poems

Edited and translated by

James E. Montgomery

Volume editor
Richard Sieburth

NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS

New York
 NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS
New York

Copyright © 2022 by New York University

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Montgomery, James E. ( James Edward), 1962- editor, translator.

Title: Fate the hunter : early Arabic hunting poems / edited and translated
by James E. Montgomery.
Description: New York : New York University Press, [2022] | Series: Library
of Arabic literature | Includes bibliographical references and index. |
Summary: “An anthology of Arabic hunting poetry from the pre-Islamic and
early Islamic eras”-- Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022042299 | ISBN 9781479825257 (cloth) | ISBN
9781479825271 (ebook) | ISBN 9781479825288 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Hunting--Poetry. | Arabic poetry--To 622--Translations into
English. | LCGFT: Poetry.
Classification: LCC PJ7694.E3 F38 2022 | DDC
892.7/110803579--dc23/eng/20221026

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022042299

New York University Press books are printed on acid-free paper,

and their binding materials are chosen for strength and durability.

Series design by Titus Nemeth.

Typeset in Tasmeem, using DecoType Naskh and Emiri.

Typesetting and digitization by Stuart Brown.

Manufactured in the United States of America

c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Table of Contents

Letter from the General Editor iii

Acknowledgments xi
Introduction xiii
Map: The Tribes of Pre-Islamic Arabia xxiv
Note on the Text xxv
Notes to the Introduction xxxii

Fate the Hunter 1

1 Imruʾ al-Qays: Echoes of Love Lost 2
2 ʿAbīd ibn al-Abraṣ: That Mighty Hunter the Eagle 12
3 ʿAbīd ibn al-Abraṣ: The Seas of Poetry 18
4 Al-Muraqqish al-Akbar: When Vultures Enter the Tents 22
5 Al-Shanfarā: Like a Spleen-Dark Wolf 26
6 Ṣakhr al-Ghayy: The Workings of Fate 34
7 Labīd ibn Rabī ʿah: In the Grip of the North Wind 38
8 Al-Muzarrid ibn Ḍirār: My Flood of Words 50
9 Abū Dhuʾayb: Fate the Hunter 60
10 Al-Ḥuṭayʾah: Slaughter Me, Father 68
11 Ḥumayd al-Arqaṭ: A Tall-Necked Horse 72
12 Ghaylān ibn Ḥurayth: A Hunter since Her Youth 74
13 Ghaylān ibn Ḥurayth: A Stipple-Cheeked Gos 76
14 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: Her Assegai Beak 80
15 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: His Dark Elation 84
16 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: An Irate Stare 86
17 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: A Dark Gos 90
18 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: Like a Mill 92
19 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: Clothes Ignite 94
20 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: Like Two Rubies 96
21 Al-Shamardal ibn Sharīk: Dawn Shines Pink 98
22 Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī: Harried by the Jinn 100
23 Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī: Dyed Dark with Gore 112
24 Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī: Full of Bloodlust 124

vii
 Table of Contents

25 Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī: Coils Scraping on Coils 130

26 Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī: The Hills Shimmered 140
27 ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd al-Kātib: To the Beat of the Drums 148

Note to the English Translation 155

Glossary 179
Bibliography 187
Further Reading 192
Index 193
About the NYU Abu Dhabi Institute 204
About the Typefaces 205
Titles Published by the Library of Arabic Literature 206
About the Editor–Translator 212

viii
 To the memory of my parents,
Arthur John and Elizabeth Montgomery (née Conner),
who kitted me out and set me on my way.

ix
In a way, I suppose, I think of poems as a sort of animal. They have their own
life, like animals, by which I mean they seem quite separate from any person,
even from their author, and nothing can be added to them or taken away with-
out maiming and perhaps even killing them.

Ted Hughes, Poetry in the Making.

He is over them and behind, rowing hard, very fast,

somewhere a heron alarms, and jackdaws’ cackling chorus
I don’t see the snatch, but the heavier goshawk is past
and the present is that bewilderment—not nothing for us
for we have been hunters, and, some of us, slightly aware
or intensely engaged at the fringe of emotion, scare
the goshawk is big enough to deliver, and, so, rare.

Colin Simms, “pm, 6 Jan 2016 by the River Irthing,” Goshawk Poems.

x
 Acknowledgments

This project has kept me company for three and a half decades. I have amassed
more debts of gratitude in the intervening years than I can recall, and am pro-
foundly grateful to all those who have helped me at any time and in any way with
this material.
This book began life a decade ago. I doubt I would ever have visited the Abu
Dhabi Falcon Hospital were it not for my involvement with the Library of Arabic
Literature. Since LAL’s inception in 2010, I have learned much about Arabic,
Arabic literature, and English from my colleagues on the editorial board, and
have come to appreciate why the humanities are so called. LAL’s visits to NYU
Abu Dhabi owe most of their success to the wonderful staff of the NYU Abu Dhabi
Institute. Gila Waels, Manal Demaghlatrous, Nora Yousif, Antoine El Khayat, and
Amani Al-Zoubi have been with us every step of the way. Thank you all!
My edition and translation of ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd’s risālah benefited greatly from
the generosity and erudition of professors Bilal Orfali and Anna Akasoy. It is
thanks to them that I decided to include it in this book. Professor Clive Holes
helped me understand Shaykh Zayed’s poem and provided crucial information
on the flora of the region. Helen Macdonald accepted my invitation to lunch and
looked at a couple of my early translations. Sir Mark Allen KCMG kindly gave
me lunch, commented on drafts of some Abū Nuwās poems, offered kümmel,
and loaned me a book. Amira Bennison supported my application for leave. The
Department of Middle Eastern Studies and Trinity Hall, my institutional homes
at Cambridge, have always been supportive. And my Cambridge colleague Charis
Olszok’s invitation to lecture at her conference in December 2021 forced me to
make my mind up about the final shape of the book and the project. Her expertise
in critical animal studies and ecocriticism has encouraged me to up my game.
My friends on LAL’s executive board have been paragons of forbearance and
encouragement as I worked to bring coherence and shape to my project. It is
thanks to the friendship and perseverance of Phil Kennedy, Shawkat Toowara,
Chip Rossetti, and Lucie Taylor that this book has seen the light of day. And
thank you, Stuart Brown, Keith Miller, and Wiam El-Tamami—as always, you
have produced such a handsome book.

xi
 Acknowledgments

Involvement in LAL has brought many good things into my life. Principal
among them is my friendship with Richard Sieburth, my volume editor. Rich-
ard took a project that was stuck in the doldrums and filled its sails. Our work
together on these poems has been a delight. I may not always have followed his
advice, but it was never lightly ignored. I am already looking forward to our next
round of creative engagement.
Readers who know me personally will know that the last ten years have not
been kind to my family. If I’m pinching myself that I’ve reached the stage of writ-
ing a page of acknowledgments, it is a testimony to their belief in me. Yvonne,
Natasha, Sam, and Josh, with the help of Reggie, our Jack Russell terrier, help
me make sense of it all.

xii
 Introduction

The poets of pre-Islamic Arabia (ca. ad 500–622), or the Jahiliya, lived in a

world in which they were hunted by Fate. Fate, and its avatar Death, stalked
them remorselessly: ready, like a hunter, to spring an ambush or, like a preda-
tor, to launch an attack. The hunt emerges in the poetry of the period as a cen-
tral conceptual matrix within which the worth of men and the value of their
deeds are assessed and turned into song. A successful kill represented a tem-
poral climax in which the hunter, through the skilled management of the hunt-
ing team (huntsmen, falconers, raptors, salukis, even cheetahs), mimicked and
appropriated the workings of Fate—a fleeting instant in which the hunter was
master of his identity.
With the advent of Islam, this matrix was eventually fine-tuned, but it per-
sisted without much alteration—it was now God who set man’s destiny. The hunt
continued to fulfill its functions as a means of subsistence, as an important regal
and ritual ceremony (the ruler as feeder of his people), and as a way of interpret-
ing existence. A genre of poetry emerged in which this hunting complex was
explored and celebrated, known in Arabic as the ṭardiyyah (pl. ṭardiyyāt), liter-
ally the poem of the chase or hunt.1

The Hunting Complex

The easiest way to appreciate the role the hunting complex plays in the earliest
Arabic poetry is to consider the marthiyah, the threnody or funeral song. We
find a fine example in what is probably one of the oldest Arabic poems extant, by
al-Muraqqish al-Akbar, Poem 4 in this volume.
ʿAmr ibn Mālik al-Muraqqish belonged to a clan of the powerful Bakr ibn Wāʾil
super-tribe. Al-Muraqqish’s family were renowned for their poets: his father was
a famous poet, three of his nephews were prominent poets, and he was great-
uncle to the composer of one of the Muʿallaqāt (“Suspended Odes”) and cousin
to the composer of another. This poem connects him with the power struggle in
the first half of the sixth century between the Kindite kings of Ḥajr (modern-day
Riyadh) and the Lakhmid rulers of Ḥīrah. Al-Muraqqish died ca. ad 550.

xiii
 Introduction

The poem is addressed to a powerful overlord, and presents a case in defense

of the poet’s tribe, which was apparently accused of involvement in a raid. It
includes a lament for the poet’s kinsman, whose corpse lies unburied on the
field of battle, presumably a casualty in the raid described in the second half of
the poem. The lament features a sequence in which an ibex, one of the qasida’s
iconic nonhumans, dies.

If anything could escape Fate, the bearded,

white-striped ibex on ʿAmāyah ridge
or on Mount Khiyam could. He almost touches the sky,
higher than an aerie, on the slopes of a mighty
broad-backed peak where he ranges at will.
Had Death overlooked him, he’d have grown old—
but Fate struck and he slipped and fell to his death.

The notion of the inexorability of Fate is taken up by two poets from the tribe
of Hudhayl, part of the southern Arabian (Ḥijāzī) rather than the northern Ara-
bian (Najdī) poetic tradition. Here is the ibex scene from a funeral song by Ṣakhr
al-Ghayy, Poem 6 in this volume.

One day, after many years of life, Fate confronts it

with the youngest son of a shaykh bent with age and starving,
who shelters his father in winter and zealously forages fruit
for him in summer, like a man pleading his case before a judge.
He spots the ibex and exclaims, “By God! Who’s seen a white-
leg as big as this in our day? It’ll keep our father
alive until the stars bring the rains.” He stalks him
and at close range fires a hard arrow with a cleft head,
true to its aim. Shouting to his brother, he closes in with a knife
and briskly butchers the ibex.

Fate also destroys the “supple-winged eagle” in this threnody, the concluding
verses of which are:

Such are the workings of Fate—

master of both hunter and fleet-footed prey.

Several decades later, in a marthiyah for his sons who had died of the plague
in Egypt while participating in the Islamic conquests, Abū Dhuʾayb describes

xiv
 Introduction

three victims of Fate in his poem (Poem 9 in this volume): the onager jack with
his harem, the solitary oryx buck, and two iconic warriors:

both lie dead

from wounds like rips in cloth beyond repair.
They lived for glory and fame—but why?

The cosmos of the pre-Islamic qasida poets is stark. Everything is governed

by Fate (or Time, al-Dahr) and Death. Fate is the supreme hunter, and all that
exists, human and nonhuman, is its quarry. At the heart of the cosmos stands
man, either alone, or with his family or his kin group, or both. The cosmos was
unpredictable: A man knew that it could and would inevitably infect him, his
honor, and his society with a most terrifying disease: disunity and disintegra-
tion. What he did not know was when this would happen. The inevitability of
Fate rendered this unpredictability and the human responses to it all the more
urgent. The events of this cosmos play out in the desert, the landscape where a
man on camelback pits himself against Time and risks his all in a series of actions
whose outcomes are determined solely by chance.2
The hunting complex is an obvious intonation of this stark cosmos. The
human hunters it describes enjoy success and suffer failure. The nonhumans
they hunt may escape or be killed. For the human hunters, success is an oppor-
tunity for a temporary and vicarious emulation of Fate, but the hunt is unpre-
dictable and short-lived—its victory is both a respite from and a reminder of the
hunter’s vulnerability and mortality.
Central to the poetics of what I am referring to as “the hunting complex” is
the crystalline clarity of the poet’s eye—whereby the nonhumans really come
to life. The way in which the poems dissect reality on a micro scale makes us
witness to a process that magnifies subtler and subtler distinctions within the
real (to evoke Roland Barthes’s appreciation of the haiku).3 In the meticulous
attention paid by the poets to the stages of the hunt, the chase, and the kill,
these poems blur distinctions between the perceptions of the poet as hunter and
the perceptions of the nonhumans. The poems thus offer us both a micro-scale
conceptualization of relationality and a blurring, at the phenomenological level,
of the human and nonhuman, mediated by the poet, who is simultaneously par-
ticipant, observer, and creator.
In this way, many of our poems blur the distinctions between human and non-
human. I consider this blurred perspective to be as indicative of the Arabic poetic

xv
 Introduction

aesthetic as the micro-scale conceptualization of relationality. This phenomeno-

logical blurring was a special feature of the classical poetic tradition, similar to the
representational strategies encountered in other Arabic poetic genres.
In his article “Medieval Blood Sport,” William Marvin discusses with great
insight the “depths of experience with animal consciousness among medieval
hunters,” noting the delicate balance that is required for a successful hunt in
which “the ferocity of the hunting instinct” must be spurred in “the animal team”
until it reaches a critical point and results in a kill, at which point the discipline
of training is required in order “to halt . . . (the) destruction of the prey.”4 In
order to achieve and maintain this balance, in order to catch the quarry, the
hunter must enter into a deep and “instinctual . . . familiarity” with the prey as
well as with the hunting team. All three—human hunter, nonhuman hunter, and
nonhuman prey—enter, in Marvin’s words,

the same phenomenology by having to (a) register sudden stimuli, (b) assess
the level of threat, (c) process the immediate time-distance-ground problems,
and (d) execute the run with maximum potential for speed and stratagem.5

He refers to the attendant “powers of hyper-focus” and notes that the hunt
endows “lesser-seeming creatures” with “superpowers.”6 Therefore, a phenom-
enon that might have seemed particular to the Arabic poetic aesthetic turns
out, in essence, to belong to a widespread phenomenology of the hunt. And the
micro-scale conceptualization of relationality that is often considered typical of
the classical Arabic poetic tradition becomes, in the context of the ṭardiyyah, an
index of Marvin’s “hyper-focus.”
I consider the process of converting into verbal and poetic form the experi-
ence of this phenomenology and relationality to be an act of translation, in the
sense that, for example, we could argue that language is an act of translation.
These poems, therefore, offer us an insight into how the phenomenology of the
hunting complex is communicated and shared by being translated into verse.

Nonhuman Hunters

Our poets rarely name the nonhuman hunters. Rather than saying, for example,
“I went on an expedition with a saker,” they prefer to say, “I went on an expedi-
tion with a trim, rufous (noun absent).” That is, they take it for granted that the
audience knows exactly which type of nonhuman they intend. My suspicion is
that they also expect their audience to know exactly which individual bird or

xvi
 Introduction

dog they intend. I suspect further that the nonhuman was present to hear and
perhaps somehow to understand the poem, though this is just a hunch.
This can pose some intractable problems for us today. It is perhaps a relief to
see that the learned scholars of the past who knew so much about the poetry
and who wrote comments on these poems also struggled sometimes to identify
the nonhumans properly. In fact, I think on one or two occasions they may have
gotten it wrong. Thus, while these poems were not intended by their creators to
function as riddles, they have become riddles with the passage of the centuries.
The following twenty-six poems and one prose poem in the form of an epistle
describe the following nonhuman raptors: ṣaqr: the saker falcon (Falco cherrug);
shāhīn: the peregrine falcon (Falco peregrinus); bāz: the goshawk (Accipiter gen-
tilis); and laqwah: Bonelli’s eagle (Aquila fasciata).7 Several four-legged hunters
also feature in the chase: dogs, presumably the saluki; cheetahs (Acinonyx juba-
tus); and horses. A good number of our poems feature a solitary hunter armed
with bow and arrow.
The poems from the earliest period contain no descriptions of falconry, the
practice of hunting with trained raptors; the horse and the hound are the trained
nonhuman hunters of pre-Islamic Arabia. The earliest poems in which hawking
features date from the middle of the Umayyad period (ca. ad 700). The cheetah
ṭardiyyah by Abū l-Najm is probably from the first quarter of the eighth century,
and it is to ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd al-Kātib that we owe the earliest references to hunting
with sakers and peregrines.
As a genre, the corpus of ṭardiyyāt contains more poems about hunting with
saluki hounds than with any other creature, and more poems about hunting with
the goshawk than with the falcon. The record is not reliable (we are, after all, deal-
ing with the vagaries of chance survival), but I am tempted to suggest that it was
harder to acquire falcons than hawks, and harder to acquire raptors than dogs.

The Hunted

Which nonhumans were hunted? The answer to this depends to an extent on

the terrain on which the hunting expedition took place and the kind of non-
human hunter that formed part of the hunting team. We encounter general
mentions of desert plains, rivers, and waterholes, including oases, woodlands,
shrublands, mountain ravines, wadis, lakes, and ponds. It is also possible that
the so-called paradise (jannah), the game reserve managed for hunting expedi-
tions, was used.

xvii
 Introduction

I have counted around twenty different kinds of quarry in the ṭardiyyāt as a

genre. But the quarry is not mentioned or described in every poem, so some-
times we don’t know exactly what, for example, the goshawk hunted and caught.
And there are additional challenges in identifying the quarry even when it is
referred to in the corpus.
The first challenge—the riddle that besets our attempts to identify the nonhu-
man hunter—holds doubly true for the hunted nonhuman. In other words, the
riddles are even more demanding and baffling when we seek to know exactly
which hunted nonhumans are meant.
The second challenge is that these nonhumans are rarely the primary focus
of the poet’s attention. So even when the poet names, say, a gazelle or a ẓaby,
we still do not know precisely which type of gazelle is meant. To confine my
remarks only to the saker and the peregrine, we hear of the following prey: hou-
baras (Chlamydotis macqueenii), hares (Lepus capensis), and gazelles and ẓabys.
But do the poets mean the dorcas gazelle (Gazella dorcas); the Arabian moun-
tain gazelle (Gazella gazella cora), sometimes referred to as the idmi gazelle; or
the slender-horned gazelle (Gazella arabica), sometimes referred to as the rhim
gazelle? I am afraid I don’t know the answer. The poets also say that the saker
and the peregrine hunt teal (burkah)—that is, the Eurasian teal (Anas crecca);
waterfowl (ṭayr al-māʾ ), presumably the mallard—that is, the wild duck (Anas
platyrhynchos); the northern bald ibis (Geronticus eremita) (bughth); the par-
tridge (ḥajal or dayzaj),8 either the see-see partridge (Ammoperdix griseogula-
ris) or the sand partridge (Ammoperdix heyi); and the chukar (Alectoris chukar),
a favorite quarry of falcons.
The poets also tell us that the saker and peregrine catch geese. But does the
word iwazz refer to the greater white-fronted goose (Anser albifrons), the lesser
white-fronted goose (Anser erythropus), the greylag goose (Anser anser), or the
red-breasted goose (Branta ruficolis)?

Human Hunters

Can we get any information from the poems about who carried out the hunting?
We might naturally want to assume the poets were the hunters, but this is not
always the case. Some poems describe the poet as conducting the hunt, while
others describe a falconer or an austringer or a huntsman, say a master of hounds
or a cheetah handler, who accompanies the expedition.

xviii
 Introduction

The answer is connected with which nonhuman hunters were used. In the
case of the saluki sight hound, many poems in the ṭardiyyah genre concern fairly
ordinary people who live off whatever their dogs can catch. But in this corpus
we also meet, for example, a saluki owned by the caliph al-Amīn (r. 193–98/
809–13). In the case of the cheetah, we must expect that only the elite could
afford to hunt with such a creature.
Much of the language of the hunt and many of the adjectives used to convey
falconry practices in particular reveal a Persian origin. I think it likely that
many of the practices, techniques, and traditions of the hunt were inflections of
what Thomas Allsen has identified as the royal Eurasian hunt.9 But the hunting
practices of the Arabian Peninsula, coursing onager and oryx with horse and
saluki, and hunting with the bow and arrow, are also featured, especially in the
early corpus.

The Royal Hunt and the Subsistence Hunt

The poems collected here showcase two types of hunt: Allsen’s “royal hunt,” and
what we can refer to as the subsistence hunt—that is, hunting conducted with
a view to securing the food needed for the survival of an individual or a group.
As examples of subsistence hunting, we have the solitary, often destitute hunter,
armed with his bow and arrows (whom we encounter, for example, in Poems 6,
8, and 10), and the hunter with his hounds (Poem 7). Examples of the royal hunt
are furnished by Poems 1 and 6 and by the prose poem of ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd. Harder
to categorize are the poems that represent the early stages of the ṭardiyyah as a
genre: Poems 8–14 and 16. They feature the goshawk and so belong to what we
might refer to as the Asiatic (as opposed to the Arabian) hunt. I am inclined to
interpret these too as inflections of the royal hunt.10
The royal hunt was an elite enterprise, with symbolic, ceremonial, and politi-
cal significance. It was frequently conducted on a lavish scale, and often in a par-
adise, a park constructed, managed, and cultivated for hunting. As Allsen notes,
it portrayed the ability of a ruler to govern through the marshaling of “labor,
military manpower, and individuals (both humans and animals) with very spe-
cial skills.” It was central to “interstate relations, military preparations, domestic
administration, communications networks, and . . . the search for political legiti-
macy” and it required the “preservation of natural resources.”11

xix
 Introduction

In our corpus, we encounter two types of subsistence hunting: killing prey

with bow and arrow, and chasing quarry with dogs. There is no mention in the
texts from the pre-Islamic period of other types of subsistence hunting such as
hawking or trapping birds with nets or snares. This is a reminder, if one was
needed, that our poems are representations, rather than documentations, of
events. The poems eloquently demonstrate that “fabulous beasts can only be
slain by fabulous humans.”12
These types of hunt are distinguished primarily in terms of scale, rather than
in terms of goals—after all, a royal hunt would often culminate in a feast on the
quarry secured in the progress of the hunt, and the subsistence hunt, as the des-
titute hunters of al-Muzarrid’s and al-Ḥuṭayʾah’s poems remind us (Poems 8 and
10, respectively), was also a matter of social status and position within the group.
Presumably, both a subsistence hunt and a royal hunt would also have been an
occasion for the pursuit of pleasure.

Fate the Hunter

Fate the Hunter is the first installment in a series of volumes I am editing and
translating that feature the ṭardiyyah from its origins in the pre-Islamic period to
the era of al-Mutanabbī (d. 354/965) and Abū Firās (d. 357/968). In order to keep
the corpus focused, I have decided not to extend this to the development of the
genre in the Mamluk era or the emergence in later centuries of the hunting epis-
tle–cum–prose poem in sajʿ (prose with rhyme and rhythm).13 Future volumes
will include the hunting poetry of Abū Nuwās (d. 199/813) and Ibn al-Muʿtazz
(d. 296/908), and will conclude with a miscellany of hunting poems from the
second/eighth to the fourth/tenth centuries. My aim is not to be exhaustive, but
comprehensive and representative.
Fate the Hunter includes editions and translations of twenty-six poems that I
have selected not with a view to providing an account of the origins and devel-
opment of the ṭardiyyah as a genre, but rather to exploring some of the early
semiotic and thematic contours of the hunting complex that later ṭardiyyāt
looked to and drew from.14 They include three poems that do not contain what
we would classify strictly as hunting scenes when considered in terms of the
genre. I chose these poems both for their descriptions of nonhumans and for
how they are informed by and predicated upon the hunting complex. They also
happen to be poems I am especially fond of.

xx
 Introduction

Of these twenty-six poems, seven are from the Jahiliya; three are by
mukhaḍram poets—that is, those who straddled the latter stages of the Jahiliya
and the early Islamic era; and sixteen date to the second half of the Umayyad era.
All in all, thirteen poets are represented. The selection concludes with a transla-
tion of the earliest extant prose epistle (risālah) on the hunt, by ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd
al-Kātib (d. 135/750), addressed to a caliph, either Hishām ibn ʿAbd al-Malik
(r. 105–25/724–43) or Marwān II (r. 127–33/744–50).

My first encounter with a ṭardiyyah occurred in 1987. I had been reading the
poetry of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī, contemporary of al-Mutanabbī and composer
of the Rūmiyyāt, the series of poems he wrote from his captivity in Byzantium
while he waited for his cousin Sayf al-Dawlah to pay his ransom. Abū Firās has
one long poem composed in rajaz meter that describes a hunting expedition.
I vividly remember my bewilderment at its lexicon. When I could locate a lexi-
cal item in dictionaries and lexica, I was confronted with a further problem—my
complete ignorance of the nonhuman that the word signified. I had no clue about
the difference between a hawk and a falcon, let alone the difference between a
goshawk and a sparrow hawk, or a saker and a peregrine falcon. And because I
knew nothing about these raptors or about how they hunted, to say nothing of
what animals they were trained to hunt, I could make neither head nor tail of
the events of the poem. The situation improved greatly with the publication in
1990 of Rex Smith’s brilliant survey “Hunting Poetry (Ṭardiyyāt)” in the second
volume of The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature, ʿAbbāsid Belles-Lettres.
Armed with Smith’s insights, I felt emboldened to write an article on Abū
Firās’s poem, published in 1999 as “Abū Firās’s Veneric Urjūzah Muzdawijah.”
The research I carried out for that article included reading the ṭardiyyāt of Abū
Nuwās and Ibn al-Muʿtazz, and this sowed the germ of an ambition to work more
closely on them. These plans were frustrated, however. In the dark days before
the internet, it was impossible to acquire detailed information about the habits
of raptors, for example, or the techniques of falconry—short of taking up the
sport myself, of course, or seeking to befriend an expert. But anyway, by this
stage al-Jāḥiẓ had started to colonize my mind and I forgot all about the ṭardiyyāt.
And so things continued, until December 2012, when, on a visit to the Abu
Dhabi Falcon Hospital, I came across the following poem by Shaykh Zayed bin
Sultan Al Nahyan (d. 2004):

xxi
 Introduction

My bird, I’ve trained

and tested you. Now
I challenge you—stoop
to the kill, bind to
in the air when the dusty
houbaras, big
as ostriches, fly
from the branches in fear.
Please do not fail.
Chase the leader,
attack the head,
ruthless like the wolf—
you won’t be bested.
Let the winds bring
the scattered feathers
from the kill! Care
for your bird or you’ll regret
flying her—you’ll call
and shout in vain.
Brothers and friends,
watch and judge
how she performs.
Send the jeep
if she’s not back by night.
Prepare provisions.

Note the drama of this poem. Shaykh Zayed describes that most tense of
moments: the first flight of a newly trained falcon. Will the bird perform well?
Will she prove to be a skilled hunter? Will she make a kill? Will she survive the
first hunt uninjured? Will she take to the wing and not return?15 Crucially, will
the falcon’s performance redound to the credit of her trainer and hunter? The
shaykh’s hunting party and companions are on hand, watching, ready to assess
not only how well the bird flies but how well she has been trained.
The dramatic success of the poem lies in the fact that we are not told the
outcome. We hope the hunt is successful, but the poet does not tell us the result
of this maiden flight. Clive Holes, whom I consulted in order to understand the
poem, suggested that it may also address other concerns. He proposed that it is

xxii
 Introduction

possibly a meditation on leadership and maybe even nationhood, with the close
relationship between poet-hunter and falcon a symbol for the care and attention
with which the Father of the Nation leads his people.
The poem is cleverly constructed. The hunt and kill are described in the form
of a wish, as an instruction to the novice bird; then the aftermath of the kill
is imagined. Reflections on success and failure lead to the expectation of the
traditional feast at the end of the hunt, though in this poem the feast may be
postponed while the hunting expedition searches for the falcon. This structure
is basically a modification of one of the patterns we encounter in the hunting
poems from the classical tradition.
And so a chance encounter with a poem a decade ago led me to revisit an
earlier project, the first fruits of which are contained in this book.

In her Preface to T. H. White’s The Goshawk, a tale about White’s “exercise of

power” while attempting to train a hawk, with disastrous effects, Helen Mac-
donald, author of the celebrated H Is for Hawk, laments “humanity’s . . . inability
to see nature as anything other than a mirror of ourselves.”16 The nonhumans we
encounter in the ṭardiyyāt are ultimately no exception to this. But at the same
time, they afford us a glimpse into how, in the hunting complex, the distinc-
tion between human and nonhuman becomes blurred: the human, in order to
achieve his goal, is forced to enter the consciousness of the nonhuman.
This is akin to what some critics consider to be profoundly modern in recent
poetry concerning the human-nonhuman encounter. The poet and critic John
Hollander notes how, in their poems about nonhumans, modern poets tend
to focus on a “particular encounter between a human person and an animal
presence, generating fables of a more complex sort than mere emblems.”17 It
is the ambiguity, and even the alterity, of the encounter with nonhumans as
described in these poems that keep drawing me back. I hope this volume will
encourage readers to open themselves up to the ṭardiyyah’s magnificent visions
of the nonhuman.

xxiii
 Tripoli Tadmur
(Palmyra) Euphra
Damascus
BAKR

tes
m SHAYBĀN (BAKR)
hā Ctesiphon
TAMĪM
GH
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IYĀD
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LIB
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Ayla ʿĀM

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SHAYBĀN (BAKR)
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ZIN BĀHILAH
ṢAʿ

H AW Ā 2 ḤANĪFAH
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al-Faw -K
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Settlement
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Extension
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Migration
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River with
lake ĀN
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Marshland ḍr
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tribe
ʿAdan Baḥ

LAKHM Sedentary
tribe The Tribes of Pre-Islamic Arabia [ca. 600 AD]
AWS Urban tribe
0 100 200 300 400 km Design: James Montgomery
ʿĀlij Region Cartography: Martin Grosch
 Note on the Text

One of the central tenets of the Library of Arabic Literature is to publish textes
intégrales—that is, books (or chapters in books) that existed as identifiable, con-
tained formats in the premodern tradition, rather than publishing excerpts or
selections from a text. Therefore, this book is unusual for an LAL volume in that
it is a selection of texts that does not already exist as an anthology in the pre-
modern tradition. I am grateful to the editors for acceding to my arguments and
allowing me to create the book. It is intended to set the stage for the subsequent
volumes of tardiyyāt currently in preparation. So I based my principle of selec-
tion on two objectives: to outline the contours of the pre-Islamic and Umayyad
poetic traditions from which later poets might have drawn, and to suggest the
centrality of what I have termed the hunting complex, not only to the ṭardiyyah,
but to the classical Arabic poetic imaginary.
I have not tried to make my selection exhaustive, but rather comprehensive
and representative. There are many more hunting scenes in pre-Islamic qasidas
than the smattering I present here, and I have omitted the Umayyad qaṣīd tra-
dition almost entirely (with the exception of Poem 23), concentrating instead
on the exiguous remains of Umayyad ṭardiyyāt composed in mashṭūr al-rajaz,
almost the most constant feature of the genre in its developed Abbasid form.
This is why the book contains no qasidas by poets such as al-Akhṭal and Dhū
l-Rummah. I have also omitted, from the project as a whole, the rich tradition
of Mamluk hunting poetry and epistolography (on which, see Thomas Bauer,
“The Dawādār’s Hunting Party: A Mamluk Muzdawija Ṭardiyya, probably by
Shihāb al-Dīn Ibn Faḍl Allāh”). It should also be noted that many of the poems
I have selected include scenes that were not taken up in the developed genre,
such as those in which an indigent hunter, concealed in a hide, ambushes a
herd of onagers as they arrive at a water hole. In many of these vignettes, how-
ever, descriptions of the bow and arrows used by the hunter play a significant
role and as such are intimations of later hunting poems that depict the use of
the pellet bow.
My selection is also idiosyncratic and impressionistic. I have chosen poems
that I like, and several (Poems 2, 3, and 5) do not contain hunting scenes in any
proper sense. One of the reasons I decided to include them was the poeticality

xxv
 Note on the Text

and power of their description of nonhumans. They are, moreover, insightful

and instructive inflections of the hunting complex, especially in the case of
Poem 5, in which the poet al-Shanfarā becomes the quarry hunted by his crimes,
which are personified and portrayed in a manner not dissimilar to the ancient
Greek goddesses of vengeance, the Erinyes (the Furies).
One feature of the book should be noted. Short biographies of each poet and
appreciations of each piece are to be found in the section “Note on the Poems.”
In order to keep the translation as uncluttered as possible, I have avoided anno-
tation and have provided as an addendum to my discussion of each poem such
notes and remarks as were absolutely necessary. I have also used this opportu-
nity to refer the reader to pertinent studies of the poems, when available, and
to a handful of poems, predominantly in English, that can be read (with enjoy-
ment, I hope) alongside my versions.

The Edition

I have produced my edition of the poems in this volume on the basis of published
editions, and have consulted manuscripts only in the case of the risālah of ʿAbd
al-Ḥamīd al-Kātib. My method has been to identify a version of a poem as my
base text, often on the basis of the collection of which it forms a part, be it the
Muʿallaqāt (Poems 1, 2, and 7), the Mufaḍḍaliyyāt (Poems 4 and 8), the Dīwān
al-Hudhaliyyīn (Poems 6 and 9), or the Ḥamāsah of Abū Tammām (Poem 11).
I have opted for commentaries that are maximalist.
These commentaries are exemplary for the care and attention they give to
the listing and attribution of numerous variant readings. Here, these variants are
presented in the form of a critical apparatus, and their attributions to specific
scholars are recorded when that information is provided by the commentator.
In the majority of cases, with the exception of Poem 1, I have collated the base
version with other recensions available in published editions.
For Poems 12–13 I have relied on the version of the poems provided by
al-Shimshāṭī in his florilegium Kitāb al-Anwār wa-maḥāsin al-ashʿār, and for
Poems 14–21 I have relied on Seidensticker’s excellent edition of the diwan of al-
Shamardal and included all but one of the fragments of ṭardiyyāt in that edition.
In the case of the five hunting poems in the corpus of Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī
(Poems 22–26), I have attempted a reconstruction of the poems based on
the disparate quotations carefully recorded by his modern editors—Jumrān,

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 Note on the Text

Hämeen-Anttila, and Weipert. This is another aspect of the book that I owe to
the indulgence of the editors of LAL.
In order for the reader to experience the poems with minimal intrusion, the
scholarly apparatus will appear in an LAL scholarly edition. The editing prin-
ciples I have adopted for each poem are as follows:

§1 The edition relies on the recension of the text given by al-Tibrīzī,

Sharḥ al-qaṣāʾid al-ʿashr, 19–94, whose scholion provides variant
readings that are often attributed.
§2 The edition relies on the recension of the text given by al-Tibrīzī,
Sharḥ al-qaṣāʾid, 467–84, whose scholion also provides variant
readings that are regularly attributed. I have collated al-Tibrīzī’s ver-
sion with the following versions: that preserved by Ibn Maymūn in
his Muntahā l-ṭalab min ashʿār al-ʿArab (ed. Sezgin), 1:130–32; that
edited by Lyall, The Dīwāns, 5–11 (Arabic); and that edited by Naṣṣār,
Dīwān ʿAbīd ibn al-Abraṣ, 9–20.
§3 The edition relies on the editions of Lyall, The Dīwāns, 65–66
(Arabic); Naṣṣār, Dīwān ʿAbīd, 75–78; and the unattributed quota-
tion of lines 1–2, 8–9, 10, and 17 by al-Jāḥiẓ in Kitāb al-Bayān wa-l-
tabyīn, 1:178–79.
§4 The edition is based on Lyall, The Mufaḍḍalīyāt: An Anthology of
Ancient Arabian Odes, 1:485–93, collated with Ibn Maymūn’s version,
Muntahā l-ṭalab (ed. Sezgin), 1:294–95.
§5 The edition relies on the version of the qasida given by al-
Zamakhsharī in Kitāb Aʿjab al-ʿajab fī lāmiyyat al-ʿArab, 4–72, col-
lated with the version provided by al-ʿUkbarī, I ʿrāb lāmiyyat al-ʿArab,
57–149, and those edited by al-Mallūḥī, al-Lāmiyyatān, 27–50;
Farḥāt, Dīwān al-ṣaʿālīk, 37–49; and Jones, Early Arabic Poetry,
1:139–84. I was unable to consult the earliest extant commentary,
that by Aḥmad ibn Yaḥyā Thaʿlab (d. 291/904).
§6 The edition is based on the version preserved by al-Sukkarī, Sharḥ
ashʿār al-Hudhaliyyīn, 1:245–53, collated with Ibn Maymūn’s version
in Muntahā l-ṭalab (ed. Ṭurayfī), 9:223–28, and Kosegarten’s edition,
Carmina Hudsailitarum, 5–12.
§7 The edition is based on al-Tibrīzī’s recension and commentary, Sharḥ
al-qaṣāʾid, 200–317, collated with Ibn al-Naḥḥās’s recension and

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 Note on the Text

commentary, as edited by Ḥittī (Labīd, Dīwān, 199–242), and with

ʿAbbās’s edition.
§8 The edition relies on Lyall’s edition of the poem in The Mufaḍḍa­
liyyāt, 1:160–81, collated with the version of the poem in Ibn
Maymūn’s Muntahā l-ṭalab (ed. Sezgin), 1:179–82, and the version
in Ibn al-Sikkīt’s recension of the diwan, as edited by al-ʿAṭiyyah: al-
Muzarrid, Dīwān, 33–48.
§9 The edition is based on the recension and commentary of al-Sukkarī,
Sharḥ ashʿār, 1:4–41, collated with the edition of al-Zayn, Dīwān
al-Hudhaliyyīn, 1–21; the version in The Mufaḍḍa­liyyāt, 1:849–84;
and the edition of Hell: Abū Duʾaib, Der Dīwān des Abū Duʾaib, 3–4.
§10 The edition is based on Tāhā: al-Ḥuṭayʾah, Dīwān al-Ḥuṭayʾah
bi-sharḥ Ibn al-Sikkīt wa-l-Sukkarī wa-l-Sijistānī, 396–99; it has been
collated with the edition of Goldziher, “Der Dîwân des Ǵarwal b. Aus
Al-Ḥuṭejʾa,” 194, and the edition of Qamīḥah: al-Ḥuṭayʾah, Dīwān
al-Ḥuṭayʾah bi-sharḥ wa-riwāyat Ibn al-Sikkīt, 177–78.
§11 The edition relies on the version of al-Marzūqī, Sharḥ Dīwan
al-Ḥamāsah li-Abī Tammām, 1284–86; it has been collated with
al-Tibrīzī, Sharḥ Dīwan al-Ḥamāsah li-Abī Tammam, 1065–66;
Hämeen-Anttila, Five Raǧaz Collections, 198–200; and, because it
is also attributed to Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī, with Jumrān’s edition: Abū
l-Najm, Dīwān, 171–73 (Poem 33).
§§12–13 The edition is based on the versions preserved by al-Shimshāṭī in
Anwār, 2:180–81 (Poem 12) and 2:181–82 (Poem 13), with reference
to the two verses of Poem 13 noted by Kushājim in al-Maṣāyid wa-l-
maṭārid, 68.
§§14–21 The edition is based on Seidensticker’s edition, Die Gedichte des
Šamardal ibn Šarīk, 159–63 (Poem 14 = Seiden­sticker Poem 20);
168–69 (Poem 15 = Seiden­sticker Poem 24); 184–87 (Poem 16 =
Seiden­sticker Poem 39); 158 (Poem 17 = Seiden­sticker Poem 19);
164 (Poem 18 = Seiden­sticker Poem 21); 165–66 (Poem 19 = Seiden-
sticker Poem 22); 170 (Poem 20 = Seidensticker Poem 25); and
188 (Poem 21 = Seidensticker Poem 40). I have collated Poems 14
and 15 with the version preserved by al-Iṣbahānī in Kitāb al-Aghānī
l-kabīr, 13:253–54, and Poem 16 with the version preserved by Ibn
Ḥamdūn in al-Tadhkirah al-Ḥamdūniyyah, 5:287, and by al-Ṣūlī in
Abū Nuwās, Dīwān Abī Nuwās bi-Riwāyat al-Ṣūlī (ed. al-Ḥadīthī),

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 Note on the Text

318–20; see also Abū Nuwās, Dīwān al-Ḥasan ibn Hāniʾ (ed.
Wagner), 2:325–27.
§22 I have constructed my version of the disparate fragments of the poem
from the materials provided in Abū l-Najm, Dīwān ( Jumrān), 60–75
(Poem 3); Hämeen-Anttila, Dīwān of Abu’n-Naǧm, 11–14 (English)
and 4–10 (Arabic) (Poem 2), and Minor Raǧaz Collections, 109; and
Weipert, “Abū n-Naǧm al-Iǧlī—eine Nachlese,” 7–8.
§23 The edition is based on the editions of Jumrān: Abū l-Najm, Dīwān,
77–85 (Poem 4); Hämeen-Anttila, Dīwān of Abu’n-Naǧm, 15 (Eng-
lish) and 12–13 (Arabic) (Poem 6); and Weipert, “Abū n-Naǧm,” 9–12.
§24 I have constructed my version of the fragments based on the mate-
rials provided by Jumrān: Abū l-Najm, Dīwān, 105–10 (Poem 17);
Hämeen-Anttila, Dīwān of Abu’n-Naǧm, 16–17 (English) and 13–15
(Arabic) (Poem 8), and Minor Raǧaz Collections, 110; Weipert, “Abū
n-Naǧm,” 13; al-Iṣbahānī, Aghānī, 10:127; and al-Shimshāṭi, Anwār,
2:160–61. The poem remains fragmentary, however, and in my edi-
tion, I have separated these fragmentary sections with two stars (* *).
§25 I have reconstructed my version of the fragments of this poem based
on the materials provided by Jumrān: Abū l-Najm, Dīwān, 212–24
(Poem 47); Hämeen-Anttila, Dīwān of Abu’n-Naǧm, 32–34 (English)
and 36–41 (Arabic) (Poem 30), and Minor Raǧaz Collections, 113; and
Weipert, “Abū n-Naǧm,” 20–21. In my edition, I have separated these
fragmentary sections with two stars (* *). Even this reconstruction
is incomplete, however, because there are four verses that I have
been unable to incorporate into my version. They are: Jumrān 12
= Hämeen-Anttila 30; Jumrān 29–30 = Hämeen-Anttila 13–14; and
Weipert 73.
§26 I have reconstructed my version of the fragments of this poem based
on the materials provided by Jumrān: Abū l-Najm, Dīwān, 387–99
(Poem 82); Hämeen-Anttila, Dīwān of Abu’n-Naǧm, 69–71 (English)
and 84–88 (Arabic) (Poem 64), and Minor Raǧaz Collections, 115–16;
and Weipert, “Abū n-Naǧm,” 42–44. In my edition, I have separated
these fragmentary sections with two stars (* *).
§27 The risālah exists as a quotation in Kitāb al-Manthūr wa-l-manẓūm by
Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr (d. 280/893). I have relied on four manuscripts
to establish my edition: Dār al-Kutub 1860 adab (dated 1307/1889–
90); British Library 18532 (dated 1092/1681); al-Azhar 464 (dated

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 Note on the Text

1302/1884–5); and al-Azhar 1752 (dated 1331/1912–13). I have adopted

the Dār al-Kutub MS as my basis: although it is the oldest surviving
testimony, the British Library MS contains too many errors to make
it satisfactory. In terms of this risālah, the two Azhar MSS seem not
to be based on the Dār al-Kutub MS and occasionally preserve some
useful readings. I have relied heavily on the edition of ʿAbbās, ʿAbd
al-Ḥamīd ibn Yaḥyā wa-mā tabaqqā min rasāʾilihi wa-rasāʾil Sālim
Abī l-ʿAlāʾ, 268–71, and have gratefully adopted many of his insightful
emendations. The copyists were not especially comfortable with the
terminology of the epistle and a number of conundrums persists.

The Translation

A constant challenge in trying to translate a poem is the presence of formal fea-

tures in the source language that are absent in the target language. In the case
of Classical Arabic poetry, there are two principal formal features: terminal
monorhyme, whereby each line of a poem concludes with the same consonant
and its attendant vowel, and meter, whereby each line of a poem is composed
in the same meter throughout. Less immediately prominent, but no less impor-
tant, are rhetorical features, such as wordplay, antithesis, and paronomasia, to
name just three. There is a third principal formal feature that often goes unre-
marked. Classical Arabic poems are made up of lines that are almost always
syntactically and semantically self-contained, and therefore apparently autono-
mous of the other lines in the poem.18 Poetic meaning is thus generated through
parataxis, rather than through enjambment and hypotaxis (whence the notion of
“orient pearls at random strung,” as Sir William Jones (d. 1794) rendered a line
by Hafez (d. 792/1390)).19
Most translations of Arabic poetry (whatever their ambition, scholarly or lit-
erary) will dispense with terminal monorhyme and meter, but few disregard the
hegemony of the line. And many readers of English translations of this poetry
who are familiar with the Arabic of the source texts will object vociferously to
any attempts to disregard this hegemony.
In my work as a translator of Classical Arabic poems, I have found, how-
ever, that it is the hegemonic line that has presented the sternest challenge.
This held true in the early stages of this book: my first drafts of Poems 1 to 9
were attempts to develop in English a single line, of varying stress, that might
accommodate the source texts, but without resorting to the two-step line, in

xxx
 Note on the Text

which the hemistichs of the source texts are by and large preserved. The experi-
ment proved unsatisfactory to both my ear and my eye: the poems looked as if
they were hewn from granite and sounded just as heavy. This is not how I hear
these Arabic poems. To be sure, they have an impressive monumentality and an
imposing sonority, but they are definitely not inert or onerous. They pulse with
energy and luxuriate in their distinctive sound patterns. My adherence to the
formal feature of the autonomous line had succeeded merely in distorting the
vitality of that feature.
When I reread Tennyson’s “Locksley Hall” (1842), inspired by his reading of the
Muʿallaqah of Imruʾ al-Qays (Poem 1), I became intrigued by Tennyson’s trochaic
doublets of four feet per hemistich. Driven by the desire to capture the energy of
the Arabic poems, I decided to impose a constraint upon my translations: the
preservation of a loosely articulated but constant stress pattern throughout the
whole translation. Poem 6 thus has a six-stress pattern and Poem 1 a five-stress
pattern, while the versions translated from rajaz poems (Poems 11–26) alternate
between three and four stresses per line. Interestingly, in mashṭūr al-rajaz, the
version of the meter used by the poets, in which each “hemistich” forms an inde-
pendent verse that rhymes with the preceding verses, the paratactical autonomy
of the poems so prevalent in more formal meters is less pronounced. This I think
is a result of the brevity of their “hemistichs.”
By imposing this simple constraint, I was forced to embrace enjambment and
endeavor to exploit its semantic possibilities. I discovered that I could try to
listen for the poem, to create spaces for the energy of the source poems to burst
through, for the concrete imagery to cascade before the mind’s eye, thus acquir-
ing potency through accumulation.

xxxi
 Notes to the Introduction

1 I am not a falconer or huntsman, or an expert in zoology. I am primarily interested in the

poetics of this corpus, not in whether what the poets describe is consistent with animal
behavior or ethology. I am only too aware that in my ignorance of and inexperience with
the cynegetic art, I will have committed many an error, for which I apologize.
2 See further Montgomery, introduction to ʿAntarah ibn Shaddād, War Songs, xxix–xxxi.
3 See Briggs, This Little Art, 188.
4 Marvin, “Medieval Blood Sport,” 57.
5 Marvin, “Medieval Blood Sport,” 66.
6 Marvin, “Medieval Blood Sport,” 68, 69.
7 In the current selection of poems, the eagle features as an independent predator, not as
a trained hunter directed by a human, though it does appear in this latter capacity in a
few later ṭardiyyāt.
8 The term dayzaj may also designate the cream-colored courser (Cursorius cursor).
9 Allsen, The Royal Hunt in Eurasian History.
10 Allen, Falconry in Arabia, 129. On the Umayyad hunt, see Brey, “The Caliph’s Prey:
Hunting in the Visual Cultures of the Umayyad Empire.”
11 Allsen, The Royal Hunt, 8, 12.
12 Allsen, The Royal Hunt, 12.
13 On the Mamluk hunting poem, see Bauer, “The Dawādār’s Hunting Party”; on the hunt-
ing risālah, see Hämeen-Anttila, Maqama: A History of a Genre, 213–15.
14 For overviews and literary histories of the genre, see al-Bāshā, Shiʿr al-ṭarad ilā nihāyat
al-qarn al-thālith al-hijrī; al-Ṣāliḥi, Al-Ṣayd wa-l-ṭarad fī al-shiʿr al-ʿarabī ḥattā nihāyat
al-qarn al-thānī l-hijrī; Wagner, Grundzüge der klassischen arabischen Dichtung, 2:46–
58; Smith, “Hunting Poetry”; and Seidensticker, “Ṭardiyya.”
15 See the two poems on the loss of a bird quoted and translated by Allen and Smith,
“Some Notes on Hunting Techniques and Practices in the Arabian Peninsula,” 145–46.
The second of the three poems, from Najd, laments the loss of a bird not fully trained, in
a manner similar to Shaykh Zayed’s poem.
16 Macdonald, preface to White, The Goshawk, vi.
17 Hollander, “Animal Poems,” 14.

xxxii
 Notes to the Introduction

18 See van Gelder, Beyond the Line: Classical Arabic Literary Critics on the Coherence and
Unity of the Poem.
19 See van Ruymbeke, “Sir William Jones and the Anvar-e Sohayli.”

xxxiii
 ‫�����ط د �ّ�ا � ت‬
�‫ري‬
Fate the Hunter
 ‫~‪~١‬‬

‫� �‬ ‫�‬
‫��ق�ا �ل ا �مر��ؤ ا � �لق�ي����س [ا �ل��ط�و���ل]‬
‫ي‬

‫�َْ ِ‬ ‫�ْ � ٱ � ََّ َ ْ نَ ٱ � َّ �خُ � فَ‬ ‫َ ِ نْ �‬ ‫ْ �ذ ْ‬

‫��َ � َ‬ ‫����قفَ��ا ��نَ ْ���ك �م ن‬
‫حو���مل�‬ ‫� �و��م��ِر�ِل بِ�ِ��س��ق��ِط � �ل�� �لو�ى �ب�ي�� � �ل��د ��و�ِل ��‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ب‬ ‫��‬
‫ي‬‫�‬ ‫ب‬
‫ِ‬‫ح‬‫�‬ ‫ى‬ ‫ر‬‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ ب ِ ِ‬
‫َٰ‬ ‫ِ ُ ض َ فَٱ ْ� ْ َ ة ��لَ ْ �يَ ْ ف ُ َ ْ ُ هَ �َ �نَ َ‬
‫�ِ تْ َ ا � نْ �ِ نُ َ �ِ ْ �أ �‬
‫‪١،١‬‬

‫� �و����ش�م� �ٰل‬ ‫ا ���س‬ ‫ا‬ ‫��قرا ِ� � ��� �‬ ‫م�‬ ‫� ��� ِ�ل �‬ ‫��فت��وِ���‬
‫�ع� ر����س�م�� ِ�ل�م� ��ج��ه� ِم� َ ��ج ��و ب ٍ‬ ‫َ م‬ ‫ح‬
‫�ِ َ َ ِ َ ٱ �ْ �أ ْآ ف ِ َ َ ا ت هَ ا َ ق َ ا ن َ ا َ �أ ِّ ُ َ ُّ �ُ �ْ ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫���تر�ى ب���عر � �ل� ر� ِ�م ِ��ي ���عر�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫��ص� �ِ��� �وِ���ي��ع� �ِ�ه� ك� ���ن� ح ب� �ف�ل���ف�ٰل‬
‫َ‬
‫�يَ نَا �ق�ف ُ َ� ْ �ِ��‬ ‫َ �أ نَّ ِ َ ةَ ٱ �ْ ِ ْ ن يَْ َ تَ�ِ َّ �ُ �لَ�َ ِ ُ َ ت ٱ �ْ َ ّ‬
‫ظ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫� � ح� ِ � �ن��ٰل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫ل‬
‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�م‬‫����س‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ل‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫�ح‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬
‫ك� �ي �غ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ر ِ‬ ‫ى‬ ‫و‬ ‫�بي ِ� �وم‬
‫ِ لََّ َ � ِّ ُ ْ �يَقُ �ُ نَ �َ ا تَ ْ � � ْ أ �ً َ ت ِ َّ‬ ‫ُ‬
‫�ُ ��ق� ��فٍ�ا ��هَ�ا صَ‬
‫��� ْ‬
‫��ج��مل�‬ ‫ه�مِ�لك � ��سى �و ��‬ ‫ط����ه� � ���و� �لو� �ل� ���� �‬ ‫ِ‬‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�ع‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬‫ح‬‫ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫و و بِ �‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫ي م‬ ‫��ي‬ ‫ِ �ي‬
‫نَّ � َ ا ئ َ ْ َ ٌة �ُ ِ َ ِ �ةٌ فَ�هَ ْ نَْ َ ْ َ � � نْ ُ عَ َّ �‬
‫‪٥،١‬‬

‫�َ�إو � ���ِ��ش��ف� ِ��ي �ع ���بر� م���هرا ��ق� �� �ل �ِ�ع��د ر����س�ٍم د ا ِر�ٍس ِم� ���م� �و�ٰل‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ُ‬
‫�ُ ْ ث �قَ ْ �َ هَ ا َ � َ ا َ ت َ ا أ َّ ٱ �� ََّا � َ�أ ِ‬ ‫ِ َ أْ َ ْ أُ َّ ٱ �ْ‬
‫� ِب��م� ����س�ٰل‬ ‫�ج � رِ���ه� � �م � ل �بر� ب ِ‬ ‫ل� �و�‬ ‫� ��ب� �‬ ‫حوَ�ي ِر ِ‬‫ك�دَ� �بِ��ك �ِم ن� � �م � �‬
‫ل‬
‫�ذَ َ ا ِ َ ا تَ ضَ َّ َ ٱْ� ْ ُ نْ ُ َ ا نَ َ ٱ � ِّ َ ا جَ ا َ تْ َ َّا ٱ �ْ ِ َ �نْ فُ‬
‫��ق �ر � �ٰل‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��صب�� �� ء � �ِ���بر�ي� � � �ل�‬ ‫��سي���م � �ل�‬
‫�ه�م� �� ِ‬ ‫��وع �ِ�لم��س��ك �ِم �‬ ‫ِ�إ ا ��ق� ��مت�� ��� �‬
‫�ْ�حَ‬ ‫م‬
‫�‬ ‫�حتَّ � َ َّ َ �ْ ��يَ �‬ ‫فَ َ ا �ضَ تْ ُ ُ ُ ٱ �ْ ِ ْ ن �نَّ َ ا َ َ لَ �ٱ ��ل�نَّ ْ �ِ‬
‫��‬
‫��حِر ��ى ���ب�ل د ��مِ�ع ِ �مي�ل‬ ‫�����ف� � � د � �مو � �ل��ع�� �ِم� �صَ�� �ب���ةً �ع��� �‬
‫ُ ْ ِ‬ ‫ى‬ ‫ع ي ِ� �ي ب‬
‫�ج���لُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫يَ‬ ‫َ‬
‫� �َلا ���س���م�ا � ��ْ� ���ب�د ا �ة ��‬ ‫َ‬‫ّ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫� �يَ��ْ � ��لَ�� َك ��منْ�ُه نَّ �ص َ‬ ‫أَ�َ ا ُ َّ‬
‫ل‬
‫�ٰل‬‫��ج‬ ‫�‬ ‫وٍم ِ رٱِْ‬ ‫ِح و ِ ي‬ ‫‍      �‬ ‫ِ ��‬ ‫م‬‫ٍ‬‫� �ل� ر ب و‬
‫َ يَْ َ ِ ِ ْ ُت � ْ ِ �ذَ َ ِ � ِّ تٍ ِ يَ ا َ� ِ َ ا نْ َ ْ هَ ا �ل�ُ��متَ ِ َّ‬
‫‪١٠،١‬‬

‫��ح��مل�‬ ‫�ح��ل� ��‬ ‫�ج�� �م ر�‬ ‫�‬‫م��ط��ي���ي  ��ف�� ع‬

‫�‬ ‫��قر� ِ�ل��ل��ع� ا ر�ى �� ِ‬ ‫�و���و� ���ع��‬
‫بكَ ِ َ� ٱ ِّ �ْ ٱْ�ُ ِ َ ٰ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫م‬
‫� �َ مَ ق � �ل � تّ‬ ‫��فَ ِ� َّ ٱ �ْ ِ �ذَ َ ِ ْ ت�َ نَ ���َل ْ هَ ا َ ���شَ� ْ �� ُ ّ‬
‫�‬ ‫�����ظ�ل � �ل��ع� ا ر�ى ����ير��م��ي� بِ�‬
‫� � �ل�د � ����ِس ��م��ف���ٰل‬ ‫��حِ�م�� �و��ح�ٍم ���ه�د ا ب ِ‬ ‫ِ‬
‫�ج��‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬‫ّ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫لَ‬
‫�ق�ا �ل ت� ���ك � � �لَ �و�ل�ا ت� �إِ �ن��ك �م ْر�‬‫�‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬‫�‬ ‫فَ‬ ‫ة‬ ‫�زَ‬
‫ْ‬
‫�خ�د ��ع��� � ����َ‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫َ يَ ْ َ َ �ِ �ْ تُ ٱ �ْ خل �ْ َ‬
‫�ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�خ�ل� � ِ��د ر ِ ر ي ٍ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�و���و� د �‬
‫ٱ ِ يِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ي‬
‫غَ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬
‫م‬
‫تَقُ �ُ َ ِ ْ َ ا �َ � ��� ُ � َ ا مَ عًا َ �قَ ْ َت �َ � يَا ٱ ْ أ ٱ �ْ قَ ْ فَ � ْ �ز �‬
‫��بي� ��ط �بِ���ن� � �� �ع�ر� ب��ِ�ع�يِر��ي �� � �مَ�ر � � �ل�ي����ِس �� ����نِ �ٰل‬ ‫�‬
‫���ول �و��ق�د ��م� ل ل� ِ‬
‫�� �‬
‫ٱْ�ُ ِ َّ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�م�ا �َم�هُ �ََلا ��تُ�ْ��ب�ع�د �ي�ن �م نْ �جَ��َ‬
‫�ن�ا‬ ‫�ِ ��ُ �ْ تُ ��لَ َ ا � � أ ْ خ� �ز َ‬
‫ك � �ل��م��ع��لل�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ ِِ �ي ِ �‬ ‫�‬ ‫و‬ ‫��س�ي ر�ي �َ�و رِ ��ي ِ �‬
‫�ق�ل� �ه� � ِ ِ‬
‫��ف‬
‫ٰ‬
‫‪١٥،١‬‬

‫‪2‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬
 ~1~

Imruʾ al-Qays: Echoes of Love Lost

Echoes of love lost where the dune dips 1.1

between Dakhūl and Ḥawmal, Tūḍiḥ and Miqrāt.
My tears brought the troop to a halt at the ruins,
faint, woven in patterns by the north and south
winds, grounds and pools spattered with rhim-
dung peppercorns. The day the tribe left,
I wept by the acacias, as if I’d crushed a wild gourd.
My comrades’ camels towered over me: “Don’t die of grief;
put on a brave face.” “Can we trust ancient
ruins? Tears are my cure. They helped me recover
after Umm Ḥuwayrith and Umm Rabāb in Maʾsal,
a scent of musk like an aroma of cloves wafting
on an eastern breeze.” So keen was my love, my eyes
wept hard and soaked the sword belt on my chest.

I’ve enjoyed many a precious day with women— 1.10

that day at Dārat Juljul, the day I slaughtered my camel
for the maidens who tossed about its meat and lumps
of fat like the fringes of a white silk cloth—
wondrous, to see my saddle carried away!
And the day I entered ʿUnayzah’s howdah.
Her camel lurched and threw us to one side. “Be careful!
You’ll hock my beast and I’ll have to walk. Get out,
Imruʾ al-Qays!” “Loosen the reins, let it walk on.
Don’t deny me your delicious fruit. I’ve had women

3 3
 ‫� � �ّق �ة � ئ �� ق‬
‫مع� �ل�� ا �مر� ا �ل�ي����س‬
‫َ‬
‫َ �أ ��ْ ِ ْ تُ َ ا َ� نْ �ذ َت� َ ا � َ �ُ�مْ �‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ح�ْ �لَ ق�ِْ�د �ِ����طَ �قْ تُ �َ �ُ‬ ‫�‬‫�فَ �ْ � � ُ‬
‫حول�‬ ‫ئ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م�ث�‬
‫�م � �‬ ‫�‬
‫� َ�� � ِ �ي ُ ِ م ِ ٰ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ض‬ ‫��‬
‫ر � و ر ِ� ٍ �ف‬
‫ع‬
‫م‬ ‫ِ ِل ِك �ب ��ى‬
‫�قّ َ ا �لَ ْ ُ�َ َّ �‬ ‫�ْ ت‬ ‫� ْ خَ ْ� هَ ٱ �نْ ِ َ فَ تْ �لَ ُ ش ّقً َ ت‬ ‫�ذَ َ كَ‬
‫حو�ٰل‬ ‫ح���ي ����ِ�ش����س���ه� ��م ي �‬ ‫�‬
‫بِ ِ � و ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫���‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ر‬ ‫���ص‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� �م ن ���ل��ف �ا‬
‫�إِ ا �م� ب� ى ِ � ِ �‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫اَ‬
‫ِ لَ آ �َ ْ ِ ْ ِ �ةً �لَ تَ ِ َّ‬
‫�ح�� �ل��ف� � ْ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�تَ ِ �ذَّ َ ْ‬
‫ت‬ ‫�‬
‫َ يَْ ً َ لَ ظَ � ْ ٱ �ْ كَ‬
‫�‬
‫ٰل‬
‫�ح� ��‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬‫�‬ ‫َ�‬
‫ر� �ع �� و �‬‫�‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ع‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ث‬
‫�ي‬ ‫ِ‬‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫���هِر � �ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�و� ��و�م�ا �ع��� ��‬
‫�ي‬ ‫ى‬
‫نْ ُ���نْ ت قَ ْ أَ�زْ مَ ْ ت ُ ْ � فَ�أَ ْ‬ ‫أَ َ � َ ِ ْ ً َ ْ ضَ ٰ �ذَ ٱ � ِّ َ �ُّ‬
‫ا‬
‫��مي��ل‬ ‫�ص م� �� ج‬ ‫� ��د � � �ع� �‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ا �‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ رِ�ي ْ ِ ِ‬ ‫� �ف� ��ِ�ط�م ��م�ه�ل� ب���ع��� �ه� ا � �ل��ت�د �ل�ِل �َ�إِو � ك ِ‬
‫��� �لَّ ��ث َ�ا � �م نْ ��ث َ�ا � � �ت�َ ن�� ُ‬ ‫نْ تَ� ُ �ِ ْ َ ا َتْ� �م�نَّ خَ � �ِ �ةٌ فَ ِ‬
‫�ٰل‬ ‫����س‬ ‫�ق� � س �� ِ��ي بِ�ي ِ � ِ��ي بِ� ِك‬ ‫�َ�إو � ��ك �ق�د ���س� ء �� ِك ِ ��ي �ِ�ل���ي�‬
‫ْ‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�نَّ أَ نَّ‬ ‫َِ‬
‫َ�أ�نَّ� �َ ْ�هَ ا �تَ�أ �ُ � �ٱ ��ْ�لِ �ْ َ ��يَ ف�ْ��ِ‬ ‫أ‬
‫‪٢٠،١‬‬

‫ت‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬‫ّ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬‫ّ‬ ‫ِ‬‫�‬

‫�ق�ل ب� ��عل�‬ ‫ح��� ِك ��ق�ا �ِ��ل��ي �و � ِك م� �م� � ��مِر�ي �‬ ‫�‬ ‫‍‬‫�‬
‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫غ‬‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫قَ ٰ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ب‬
‫َ‬ ‫ر ِ ِ �ي‬
‫سَ ْ َ ْ � ف أ ْ � َ ا قَ ْ ُ ِّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�ذَ‬
‫��ْ�ضر ��ي  ب��� ���ه�م��ك �� � �ع���ش� ر ���‬ ‫�َ �َم�ا َ �فَ تْ �َع�ْ�ي نَ��ا ك ��ا ��لَت� �‬
‫� � �م����ت�ٰل‬ ‫ِ بٍ‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ِ�ي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ بِ‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ ِ�إ �ل ِ‬ ‫و ر�‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫لَ‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬
‫� َ ا �ؤُ َ ا ت�َ �ّ �ْ تُ‬ ‫َ ��َْ ِ �ة � ْ � ا ُ َ ُ �خ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ِ‬ ‫� �ِم نْ � ْه�و ���هَ�ا ���غ�يْ�َر �م��ع‬ ‫�خ�د ٍر �ل� ����يرا � ِ ب�� � ��ه� �م��تع‬
‫��ج�ٰل‬ ‫� � ٍ بِ‬ ‫م‬ ‫�ض�ِ �ِ‬ ‫� بو ي���‬
‫تَ َا َ�زْ ُت أ �ْ َ ًا �لَ ْ َ ا َ �مَ �ْ �ِ ً َ لََّ � َ صًا �لَْ ُ ُّ نَ مَ قْ ِ‬ ‫َ‬
‫��‬
‫����سر�و� � ��� يل‬
‫�‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫�ج� �و � � ��حرا ��س� ِ�إ �ي��ه� �و ع����شرا �ع��� �ِ�حرا � � � � �‬ ‫��‬
‫ٱوْ ي ِ ٱْ ُ�فَ ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�ي‬
‫�ذَ َ ا �ٱ �� �ُّ َ َّا �ف �ٱ ��ل ِّ َ ا �تَ��ِ َّ �ضَ تْ �تَ��ِ ُّ��ضَ أ�ثَْ ا � �� � َ ا � � �ل� � ِّ‬
‫���صل�‬ ‫�إِ ا �م� ل��ثر�ي� ِ��ي ����س�م� ِء ��عر� � ��عر � � ���ن� ِء �لِو���ش� ِ م �‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫ح ٱْ�َُ�فَ‬ ‫�فَ �ئْ تُ َ ِ ْ �نَ �ضَ تْ � نَ ْ ث َ ا َ� َ ا �لَ�َ ٱ � سَّ ْت �َّ ا � ْ ِ‬
‫‪٢٥،١٢‬‬

‫��ضَّ‬
‫��‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬‫���س��ةَ � �لمت‬ ‫�ج � �و��ق�د � � � ِ�ل ��و� �ِ���ي� ب��ه� ��د �ى � �ل��� ��ِر �إِ �ل� ِ�لب��‬ ‫�‬
‫�ٰل‬ ‫�‬
‫ٍم‬ ‫�ِ‬
‫َ‬
‫�ج��‬ ‫�فَ � َ ا �َ تْ يَ� نَ ٱ ّٰ َ ا �لَ� َ � �َ�ةٌ َ َ ا نْ أ َ� ِ نْ � َ �ٱ ��ْ�غَ َ ِ �ةُ ت�َ�نْ�ِ‬
‫�ل‬ ‫�ق� �ل� �ِ�م��ي� � للِه �م� ��ك �ِحي��ل� �و�م� �إِ � � رى ��ع��ك ل �� او ���ي� �‬ ‫��‬
‫يِ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ِ ُ ْ تُ َ ا أ ْ �ش ت ُ ُّ َ َ َ نَا َ لَ �ْ نَا أَ�ذ يَا �َ ْ � ُ َ ِّ‬
‫��جر �وراء �� �ع���ى ِ�إ ���ثِر�� � �� �ل �ِ��مر ��ٍط ���مر� �ٰل‬
‫�ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ق�م� ���ه� � �مِ��� ��‬ ‫���ف�‬
‫�ي‬ ‫َ ِب‬
‫نَ ا َ ْ � ُ ْ ت �ذ ق فَ ا ف َ قَ ْ ِ‬ ‫فَ َ ِّ ا أ ِ �زْنَا َ ا ِ �ةَ ٱ �ْ َ�يَّ ٱ نْتَ‬
‫��قل�‬ ‫ع�ن ���‬ ‫�خَ�� ��ي ِ����� �� � �‬ ‫�‬ ‫حَ ب���� �� ��ط ن‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫ح �َ�و �‬ ‫�ح� � ل‬
‫�‬ ‫��ج �� ���س� �‬ ‫���ل��م� � ��‬
‫فَ � َ �ى ِلَ ب � ب ٍٱ �ْ ِ َ ْ ٍ َ ٱْ� ُِ ْ ٰ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫��خ‬
‫��خ��لِ‬
‫�‬‫�‬ ‫���صْ ُت � ��فَ�ْ دَ � ْ َ�أ �� َ�ا ��ِ��تَ �ا �يَ��ل تْ َ�ع� َّ �هَ �� �� َ � �لك�ش�� َ �ّ�ا �لم‬
‫�‬ ‫هَ ِ‬
‫��‬
‫�ٰل‬ ‫ر‬
‫ِح �ي‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ض‬
‫ي‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫س‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ر‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫و‬‫�‬ ‫ب‬
‫ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ر‬
‫َ‬‫ّ‬
‫ِ ْ ُ ُ َ ِ �ة ِ َ ُ َ َ قُ �لَ�ةٌ َ ٱ �ل���سِ‬ ‫�ي‬
‫��ج�نْ ِ‬ ‫�ُ ِ �ف�ْ ِ‬
‫‪٣٠،١‬‬

‫��‬ ‫�� �‬
‫���ص��و�� ك‬ ‫�ض�ٍ ����ترا �ئب��ه�ا �م� ْ �‬ ‫�ض�ا ءُ ���غ�ي�ر � �‬
‫��م��ف�ا‬ ‫�هفَ���ةٌ ��َ ْ���َ‬ ‫�‬
‫��جل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫م���ه �‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫َ‬
‫َ أ‬
‫َ ا ظ � َ ة نْ َ ْ ش َ ْ ةَ ْ �‬ ‫َ تَ ِّ‬ ‫تَ ُ ُّ ُ‬
‫طِ���ف�ٰل‬ ‫��جَر� �ُم �� �‬ ‫�‬‫ح�� �و�‬ ‫��ت�ق��ي  �ب���ن� ِ ���ر� �ِم� �و�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫و‬‫��سي���ل � �‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫��ص�د �َ �و�ت�ْ�ب ِ�د ��ي �ع نْ� � �‬ ‫���‬
‫ِ�‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ذَ ��يَ ��نَ ِّ ْ ُ َ �َ ا ُ ِ ِّ �‬ ‫�� �ٱ �� َّ� �لَ ْ سَ � � َ‬ ‫��‬ ‫�َو�‬
‫��صت��ه �و�ل� ِب����م��ع ����طل�‬ ‫ح ش���  �إِ ا ِ �ه �‬ ‫�ف�ا ِ�‬ ‫�جي� ِ�د لر���ي� �ي���� بِ��‬ ‫�‬
‫ِ‬ ‫�ج��د ك‬
‫ٍ‬ ‫ي‬ ‫�‬
‫ِ‬
‫ٰ‬
‫�� نْ �ٱ ��ل�نَّ ْ �َ�ة �ٱْ�ُ�ِ ِ ثْ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ ْ ِ �ز ُ ٱْ� ِ ِمتْنَ أَ ْ َ فَ ٍ أَ كَ‬
‫��خ�ل�ِ �لم��ت��ع� ِ‬ ‫�ِ�ح�  � �ث�ي�� ث� ��ِ�ق ��و �‬ ‫�َو���فر ����ي ن � �ل�م�� � � �َ ا �‬
‫�ك�ٰل‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�سود �� ٍم ِ ٍ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ٍع ِ �ي�‬

‫‪4‬‬ ‫‪4‬‬
 Imruʾ al-Qays: Echoes of Love Lost

like you, a pregnant mother with a child at her breast—

I brought her joy, made her forget her son
clad in his amulets; when he cried, she turned
toward him but kept her body pinned beneath me.”

One day on the dune ridge, Fāṭimah resisted 1.18

and solemnly swore we were finished. “Slow down,
less flirtation,” I urged. “If you’ve decided to break up,
please, be kind. But if it’s something I’ve said
or done, untangle our clothes and we’ll part ways.
Are you bold because your love destroys me and my heart
heeds your every command? These tears are meant
to cut me to the quick, a brave gamble to win
my murdered heart. I’ve had a woman, round, smooth
as an egg, hidden in a guarded tent—I took
my time; I enjoyed her to the full. To reach
her, I crept past sentries and kinsmen eager to boast
they’d killed me. The Pleiades in the night sky had moved
to the side, like the links of a body chain inlaid with gems
of alternating colors. She lay beside the screen, ready
for sleep, naked but for her shift. ‘My God!’ she cried.
‘You can’t succeed. I don’t think you’ll ever see
the error of your ways.’ I took her from the tent, she covered
our tracks with the hem of a cloak decorated with saddle
designs. We crossed the court and reached the dip
of a wide, ridged valley. I cradled her head
and she yielded, her torso lean, slender, white,
her ankles plump, her chest burnished like a looking
glass. As she turned away she showed her cheek,
tender and smooth, her eyes wary like a Wajrah
doe tending to her fawn, her delicate throat,
clasped in a necklace, as graceful as a rhim’s, her coal-
black hair, luxuriant, adorning her back
like date clusters tightly bunched on a palm,
her curls twisting upward, the plaits lost

5 5
 ‫� � �ّق �ة � ئ �� ق‬
‫مع� �ل�� ا �مر� ا �ل�ي����س‬

‫ِ َ ا � ُ ُ �ُم ْ��� ��تَ �ْ �زَ َ ا ٌت ��لَ �ٱ ��ْ�ُ َ�ا �تَ ُّ �ٱ ��ْ� �قَ ا ��ُ �ف �ُم�ثَ نًّ َ ُ ْ ِ‬
‫��ض�ل لِ��ع�� ص ِ��ي �ى �و�مر �ٰل‬
‫����س‬ ‫���غ�د ِ���ئره س ����ش ر � ِ�إ �ى ل�ع�ل �ِ�‬
‫��‬
‫َ أْ ٱ � َّ ٱْ� ُ �ذَ �َّ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫�ُمخَ‬ ‫�ٱ �ْ‬ ‫َ َ ْش �َ‬
‫‪٣٥،١‬‬

‫��س���يَ � �ل�م� �لل�‬

‫�� ن�� ُ� � �ل �ق ّ‬ ‫َ َ ا �ق‬ ‫� ِّ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ِ‬
‫ل‬ ‫ل���ط ��ف� َك����‬
‫ٱٍ ُّ �لَ ب ْو ب ِ ِ �فَ ٰ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫��س‬ ‫�‬‫ٍر و‬‫�‬ ‫���ص‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ِي ِل‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬
‫�ج‬ ‫� � ِيٍ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�وك����‬
‫ٍ‬
‫���َ �� ْ �تَ� ن���ِ ��� قْ �َع نْ �تَ� ُّ‬ ‫حت تُ ٱْ� ْ � �فَْ قَ َ � هَ ا نَ�ؤُ َ �ل�‬ ‫َ ُ ْ فَ‬
‫��ض�ٰل‬ ‫��‬ ‫ط� � � �‬ ‫ح��ي �ِ�ي��� �ِ�لم��س� ِك ��و�� ِ���فرا ���ِش�� � �� �و�م � �ضح�ى م �تِ �‬ ‫���‬ ‫�و��ي �ض‬
‫ِ‬
‫َ أَ ِّ ُ أَ َ ُ � ْ أَ ْ َ َ ُ �ْ‬ ‫َتَ ْ ُ � َ خْ �غَ ْ �شَ ْ‬
‫ظَ���ي � �و �م��س�ا �ِ �وي��ك ِ�إ �ِ�حل�‬
‫س‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫��� ��ي�ر �� ��ث ن� ك�� ���ن�ه  � ���س�ا ر�� ��ب�‬ ‫طو ����بر�‬ ‫�و���ع �� �‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫ِ �يع ُ ٍ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ص‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫ِ‬
‫َ �أ �نَّهَ ا ِ نَ ا َ ُة ���مْ�م َ َ‬ ‫ٱ � ِّ � َ َ ٱ �ْ‬
‫ُ تََ ��تَّ‬
‫�‬ ‫��‬
‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫ا‬ ‫س‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ك‬ ‫ء‬ ‫ا‬
‫�‬ ‫َ‬
‫ش‬ ‫���‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�‬‫ل‬ ‫ل���ظ�ل�ا �م �ب�� �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�تُ� �ض� ءُ‬
‫ب �ٰل‬ ‫بٍ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ى‬ ‫�‬ ‫ر‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ ��ي‬
‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫�ذَ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫لَ‬
‫َ ا ْ َ�ّ ْت َ ْ نَ ْ َ � ْ َ �‬
‫��ر� �ب�ي�� ِد ر �وِ�ج�م�و�ٰل‬ ‫��صبَ��ا ��َ�ب��ةً �إِ ا ��م� � ���سب� ك‬
‫�ِ � ُ ِ‬
‫�حِ�لي���م �‬ ‫��� ��مث�ْ��لهَ�ا ��ِ��يْ �ن��ُ � �ل‬
‫�إِ ى ِ ِ � ر و‬
‫ع ُ ِ َّ‬ ‫نَ ٱْ� َ ِ ْ ٍ‬ ‫َ�يَ‬
‫�ذَ‬ ‫�� ْ � �ٱ�لْ�ُ�قَ ا �نَا �ة � � ا ض‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫كَ‬
‫‪٤٠،١‬‬

‫�ص���ف �ة � � ا ��َ�ا �� ��ُ � �ل �ا ء � ��َ �‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫�‬
‫�ح� ��‬
‫ل‬ ‫م‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ٰل‬ ‫رٍ �غ ه ِ�مي ر �م ِ ��غي ر‬ ‫ِ ب� � بِ‬ ‫ِر‬ ‫بِ‬
‫ْ‬
‫ْ ََ ُ ُ ن ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫لَ‬ ‫ٱ‬
‫تَ َ � تْ �ع َ ا يَا ُت � �� َّ�َ ا �� � ن � �� َ َ ا َ � ْ سَ �ف�ؤَ‬
‫ّ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ّ‬
‫�صب�� �و�ي���� �� ا ِد ��ي �ع ن� �ه� او ه ِب���م�����سِ���ل‬ ‫�ج� ِل عِ� ل�‬ ‫���س�ل� ��م� �� � لر�‬
‫�ي‬ ‫َ‬
‫� ِ ْ ُ َْ‬ ‫�ذَ‬ ‫ِ لَ تَ‬ ‫أَ�َا ُ َّ خَ ْ ف أ �ْ َ َ َ ْ ُ ُ �نَ‬
‫� ��ع���ى ���ْ�ع� اِ�ل�ِه ���غ�ي�ِر � �م�ؤ �ت �ل��‬ ‫�ص�‬ ‫�‬
‫���ص�ٍم ِ�ي�� ِك � �ل�و�ى رد د ���ت�ه ِ ي‬
‫��‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫� �ل� ر� �‬
‫ب‬
‫ِ�ي‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬
‫أ‬ ‫ح‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫لَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫كَ‬ ‫َ �َ‬
‫ُ ُ �يَ ْ َ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ َ � نْ َ‬ ‫لَ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫�� ْ� � ��ل�� ْ ُ ْ�خ ُ ُ �‬
‫��حِر ���مر� ���س�د �و��ه ��ع��� ّ �بِ� � �� او ِع � �ل���ه� �موِ�م ِ�ل�ب���ت‍   ِ���ل‬ ‫�مو�ج ب‬ ‫�و�ل��ْ�ي�ل ��‬
‫ْ �كَ�ي‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫ٍ‬
‫�‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫أَ ْ َ فَ أَ ْ� َ ا �زً‬ ‫ِ ُ ْ تُ �لَُِ �لَ� َّ ا تَ ِ َّ � ٍ ُ ْ‬
‫�‬
‫�‍  � ا � �و� ء ب��ك�ل �‬ ‫��ص��ل��ب�ِه �َ�و رد �� � �جع‬ ‫�ق��ل� ��ه �م� ���م ��ط�ى �بِ��‬
‫��ٰل‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬
‫��‬
‫��ف�‬
‫َ‬
‫أَ�َ ا أ ُّ َ ا ٱ � �َّ ْ ُ ٱ � َّ � ُ أ �َ ا ٱ نْ ِ � � ُ ْ َ َ ا ٱ �ْ � ْ َ ا ُ� ف � َ �أ ْ �ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫‪٤٥،١‬‬

‫��صب��ح ِ�ي��ك �بِ� �م��ث�ٰل‬ ‫� �و�م� � �لِإ��‬ ‫ي بِ��� ب�ص�‬

‫ٍ‬
‫�ج�ل‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫ط �و���ي�ل � �ل� � �‬
‫ِ‬‫� �ل� �ي���ه� � �ل�ل���ي�ل � �ل�� �‬
‫ُح‬ ‫َ‬
‫��كَّ �ُ � َ ا �ٱ ��ْ�لفَ�تْ �ُ َّ ْت � ِ �ذْ � ُ‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫َ �أ نَّ نُ�ُ ِ ُ‬ ‫فَ َ ا �لَ� َ نْ �َ ْ‬
‫���ي� ��ك �ِم� �ل���ي�ٍل ك� � �ج �و �م ِب �ل ��غ ِر �ِل ش � بِ�ي �ٰل‬
‫��ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�� َّ ا ن ��لَ ُ َّ �ِ نَْ �‬ ‫َأَ نَّ ٱ � ُّ َ َّ ُ َّقَ ْ ف ِ َ هَ أَ ْ َ كَ‬
‫�ج��د �ٰل‬ ‫���ص�م �‬ ‫��ص�ا �ِ�م��ا �بِ�� ���مرا ��ِس ��ت� ٍ� �إِ �ى �‬
‫�‬ ‫���� � � �ل���ثر�ي�ا �ع��ل�� ت� ِ���ي ��م�‬ ‫ك�‬
‫�نَّ �ذَ �ُ � ُ َ ِّ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ ا ِ هَ ا َ لَ‬ ‫َ ْ ِ �ة أ ��قَْ �ِ َ �ْ تُ‬
‫�ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫��م‬
‫��ى ك ِ �ٍل ِ ��ي �وٍل ر �ٰل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫ه‬‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ع‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ص م�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬
‫� ِ�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫�ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�وِ���ق �ر��ب�ِ � �و ٍم‬
‫�‬ ‫ا‬
‫ٱْ�ُ ِ َّ‬ ‫�ٱ �ْ‬ ‫ٱ � ��ذَّ ئْ ُ �يَ ْ َ‬ ‫�جَْ�ف ٱ �ْ ِ ْ� �ِ �ْ ��ِ ِ � ْ ُ ُ‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ِ‬
‫ع م�عي���ٰل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�َو�َ او ٍد �و� � ل��ع�ي ر ��ق���فٍر ق����ط�ع��ت�ه �ب�ِه � �ل� �� ب� � �عو�ي ك� ��خِ�ل���ي�‬
‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬‫ك‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬
‫ُ �نْ تَ �لَ� ّاَ َت�ََّ �‬ ‫نَّ َ�أْنَ َ ا قَ ُ ٱ �ْ �نَ نْ‬ ‫�لَ‬ ‫لَ‬ ‫ِ �ُ �ْ تُ‬
‫‪٥٠،١‬‬

‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫�‬

‫� ��ه �م�ا �ع�و�ى �إِ � ����ش� ����ن� �ِ��ل���ي�ل � �ل�ِ��غ�ى �إِ � ك � م� �م�ول�‬ ‫�ق�ل‬ ‫���ف�‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫َ‬
‫َا نَا �ذَ َ ا نَا �َ �ِ ْ�ئً ا أ �َ ا ِ هُ َ �َ نْ يَ�ْ �َت ثْ َ ْ �ث َ �ِ ْ ثَ َ ُ ْ �زَ �‬
‫��حر���ك ��ي �ه �ٰل‬ ‫حرِ��ي �و‬ ‫ك�ل� �� �إِ ا �م� �� �ل ���ش�ي � � ��ف� ���ت� �و م� ح�ِر� �‬ ‫ِ‬

‫‪6‬‬ ‫‪6‬‬
 Imruʾ al-Qays: Echoes of Love Lost

in strands doubled and set loose, her lissome waist

thin as a leather strap, her legs like tall
well-watered date trees, racemes heavy with fruit.
She sleeps late, wearing only her shift, her bed
strewn with bruised musk grains, her fingers
soft and thin like the sandworms of Ẓaby
or isḥil tooth sticks. She brightens the dark
night like a monk’s solitary lamp, too young
to dress in a gown, too old to wear a child’s
frock—she makes grown men stare
with reckless desire. She’s like an ostrich egg, white
with yellow dapplings, nourished by an unsullied stream.
Other lovers may find solace for their blind follies,
but my heart will never forget its passion!
Fāṭimah, for you I’ve faced so many rebukes
from mulish foes eager that I mend my ways.”

A night swelling like the ocean waves put me 1.44

to the test with a myriad of cares. I watched it pass
like a camel stretching its spine, then its rump, then
heaving its chest from the ground. I said, “Begone,
never-ending night! Let day blaze forth, though dawn
won’t find me free of your curse.” The night was limitless,
the stars tied to Yadhbul by tightly twisted
ropes and the Seven Sisters fixed in their station,
fastened by flaxen cables to unyielding rock.

I’ve humbly carried the waterskins of many armies 1.49

slung on my shoulder. I’ve crossed wadis, flat
and empty like an onager’s belly, where the wolf howls
like a gambler with a family to feed who’s staked and lost
it all. “We’re two of a pair,” I answered his howl.
“We own little and we’ll never get rich
by our gains. We lose every victory we win—
hunger awaits all who follow in our steps.”

7 7
 ‫� � �ّق �ة � ئ �� ق‬
‫مع� �ل�� ا �مر� ا �ل�ي����س‬

‫هَ ْ�كَ‬ ‫َ‬

‫��ج د �قَ�ْ �د �ٱ �ْ��أ�َ‬ ‫ٱ � ِّ � ْ ُ ف ُُ�� َ ا ت هَ ا ��ُ��م�نْ ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ �ِ ْ أَ�غْ ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬‫�‬
‫ِر �ي ِ �ل و ِ�ب ِ ي�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫� ��ن �‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫�و�ق�د � � �‬
‫�ٰل‬ ‫ِ �ي و طي ر ِ�ي و ِ � َ ُ ْ ٍ‬
‫�� � ُ �� خْ َ َّ � ُ ٱ � ّ ْ ُ ْ ِ‬ ‫َ� ًّ � �مِ���ف ًّ �ُ �مقْ����ب �ُ�م ْ�د ����ب �مَ �عً�ا ك‬
‫��‬
‫َ���ل �ِم ن� ���عل�‬ ‫�س‬ ‫ل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬‫ط‬‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫صَ‬ ‫د‬ ‫م‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ل‬‫�ج‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ ٍر‬ ‫ِ�مكر ِ ر ِ �ٍل‬
‫ْ ي ٱْ ّ ٰ‬ ‫وِ ٍر‬
‫َ‬ ‫ُ‬
‫َ َ ا �زَ �ّ ت �� ِّ ف َ ُ � �ُ تَ �نَ�زَ �‬ ‫ٱ‬
‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�� ْ ت ِ �ز �ُّ ٱ � �َّ ْ ُ َ� نْ �َ ا � �َ ْ‬ ‫�‬‫ك‬
‫����ص �� او ء �ب� �ل�م�� ل�‬ ‫� �‬‫ل‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ل‬‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�م‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�ت‬ ‫�‬
‫� ح ِل ِ ِ‬‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�ب‬‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬‫�‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫� ِل‬ ‫��ي‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫َ�ي ٍ‬ ‫�م‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ْ‬ ‫حَ‬ ‫شَ‬ ‫�ذَ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬
‫َ لَ � ��ذ ْ �َ َّا �ش ��� ن ْ �ت�زَ ِ ُ‬ ‫أ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ٱ‬
‫‪٥٥،١‬‬
‫�َا � ف� � ْ ُ ُ ُ ْ �ِ‬‫�غَ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫��جل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ل‬‫�‬‫�‬ ‫ه‬‫�‬ ‫�ي‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫�جي�� �ٍ� ك�� � � ��هِ� ا ��م�ه  �إِ � � ِي ِ‬
‫ه‬‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ج‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�ع��� � �ل� ����ب�ل �‬
‫�ٱ�يْ ُ ِ ر َ ٰ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ًّ �ذَ َ ٱ � َّ َ ُت َ لَ ٱ �ْ َ نَ أ�ِ ْ نَ � ُ َ َ ��كَ‬
‫ٱ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ى‬
‫ّ‬ ‫�‬
‫��دِ ���ي ِ�د � �ل�مرَ�ك�ٰل‬ ‫�ح�ا � �ع��� � � �لو�ى � ���ثر� � �ل���غب��ا ر �ب�� �ل �‬ ‫�ِم� سَ��� �إِ ا �م�ا � �ل���س�ابِ�‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ى‬
‫َُ ْ أَثْ َ ٱ �ْ ِ ف ٱْ�ُ ِ ِّ‬ ‫ح�ُّ ٱ �ْغُ َا ُ ٱ ْ��ل ف ُّ َ نْ َ‬ ‫ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ل‬
‫ع ي �� ِ� م��ث�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ه او �ِ��ت�ِ �ي�و� �لِو�ي �بِ� ��� او ب ِ‬ ‫ه‬ ‫َ‬ ‫��خ� �ع� صَ‬ ‫�ِ �‬ ‫����ي�ز �ل � �ل���ل� � � �‬
‫��ق�ٰل‬ ‫� ل� ِ‬ ‫���‬ ‫م‬ ‫ِ‬
‫�خَ ْ �� �ُ َ ِّ‬ ‫أَ ِ ّ ُ َ ُُ �كَ فَّ‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ��ُ �ذْ ُ ف ٱ �ْ‬
‫��ي��ِه بِ���ي�ٍط �مو�‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ت‬
‫��خ� ر�و�� � �ل�و�ل��ي ِ�د � ���مرَه ����ت� ب���‬ ‫َ‬ ‫دَ ر���ير ك‬
‫��‬
‫���ص�ٰل‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ �َ ٍ‬
‫ْ عَ ا ُ ْ َ ا ن َتَ ْ ُ تَتْ ُ‬ ‫�ة‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�نَ‬ ‫قَ‬ ‫��لَ�هُ �أ�ْ�ِ���ط�ل�ا ����ظ� � ���َ‬
‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ح� ٍ� � �و �����قِ �ر�ي ب� �������فل�‬ ‫�خ� ء ِ��سر�‬ ‫�‬‫ع�ا ��م�ٍ �و ر�‬ ‫س�ا ��ا ���َ‬
‫ب ��ي ٍ و‬ ‫�ي‬
‫أَ ٰ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ�إ‬
‫ِ‬
‫ضَ ا �ف ��فَُ ْقَ ٱ � �أ ْ ض� �لَ ْ سَ � ْ �زَ �‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ذَ ٱ ْ تَ ْ َ ْ ِ ُ َ ّ فَ ْ�ِ ُ‬
‫‪٦٠،١‬‬

‫��ِ��ل���ي� �إِ ا � ��س��د ب� �ر��ت�ه ��س�د �ر ��ج�ه �‬ ‫ضَ‬

‫� �و�ي��� � �ل� ر�ِ� �ي���� �بِ� ���ع �ٰل‬ ‫ِ ٍ‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ب‬ ‫� ٍ‬
‫َ‬ ‫ع‬
‫َ‬
‫����سَ ا ��ِ�ت�هُ ��لَ��دَ � �ٱ ��لَ���ْ ت� ��َق�ا ئ��مً�ا �َمَ�د ا ُك ��ِ�ع ُ � �� �أ�ْ �صَ � َل�ا��ِ�ي��ةُ َ‬
‫� ْ �ِ �‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ �أ نَّ ِ‬
‫ح ن�����ظل�‬ ‫ر و ٍس و‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫بي ِ‬ ‫ى‬ ‫ك� � ر‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ُ َ ا َ ُة َّا �ِ ْ ُ َ ِّ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ �أ نَّ َ ا َ � ل� َ ا يَا ت �� ْ‬
‫�نَ‬
‫��ج‬
‫� ر �ٰل‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬‫�‬ ‫ش‬ ‫���‬ ‫�‬
‫��ص ر ِ �ن ٍ بِ �ي ب ٍ‬ ‫ء‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�ح‬
‫� ِ ِر ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ب‬ ‫هِ ِ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ء‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ك� � ِ �م‬‫د‬
‫َ �أ نَّ �ن َ ا ِ ُ ِ �ذَ َ َ َ ف ُ َا ُ �ذَ ِّ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫لَ‬
‫�ج�ه ��ع� ا ر�ى د � او ٍر ِ���ي ��م�ل�ٍء ��م� ����يل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫���سر بٌ� ك� � ِ���ع� �‬
‫ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫�ِ��ف�َ�ع نَّ �� نَ��ا‬
‫ُ َٰ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ�‬
‫�مْ �‬ ‫عَ‬‫ْ‬‫�‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�فَ‬
‫� �ز � �ل � ِّ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ْ‬‫�‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ �أ ْ‬
‫�جي�ٍ�د ���م���ع�ًم �� � �ل� ����ِش�ي�َر�ةِ ��خ�ول�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫بِ ِ‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬
‫���ص ���ْ�ي نَ‬
‫�‬ ‫�ِل ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫��م‬ ‫��ج‬
‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬‫�‬
‫�‬
‫�‬
‫�‬‫ك‬ ‫ب‬
‫��ف� د � ر�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬
‫ٰ‬ ‫ِ�ي‬ ‫ع‬‫ِ‬
‫ُ �ٱ ْ� َ ا يَا ت َ ُ ِ ُ �جَ َ ُ َ ا ف ِ َّ ة �لَ ْ ِ �زَ ِّ‬ ‫َ �أَ �ْ ِ قَ‬
‫‪٦٥،١‬‬

‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫� �ود � �و��ن�ه �وا �ِ�حر��ه� ِ��ي �‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫��ف� ل‬
‫���صر�ٍ ��م ����ت ����ي�ٰل‬ ‫��ح��‍    �ه �بِ� ��ه� ِد �� ِ‬ ‫�‬
‫�� ْ �َ ا �فَُ�غ�ْ ِ‬ ‫ًا َ �لَ� ْ �ُ �ْ ضَ‬ ‫َ ً َ ْ نَ ثَ ْ َ ��نَ�ْع ِ �ة َ‬ ‫�ِ��ف��َ‬
‫����س‬ ‫�‬ ‫ء‬
‫�ج�ٍ ِد ر ك و م ي � ِب ٍ ي �ٰل‬ ‫�‬‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع�ا دَ �ى �ِ�ع�د ا ء �ب��� � ��ور �و�‬
‫ح‬ ‫أَ‬ ‫ٱ َّ ي ٍ‬
‫�ُ��م�َ ِّ‬ ‫ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫فَ‬ ‫ف‬ ‫ض‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�ْ�ح� �م نْ �َ��ْ ن‬ ‫�ف�����َّ ُ����طهَ�ا �ةُ � ��ل��‬ ‫�ِ ظَ‬
‫��جل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ِ�����ي�� �ش���َ اٍء � �و �ق�د ����ير ع‬
‫�‬ ‫صَ‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬‫�‬
‫ِم ِ � ب يِ� ِ‬ ‫ل‬
‫�‬ ‫ل �‬ ‫�‬
‫ِ ٍَ ِ ٰ‬ ‫ِو‬
‫ٍ�ج‬
‫�ا ُ �ٱ �� ِّ �� ْ �فُ ��يَ��قْ ُ ُ ُ ِ هُ �ِ�متَ َ ا �ِ َ �قَّ �ٱ ��ْ�ِ ْ نُ ف ه ت َ ّ‬ ‫َ ُ ْ كَ‬
‫ح نَ��ا �يَ �‬ ‫�ور�‬
‫��ى �م� ���تر� ل�ع�ي�� ِ�ي��ِ ���س���ه�ٰل‬ ‫���صر د � �و��ن�‬ ‫ل��طر� �‬ ‫�� د �‬
‫�َ ا ُ هُ َ َا َت ���عَ �ْ�ن َ ئ ً ِ َْ ُ ْ ِ‬ ‫�فَ َ ا َت َ �َ ْ ه ِ ْ ُ هُ َ �‬
‫�ي��ي ��ق�اِ��م�ا ���غ�ي�ر ���مر����سل�‬ ‫وب ِ ِ‬ ‫ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�ج‬ ‫�‬‫ل‬
‫�ج� �وِ‬ ‫�‬‫��ب� � �ع�ل��ي�ِ ����سر�‬
‫ٰ‬
‫‪٧٠،١‬‬

‫‪8‬‬ ‫‪8‬‬
 Imruʾ al-Qays: Echoes of Love Lost

I cross the dark to hunt, the birds still asleep 1.53

in their nests, on a short-haired steed that catches the quarry
as it flees, as imposing as a temple, a whirl of motion,
onward, backward, wheeling, bolting, all
at once, swift as a huge boulder hurtled
from a height by a raging torrent. A bay, the numnah
sliding from his back like screes in a landslide. Battle-
hardened and spry—when fired up, his hooves pound
the ground, thrumming like a swiftly boiling cauldron.
When other racehorses kick up the sand and tire
in the arena, when flyweight jockeys are easily unseated
and the robes of the heavy rider flap and furl
behind him, my steed’s pace is like a heavy downpour.
This horse is fleet and compact, like a boy’s trompo
wound tight by twisting its string. His flanks
are like a ẓaby’s, like an ostrich his legs, like a wolf his lope,
like a fox cub his sprint, and his tail is long
and full, falling almost perfectly straight to the ground.
As he stands by my tent, his back is like a perfumer’s mortar
or a stone for splitting gourds. Spattered across his neck,
the blood of the lead quarry is like henna juice
combed into white hair.
A herd of oryx now appeared, 1.64
the does like virgins at Dawār’s shrine dressed
in bright gowns with black borders. The oryx
bolted, like a string of striated onyx on the neck
of a highborn child. The horse overtook the bull
at the head of the herd, before the rest had time to scatter,
and chased down, one by one, the bucks and does
without a drop of sweat lathering his hide.
Day-long, the cooks sizzled slabs of meat
on heated rocks or threw them into pots that boiled
fiercely. On the trip home, my eyes failed
to take in his size and grandeur. That night, saddled
up and bridled, he stood under my watchful gaze—
I refused to set him free to roam and graze.

9 9
 ‫� � �ّق �ة � ئ �� ق‬
‫مع� �ل�� ا �مر� ا �ل�ي����س‬
‫َ َّ‬ ‫���َ ْ ٱ �ْ ِ ْ ن �ف َ‬ ‫أَ َ ا ِ َ ِ ْ قًا أُ َ َ ِ ُ َ‬
‫ح� ّ�يً �ُمك� ��‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬
‫� �يَ�ي ِ� ِ��ي ِب‬‫�د‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫م‬ ‫ل‬
‫��‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬
‫ك‬ ‫�ض�ه‬ ‫��ص� ِ� ����تر�ى ����بر�� � ِر�ي��ك �و�ِمي���‬ ‫��‬
‫ٰل‬ ‫ع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ح‬
‫أ َ ا نَ ٱ � ِّ َ � �ٱ � �ذَُّا � ٱْ�ُ فَ ِّ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ُ َرا ِ�ه ب�  � ��ه� � � �ل���سِ��ل��ي ��ط �ب� �ل�� �ب� �ِل � �ل �‬ ‫��يَ� ُ � ِ نَ ا ُ أ ْ �ِ َ‬
‫��ص�اب �‬
‫��م����تل�‬
‫أَ ِ ٰ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫�‬
‫ح‬ ‫ِ �ض ��ي ء ��س�� ه � �و �م� ِ ي‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬
‫حْ�ِ ت َ ْ نَ َ ا � َ َ ْ نَ � ���ُ �ذَ ْ �ُ ْ َ َ ا ُ َ � ّ‬ ‫ِ ِ ْ ُ �لَ ُ َ ُ‬
‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫���ق��ع�د ت� ��ه �و ِ��ي ب ي� �ض‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�ب‬ ‫ص‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬
‫�ت �ميل‬ ‫� ب �ع‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ي‬ ‫وب ي� ع‬
‫�ج‬ ‫ر‬‫ِ‬
‫فَ ْ ِ‬ ‫ٍ َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ِ َ�ا ��ِ ِ�� نًا �ٱ � �ِّ ْ أ ْ�َ نُ ْ ه أ ْ ِ ُ ُ ِ لَ ٱ �� سَّ تَ ا � ِ �ذ � ُ‬
‫� � �وِ��ب�ِ �َ�و ي�����سره ��ع���ى � ل��� �� ِر ��ي� ���ب�ٰل‬ ‫��ع�ل ق��ط�� �بِ� �ل���شي�� � ي�م� صَ‬
‫ُ‬
‫كَ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫ُ تَ ْ ِ �ة يَ� ُّ َ لَ ٱ � �أَ�ذ َ ا ن َ ْ َ ��نَ ْ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ �أَ ْ َ يَ ُ ُّ ٱْ� َ ا َ َ ِْم�َ‬
‫�ه���ب�ٰل‬ ‫�� ب� �ع���ى � �ل� ��ق� ِ� د �وح� � �ل�� �‬ ‫حو�ل ك�ي ����ف�ٍ � ك‬ ‫� � �ل�م� ء ��‬ ‫ح�ى ����س‬‫���‬
‫��ف� �ض‬
‫َ‬ ‫ح‬
‫َ ِ َّ ِ لَ �ٱ ��ْ�ِ نَ ا ن � نْ ��نَ�ِ يَ ا ه �فَ�أ ْ �زَ �َ نْ هُ �ٱ ��ْ�ُ ْ َ ْ ُ��َّ ِ نْ�ز �‬
‫‪٧٥،١‬‬

‫���ص�م �ِم ن� �ك��ل ��م��ِ �ٰل‬ ‫�ق�� ِ� ِم� ��ف�� �ِ��ن�ِ � ����ن �ل �ِم�� لع�‬ ‫�و���مر ��ع���ى ل�‬
‫َ‬
‫ّ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬
‫َ �تَ ْ َ ا َ �لَ� ْ �يَ ْ ُ ْ َ ا � �ذ َ � ْ �َ�ة َ � ا أ �ُ ًا � ا َ � ً �ِ َْ �‬ ‫نَ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫�ج ن��د �ٰل‬ ‫�ج� ��خ�ل�ٍ �و�ل� � ���ج�م� ِ�إ �ل� �م���ِشي��د ا بِ�‬ ‫�و����ي�م� ء �م ����ترك ِب��ه� �ِ‬
‫ُ‬ ‫ع‬ ‫َ‬
‫َ ُ أ نَا ف َ ا ُ �زَ ِّ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ ن ن َْ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫َ �أ نَّ ثَ ً �ف‬
‫�ج� ٍد ���م ���م�ٰل‬ ‫ي� � ب�و�ل�ِه كِب��ي ر � �� �ٍس ِ��ي بِ�‬ ‫ك� � ��ب�����يرا ��ي ���ع���ع ا ���‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫�جَ رِ ِ ِ‬ ‫َ أَ َّ ِ�ذُ َ أِْ ٱْ� ُ‬
‫��ُ�ة � � ْ �زَ �‬ ‫نَ � ِّ ْ � غُ �َ ا فَ كَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ك�� ن � َ� �� �لم ْ‬
‫����يِ�مر���غ�د �و�ةً �ِم� � �ل���سي���ِل �َ�و �ل���ث� ِء ���ل��� ِم���غ �ٰل‬ ‫� رى ر ِس‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫أَ �ْقَ � ْ َ ٱ �ْ غَ‬
‫� َ َ ا ِ ُ ُ �زُ �َ ٱ ��ْيََا ن �ذ ٱ �ْ يَ ا �ٱل�ُمِ َّ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ��‬ ‫���‬
‫َ� � � صَ‬
‫� ��ح��م�ٰل‬ ‫��بي� ��ِط ب����ع� ��ع�ه ����ن �و�ل �م� ِ��ي ِ �ي لِ�ع�� ب ِ‬ ‫�و ��لى بَِ ��حرا ِء ل� ِ‬
‫�ُ�ص�ْ نَ ُ َا فًا نْ َ ق ُ فَ �ْ ِ‬ ‫َّ ٱ �ْ َ ُ َ ِّ‬ ‫َ �أ نَّ َ كَ‬
‫‪٨٠،١‬‬

‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ل‬ ‫�‬

‫ا‬‫�‬
‫�ٰل‬‫��ف‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫��م‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬‫�‬
‫َ ِب � ��سل ِ � ر َ ِ ي �ٍ�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫��ةً ‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬
‫ك� ِ�ج �و ِ �غ �ي‬ ‫ء‬ ‫ا‬ ‫�‬
‫�ي‬ ‫ك� � �م ِ‬
‫�‬
‫�‬
‫ُ‬ ‫�أ ْ َ ا ه ٱ ��ْ�قُ ْ َ � أ نَا شُ ُ� نْ‬ ‫َ �أَ نَّ ٱ � َّ َ ا َ ف ِ ْ قَ َ ش َّ‬
‫���ص�ٰل‬ ‫�صوى � �� �بِ�ي����� ع��‬ ‫�ج� �ِ��ئ�ِ � �ل � �‬ ‫�‬‫ك� � � �ل��سب�� ِ�ي��ِه ����غر��ى �ع�ِ���ي ��ةً  �ب� ر�‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ع‬

‫‪10‬‬ ‫‪10‬‬
 Imruʾ al-Qays: Echoes of Love Lost

Comrade, look! Can you see the lightning flash 1.71

from a cloud bank’s huge crown, its brilliant
blast like two bright hands or a monk’s lamps,
their twisted wicks drenched in oil? The troop
sat down to watch it, far away between Ḍārij and ʿUdhayb.
We saw the clouds release their flood above Qaṭan
to the right, while to the left the storm broke over Sitār
and Yadhbul. The next morning, the waters surged around Kutayfah,
forcing mighty kanahbul trees to the ground.
The debris swept over Qanān and drove the white-
leg ibex from their rocky homes, then moved
on to Taymāʾ, toppling houses and palms—only towers
built of boulders remained. In the storm’s early
bursts, Thabīr looked like an old man wrapped
in a striped blanket. Amid the flood and waste,
Mujaymir’s crests were like the whorl of a weaver’s spindle.
The tempest unleashed its load in the flat lands
like a Yemeni camel kneeling down, laden with heavy
baskets. At dawn the larks in the valleys sang
as if raucously drunk on vintage wine spiced
with peppercorns. At night, in the far reaches of the land,
drowned predators—wolves, lions, and hyenas—
floated, like uprooted sea onion bulbs.

11 11
 ‫~‪~٢‬‬

‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� �أ‬

‫ع��ي �د ب� ن� ا �ل��بر��ص [ا �لب����س�ي ��ط]‬ ‫� ا�‬
‫�ق� ل � ب‬

‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫َ‬
‫�ق ��� ��ب ّ�َ�ا ُت �َ�ف��ٱ ��ل���ذّ �نُ� � ُ‬ ‫أ �ْق ��ِ َ � نْ أ ْ � ه �ِ�م��ْ�لُ ُ �َ�ٱ ��ْ�ُ طَ‬
‫�‬ ‫�و ب‬ ‫ِي�‬ ‫حو ب� �ف� ل�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ���فر ِم� � ��هِ�ل�ِ‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬
‫ُت ْ قَ ْ ن فَ � �� �ِ � ُ‬ ‫�ذَ‬ ‫ٌ ِ �ثُ َ ا � َ ٌ ِ‬
‫‪1،٢‬‬
‫ِ َ‬
‫�‬ ‫�قِ�ل�ي ب‬ ‫�ب�ا ت� ���ف� ا � ِ���فر��ي�ِ� �� ل�‬ ‫ك��س ��ف� ��ع� �ِل�‬ ‫ا‬
‫���ف ِ‬
‫ر‬
‫ُ‬ ‫�ًّ �لَ ْ سَ َ ا �م ْ ُ ُ ِ‬ ‫�ف�ا‬
‫���ق�َ‬ ‫�ِ ِ ْ َ ٌة �ِ ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ِري ب‬‫�‬ ‫ع‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬‫�ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�‬
‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ِ بِ ر ي ِب�‬ ‫��‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ح‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ف���عرد � ���ف‬
‫ُ ٍ �غَ َّ َ ْ َ �لَ َ ٱ �ْ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�خ ���ط � ُ‬‫�ُ ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ت‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ح ���� �ا �َ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�َ ��ُ َّ�د ��لَ تْ �أ �ْ�ه��َل �َ�ا �ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫�و ب‬ ‫�‬
‫� ه و �و ش و ي ر� ح ��ه‬ ‫و�ب �‬
‫َ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ْ�ح ُ � � ُ‬ ‫م‬
‫�‬
‫َ‬ ‫�ح��ل�َه�ا �‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫�� َ نْ ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ّ‬
‫�‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫أ ْ ض�ٌ �تََ َ ثُ َ ا ��ِ � �ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫رو ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ر�� �� او ر���ه� ���ش���سع�و ب� �و�ك�ل م�‬
‫َّا �قَ ٌ َّا َ ا � � ٌ ٱ �� �شَّ ْ ُ �شَ ْنٌ �َ نْ يَ � ُ‬
‫‪٥،٢‬‬

‫�‬ ‫�إِ ��م� ِ��تي���ل �َ�إِو ��م� ��ه� ِ�ل�ك �َ�و ل�� ي��َب� �� �ي� ْ� ِ�لم� ����ِش�ي ب‬
‫َ �أ نَّ � َ�أ �نَْ َ ا �ِ � ُ‬ ‫َ�ع ْ نَ ا َ َ �ْم�ُعُ�هَ ا � ِ ُ ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ �ي ب‬ ‫ع‬‫�ش‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�م‬ ‫�ه‬ ‫�‬
‫ي ِ�‬ ‫�‬‫ش‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ي�� ك د �� �م� ���سر�و ب‬
‫َ‬
‫�ضَ���ة دُ � نَ��َه�ا ��ُلُه � ُ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫نْ هَ‬
‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�َ ا ِ �ةٌ �أ�ْ �ِ��م� �نٌ �ُ��م ْ�م� نٌ‬
‫�‬ ‫ب ٍ و � � �و ب‬ ‫ع‬
‫�‬
‫و ِ�ه��ي� و ِعي� ِ � ِ �‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ُ‬ ‫ْ ت ْ قَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�ْ‬ ‫�‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫أَ ِ َ‬
‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫ت‬ ‫�‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ن‬ ‫�‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫� �ْو ��ف ��ف��ل‬
‫�‬ ‫��س�ي ب‬ ‫� بِ���ب ���ب ��طِ� � او ٍد ِ�ل�ل��م� ِء ِم� �حِ��ِ � ِ‬
‫�ج‬ ‫َ‬
‫�ك� � ُ‬ ‫ُ ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫ت‬ ‫� �ْل َ ا � نْ تَ� ْ‬ ‫�أ ْ �ِ ْ َ ��ٌ �ف �� َ�ا �� نَ� ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫ِِ و ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�س‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫م‬ ‫ء‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ل‬‫�‬
‫و � ج ول ِ��ي ِ�ظل ِل �ٍل ِ �م ِ ِ �‬‫��خ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫تَ ْ ُ أَ �نَّ �لَ� َ ٱ � ِّ َ ا � أَ �نَّ َ ِ ْ َ َ � َ �‬
‫ْ‬‫ٱ‬
‫‪١٠،٢‬‬

‫ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ‬

‫�‬ ‫���‬
‫�‬ ‫��ص� بِ��ي � �ى �و�ق�د را �ع�ك � �لم���ِش�ي ب‬ ‫��صب ��و �َ�و �ى ��ك � �ل��ت�‬
‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫� ُ‬ ‫حَّ ��َ ��منْ�هَ�ا �أ�ْ�ه��ُلهَ�ا �ِ�ف� َل�ا ��ِ�ب�د � ءٌ �ََلا �‬ ‫نْ يَ ُ ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫ج‬ ‫�‬ ‫ع‬
‫ِ ْ�ي و � ِ �ي ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�إِ � ���ك ��ول ِ �‬
‫�جُ�د � � ُ‬ ‫�ُ‬ ‫ْ هَ �جَ ُ هَ َ َ َ هَ ٱ �َ ْ ُ ٱ �ْ‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ا‬ ‫ن‬ ‫َ‬ ‫أَ ْ يَ� ُ قَ ْ أَ ْ فَ‬
‫ل‬ ‫م‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫� �و ��ك ��د � ���ق��ر �ِ�م �‬
‫�‬ ‫�� �و� � �و��ع� د � � ��ح�ل �َ�و � و ب‬
‫ُ ُّ �ذ �ن ْ َ �ة َ ْ ُ ُ هَ ُ ُّ �ذ أَ ِ مَ ْ ُ‬
‫ك��ذ � � ُ‬ ‫���ل ِ ��ي � ���م�ل �‬ ‫��خ�� �لو��س��ا �َو�ك�‬ ‫��فَ�ك� ��ي ِ��ع�م�ٍ ��م‬
‫�‬‫وب‬ ‫لِ‬
‫ٍ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ُ‬
‫ُ‬
‫�� �ذ � � ِ��س��ل �َم��ْ �� �ل � ُ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫�‬
‫�ك‬ ‫َ�كُّ �ذ � ����ب �َمْ ُ� ثٌ �َ‬ ‫ُ‬
‫‪١٥،٢‬‬ ‫�‬‫وب‬ ‫�س‬ ‫�‬‫بٍ‬ ‫�ل ِ �ي �إِ ِ �ٍل �ورو� و ل ِ �ي‬
‫�‬ ‫�و‬

‫‪12‬‬ ‫‪12‬‬
 ~2~

ʿAbīd ibn al-Abraṣ: That Mighty Hunter the Eagle

Malḥūb, Quṭabiyyāt, Dhanūb, 2.1

Rākis, Thuʿālibāt, Dhāt Firqayn,
Qalīb, ʿArdah, Qafā Ḥibirr—now
deserted wastelands, the souls
who lived there gone, replaced
by wild beasts, lands destroyed
by Fate. Death who divides us
is heir to these domains
whose denizens died—or were slain.
Gray hair is a disgrace to age.
Tears stream from your eyes
like water gushing from a tattered
skin frayed at the seams
or a river rushing through steep
gullies or a spring gurgling
in a wadi or a stream shaded
by palms. You’re a flood of emotion.
Why these feelings, frightened
of gray hair? Surprised?
They’re not the first tribe
to be wiped out.
Barren and parched 2.13
stretches their empty domain—
all our goods plundered, our hopes
false, our camels held
for our children, our spoils robbed
from us by war. The absent

13 13
 ‫� �أ‬
‫�م�ع��ّ�لق���ة � �ن‬
‫ع�ي��د ب� ا �ل��بر��ص‬
‫ب‬

‫مْ ت �َ�ا �يَ��ؤُ� � ُ‬ ‫َ غ َ ا ئ ُ ٱْ� َ‬ ‫ُ ُّ �ذ �غَ ْ َ �ة يَ ُ ُ‬

‫�‬‫� �ل � و ب‬ ‫�و��‍  � �ِ� ب� � �ل �و ِ‬ ‫�وَ�ك�ل ِ ��ي � ��يب��ٍ � ���ؤ �و ب�‬
‫َ‬ ‫َ‬
‫� ُ‬ ‫ �أ�ْ �َ ا ����نٌ �مثْ��ُ �َم نْ يَ�خ‬ ‫أ َ ا �� ٌ �ْ ُ �ذَ ت �ْ‬
‫و ��غ� ِ �م ِ �ل � ِ �ي ب‬ ‫� ��ع� ِ�قر �ِم��ث�ل ا ِ ��ح‬
‫�‬ ‫� ِر �ٍم‬
‫� ُ‬ ‫�َ �� َ ا ����ئُ �ٱ ّٰ ه �َ ا يَ�خ‬ ‫َ نْ يَ ْ �أَ � ٱ � َّ ا سَ يَ ْ ُ ُ‬
‫��حِر� �موه‬ ‫�م� ����س� �ِل � �ل��ن� �� �‬
‫�‬ ‫و س‍    � ِ �ل للِ �ل� ِ �ي ب‬
‫َ�ٱ ��ْ�قَ ْ ��ُ �ف �َ�ْ ه �تَ��ْ�� ُ‬ ‫ُ ُّ ِ ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�ٱ ّٰ ُ ْ َ ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫�ض�ِ لِ�غ�ي ب‬ ‫�و ل��ول ��ي ب�عِ��‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ل ي ٍر‬ ‫�‬
‫�خ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ك‬
‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�بِ� للِه ���ي�د ر‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬
‫��فَ� ت � �� �ل�ُ� ��ُ�ل � ُ‬ ‫ِ َّا ُ َ ا أَ خْ‬ ‫ٌ‬ ‫ٱ ّٰ ُ �لَ ْ سَ �لَ ُ ِ‬
‫�‬‫� قو ب‬ ‫��ع�ل� � �م� � � ِ‬ ‫�َ�و لله �ي���� ��ه �����ش ����سِر�ي��ك‬
‫َّ ْ م قَ ْ ُ ْ َ ُ ٱ �ْ أَ‬ ‫َ‬
‫أ �ْ �� ْ �َ ا �ش ئْ تَ �فَ قَ ْ �ُ ْ �َ�غُ �ٱ �‬
‫‪٢٠،٢‬‬

‫� ُ‬ ‫خ�‬ ‫��� �ف َ‬
‫�‬ ‫ع ِ� �و��د ي��دع � �ل� ِ �ر�ي ب‬ ‫‍ض�‬ ‫� ِب�م� ِ�� ��� ����د �ي��ب�ل� �بِ� �ل‍‬ ‫� �فِ ل‬
‫ح‬
‫َّ �ْ ُ َ �َ ا �يَ ْ �فَ ُ ٱ � ِّ �ْ ُ‬ ‫�َ ا ��يَ� �ظُ �� ٱ � نَّا � ُ �َ نْ � ا ��يَ� �ظُ � ٱ �‬
‫َ‬
‫�‬ ‫ع � �ل��ت�لِب�ي�� ب‬ ‫�د ��هر �و�ل� ����ن��‬ ‫ع �� � �ل‍‬ ‫�‬
‫س � �ل ِ‬ ‫م‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫ع‬ ‫�ل� ِ‬
‫�� ْ ��يَ �َ نَّ � َ ا ن ئًا َ� ُ‬ ‫كَ‬
‫َ‬ ‫�َّ ا �َ�� َّا ُت َ ا ٱ �ْ ُ ُ‬
‫ح‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�وم ِ ي ر‬ ‫�‬ ‫�جي�� � ��م� � � �ل� �‬ ‫�إ �ل� �س‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ �ي ب‬ ‫�ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�‬‫ش‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�ص‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ق� �لو ب ِ‬ ‫�ِ‬ ‫ِ‬
‫َ‬
‫ُ‬ ‫ْ �نَّ�ن �ِ‬ ‫َ �َ ا تَقُ‬ ‫َ ا ْ �أ ْ ض �ذَ ُ���نْ تَ اَ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫غ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫‍‬
‫    �‬ ‫�و�ل� � ���‬ ‫���س� �ِ�ع�د �بِ� ر��ٍ� �إِ ا ك� � ��ه�‬
‫ِري ب‬ ‫ٱ �ل �إِ ِ��ي‬ ‫ِب‬
‫ُ�قْ ِ � ُ �ذُ � ��ل ّ��ُ ْ َ �ة �ٱ ��ْ�ِ ُ‬ ‫قَ ْ ُ ُ ٱ � نَّا �ز ُ� ٱ � َّ ا �ئ َ قَ ْ‬
‫�‬ ‫��قِ �ر�ي ب‬‫��ي� ����ط� �و س���ه�م�ِ ل�‬ ‫���ل � �ل�� ِ � �ل��ن� ��ي �و��د‬ ‫��د �ي ��و� صَ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ح‬
‫�ِ يَ ا ة �لَهُ �تَ�ْ �ذ ُ‬ ‫ُ � �ُع ٱ �ْ‬ ‫ٱْ� ِ ْ ُ َ َ شَ ف َ ْ‬
‫‪٢٥،٢‬‬
‫��ذ‬
‫طو�ل � �ح�� ِ� �� ��ع�ِ ��ي ب‬
‫�� � ل‬ ‫ا ا �� � ت �‬ ‫َ�‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�و �ل��مرء �م� ��ع� � ِ��ي � ك ِ ي ب ٍ‬
‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬
‫�َ �ُهُ �َ ا ��ئ�ف ٌ �ِ ُ‬ ‫آ‬ ‫�ِ ْ ُ َّ َ‬
‫�سبِ����ي�ل� �‬ ‫�م�اٍء �َ َ ْد ��ُ�ت�هُ � �ج� ن‬
‫�‬ ‫�خ� ِ� ��ج ِ�د ��ي ب‬ ‫ِ ٍ�‬ ‫���ب�ل ر ب� � ور‬
‫َ‬
‫شُ ٱ �ْلِ َ ا َ لَ أ ْ َ‬
‫�� �ْ�ِ �ْ � نْ �خَ� ْ ه َ � ُ‬ ‫�ج�ا ���ئ�ِه‬ ‫��ح�م� �م �ع��� � ر�‬ ‫ر��� � �‬
‫�‬ ‫� ِم� �وِ��ف�ِ �و�جِ �ي ب‬ ‫�ق�ل ب ِ‬ ‫ِل�ل�‬ ‫� ِ‬ ‫ِ ى‬ ‫ِي �‬
‫�خُ� � ُ‬ ‫َ َ ا � َا نٌ ِ‬ ‫��ِ ِ�� �ْ تُ ُ ُ ْ َ ةً �ُم��ش�� اٍ‬
‫�‬‫�ِبح���ي �ب� ِد � � ب و ب‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ص� ِ‬ ‫�و�‬ ‫�ح�‬ ‫ق���ط�ع��ه ���غ�د �و� ِ �ي�‬
‫كَ‬ ‫كَ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫َ‬‫أ‬
‫�� � ُ‬ ‫�� َ ا �‬
‫َ ّ َ‬
‫ك�� ن� � ا �‬ ‫�ق�ا ُ ��َه�ا‬ ‫��ِع�ْ�َا ��ِ�ن��ةٌ �ُ�م�ؤْ�ِ ٌ فِ َ‬
‫�‬ ‫�ح� ِر ��ه� �ِث�ي ب‬ ‫�ج�د ���� ر‬ ‫�‬ ‫ير‬
‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬
‫��ح� ّ� ��ةٌ �ه ْ �َ �َ�ا ��نَُ� � ُ‬ ‫أ �ْ �َ َ ا َا �ز � ا ِ‬
‫‪٣٠،٢‬‬
‫َ‬ ‫��س�د � ُ���سهَ�ا‬ ‫ً‬ ‫فَ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫ِ �ي و ي و ب‬ ‫ل‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ق‬ ‫لا �ِ‬ ‫�خ� �ل� �م� �ب� ِ �ل� � ِ ي �‬ ‫��‬

‫‪14‬‬ ‫‪14‬‬
 ʿAbīd ibn al-Abraṣ: That Mighty Hunter the Eagle

may return but no one makes

it back from death. Is the barren
woman like the mother who’s given
birth? Is the raider’s loot
like the empty hands of the loser?
No sense asking men for help.
Only God can help—all good
comes from Him. Some requests
are too demanding, like overloading a camel,
but who responds like God? He knows
what men’s hearts conceal.
No matter how hard you strive, success
often stems from weakness
and ambition often comes to naught.
Heed Fate, not men. To beseech
them for help is futile—rely
on the dictates of your heart.
Many friends become foes! Come
to the aid of the land you now inhabit.
Pleading you’re a stranger is no excuse.
Cut off from our closest kin,
we often create ties with distant
tribes. Life invites
deception and long life
is an agony.
I’ve drunk from fetid
2.27
pools, their banks strewn
with pin-tailed grouse feathers,
my heart pounding in fear,
on a barren trek of terror,
full of dread at dawn,
my only comrade a speedy
camel, hard as an onager,
her back welded tight,
her withers like a mighty dune,
in her ninth year, a mother
neither old nor young, more like

15 15
 ‫� �أ‬
‫�م�ع��ّ�لق���ة � �ن‬
‫ع�ي��د ب� ا �ل��بر��ص‬
‫ب‬

‫�ِحت��ه � ُ ُ�د � � ُ‬
‫�جَ نٌ ِ �فْ‬
‫�‬
‫ص‬ ‫��‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ع�ا �نَ�ا ت � ْ �‬ ‫�� َ‬ ‫َ �أَنَّ َ ا نْ حَ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك� ���ه� �ِم� ِ يِر‬
‫�‬
‫�م‬
‫�‬‫ِ ِ ��ن و ب‬ ‫�و� ِ‬ ‫ٍ‬
‫َ‬ ‫أَ ْ �ِ َ ٌ ِ ْ تَ ٱ � ُّ َ‬
‫�خ�ا �َم �تَ��ُل�ُّ� �هُ ���شَ ����سْ�م��أ ��ٌ �ِ�هُ� � ُ‬ ‫ش� ب� ����ير����ع � �لر�‬
‫�‬‫ب �و ب‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�ف‬ ‫� �ى‬ ‫ِ�ي‬ ‫� �و ��� ب‬
‫ِ �ذَ َ ِ ْ ٌ َ ِ ْ أ َ ن � ْ ��ن نَ ْ َ ٌة ُ ْ ُ‬
‫ُ‬ ‫َ‬‫ت‬ ‫َ‬
‫ح� ُ‬
‫�‬‫���صر �و��ق�د � را ِ��ي ��حِ�م�ِل��ي ���ه�د � ����سر �و ب‬
‫�‬ ‫��ف� ا ك ��ع�‬
‫�� َ ا �ٱ �� َّ ُ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫�ض���ًرا ��يَ ن�� شَ����قُّ َ�ع نْ �َو جْ�‬ ‫�خ��ْ�ل�قُهَ�ا �تَ���ْ‬ ‫ُ ِ َّ ٌ ِ‬
‫�ضب��ر �‬
‫�‬ ‫بِ �ي ب‬‫��‬
‫��س‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬
‫� � ِ�‬ ‫ِب ي‬ ‫� �‬ ‫��م��‬
‫َ‬
‫�زَ �ْ َّ�ةٌ نَا ئ ٌ ُ ُ قُ َ ا َ �لَيَّنٌ أ ْ ُ َ ا َ �� ُ‬
‫‪٣٥،٢‬‬

‫�‬ ‫�ي ِ��تي��َ �� �ِ�‍   �‍�م ���عر�و���ه� �و���� � ����س����سر��ه� ر��ِط�ي ب‬

‫�� ��َه�ا �ٱ ��ْ�لُ� ��ُ�ل � ُ‬ ‫ُ ُ تَ � ُّ ف َ ْ‬ ‫َ �أ نَّ َ ا ��قْ َ ٌة َ ��‬
‫�‬ ‫�ق‬ ‫�‬ ‫ك‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫خ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫‍    ‬ ‫�‬
‫ط‬ ‫ك� ���ه� ِ �ل��و�‬
‫وب‬ ‫ِ ر ِ�ي و ِر‬ ‫وب‬
‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ّ‬ ‫َ‬
‫أ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫َا تَ تْ لَ‬
‫�ِ�خ��ةٌ َ ��قُ � ُ‬ ‫َ � ن� َ ا �� شْ‬
‫� َ�ع�� �إ َر� �َع‍  ��ذ � �وً�ا ك� ��ه� ���‬
‫�‬‫�ي� ر �و ب‬ ‫ب‬ ‫�ى ٍم‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫�ب� ��‬
‫َ‬
‫�فَ�أ �ْ��صَ��َ تْ �ف ِ َ ة � َّ ة يَ ْ ��قُ ُ �� َ� نْ ش هَ ا �ٱ �� َّ ُ‬
‫�‬ ‫� ِ �ر�ي ب‬‫� بح� ��ي ���غ�د ا ِ� ِ��قر�ٍ ���س �ط ع� ِري� ِ����� ل �ض‬
‫ِ‬ ‫َ‬
‫ُ‬ ‫فَ�أ �ْ ِ َ تْ ��ثَ ْ �ًَا ِ � ٍا َ ُ ِ ُ َ ْ َ ٌ ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬‫�‬
‫ِر�ي�ع و و�ن ب ب� �ج ِ ي ب‬ ‫��س‬ ‫��‬ ‫�س‬ ‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫���س‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬ ‫ل‬‫�‬
‫ر� ع ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫���ص‬‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�� ب‬
‫�ِ نَ�� ِ �ضَ تْ � �ِ هَ ا َ َ �ّ تْ �ِ �ذَ َ � نْ نَ ْ ِ �ة �ِ ُ‬ ‫َ‬
‫‪٤٠،٢‬‬

‫�‬ ‫�ض�ٍ ��قِ �ر�ي ب‬ ‫��ف��ف� � ِري���ش�� �و�و�ل� �ف� ا ك ِم� ��ه��‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫َ ْ َ ُ �يَ ْ ِ ُ ٱ � ِ‬ ‫فَ�ٱ شْ تَ ا �َ ٱ ْتَا َ نْ َ‬
‫�م��ذ ��ؤُ � � ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬‫وب‬ ‫�ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ل‬‫�ع‬ ‫�‬‫�‬‫��ف‬‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫�‬
‫ل‬ ‫�‬‫ع‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ف‬‫�� ����� �ل �َ�و ر��ع �ِم� ِ ي ��ٍس و ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��‬ ‫��س‬ ‫ح‬
‫َ �ِ َ َ تْ �ِ ْ ُ تَ ُ‬ ‫�ِ نَ ِ �ضَ تْ نَ�ْ ُ �ِ ث �ِ‬
‫�‬ ‫��س‬
‫ر ِ �ي ب‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫َه‬ ‫د‬ ‫�ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫و ر‬ ‫�ح‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫��ةً ‬ ‫ث‬ ‫حوَه �حِ�ي���‬ ‫��ف���ه� � �‬
‫ْ‬ ‫ٱ‬ ‫ْ‬
‫ح ْ�م� َ�ا ق�ُ�َه�ا �مَ ��ْ� ��ُ�ل � ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫� ِ ْ نُ‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫َ�‬ ‫ا‬‫ً‬
‫��‬
‫ِ َ َّ � نْ أ َ ا َ‬
‫�‬‫قو ب‬ ‫��ف�د ب� ِم� رَ�ِي���ه بِ ي ب و عي � ِ ل �‬
‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫ل‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫‍‬
‫�‬ ‫    ‬ ‫�‬ ‫د‬ ‫�‬
‫�ُ� � ُ‬ ‫فَأَ ْ َ َ ْ ُ ِ ِ� َّ ِ ْ ُ ٱ � ِّ ُْ ْ تَ ْت َ َ ْ‬
‫�‬‫��رو ب‬ ‫ح���ه�ا �م ك‬ ‫�حت��ه �َ�و �ل� � ن �‬
‫��صي��د ِم� ِ‬
‫��� د ركت��ه ��ف����طر�‬
‫�َّ َ ْ ْ ُ ٱ �ْ‬ ‫�فَ ِ َّ �َ ْ ُ ِ ِ � َّ ِ ْ ُ فَ كَ‬
‫‪٤٥،٢‬‬

‫�ِجُ� � ُ‬ ‫ل‬
‫�‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ح ت �َ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�ج�د �ل��ت�ه ��ف����ط � ت‬
‫�‬‫�ح��ه � � د � و ج ��ه � ب �و ب‬
‫�‬ ‫ه‬‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬‫�‬ ‫ر‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬
‫َ‬
‫�ِ َ ا َ َ ْ ُ �ِ َ �ِّ عَ ْ ُ َ �أ ْ ِ َ ْ ُ َ ُ ْ َ ْ‬
‫�ُ� � ُ‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬
‫�‬‫�ف��ع� �ود ���ت�ه ��فر��ف� ��ت�ه ��ف� ر���س�ل��ت�ه �و�ه�و �م كرو ب‬
‫�‬
‫�‬
‫ح�ْ��ي�زُ � �ُ�م�هُ �َم�ْ ���نقُ� � ُ‬ ‫�َ ا ُ َّ َ‬ ‫�يَ غُ َ � ْ َ ُ َ ف َ �فَّ‬
‫�‬ ‫��خ��بل���ه�ا ِ���ي د � ِ �ل �ب‬
‫�‬ ‫ه‬ ‫��ض��� �و�م‬ ‫��ْ‬
‫�‬‫�و ب‬ ‫و‬ ‫�د‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�‬ ‫�� و ِ‬

‫‪16‬‬ ‫‪16‬‬
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
Their attention was attracted by the entrance of an officer in the
service of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company, who had come
from the office of the captain of the port.
“Has the Chilean launch arrived at the mole?” asked Don Isaac,
eagerly; and the others pressed near.
“It has. And the admiral has served notice on all interests that he
intends maintaining a close blockade. Non-combatants will be
allowed forty-eight hours in which to leave; after that no vessel, sail
or steam, will be permitted to enter port or depart. So my ship,
gentlemen, will be the last to leave.”
Hearing this, Captain Saunders jumped to his feet, and beckoning
Carl to his side, bade him come, and the two hurriedly left the room.
“What’s the matter, father?” the boy asked, as they walked rapidly
across the plaza.
“Didn’t you hear Captain Brown say that his ship would be the last to
leave Callao?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I have no time to lose in securing a passage for your mother,
Harold, and yourself. The boat will be crowded; hundreds will apply
who will not even be able to get berths. By going to the office at
once, I can perhaps reserve a stateroom.”
“Father, I wish you would let me remain with you.”
“Do you know what it means, Carl, to be in a blockaded city with all
supplies cut off?”
“I can imagine, father; but I should like very much to stay with you.
Besides, I am some little help in the office, am I not?”
“Yes. But with a blockade established, no ships will come in, and I
shall have nothing to do.”
“Then, isn’t that a reason for my remaining? You will be very lonely,
and should have one of your sons by your side.”
Captain Saunders smiled. “Very well put, Carl,” he said, “but I
wonder how much Louis and Harvey have to do with your anxiety to
remain? But you may do as you wish, and I shall reserve a
stateroom for your mother and Harold. Now that this is settled, I
wish you to take the next dummy back to La Punta, and tell your
mother what has occurred; then help her all you can with the
packing. I shall be home early this afternoon,” and he turned in the
direction of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company’s offices, while his
son kept on to the railroad station.
As Captain Saunders was leaving, after having secured the quarters
on the Panama steamer, he met John Dartmoor and Señor Cisneros.
“Are you going to send Mrs. Dartmoor to the States?” he asked.
“No. I should like to, but she and Rosita would prefer to remain and
move to Lima in the event of open hostilities. The señor and I are
about to engage a berth for some one who must go to the States
and arrange to secure working capital for our mine. Saturday’s boat
will be the last out, you know.”
“Yes, so I heard Captain Brown say, and I came here at once to
engage passage for Mrs. Saunders.”
“I am very sorry to learn that she is going, but I think you are wise.
We may see some pretty tight times here.”
“There’s little doubt of it.”
“Are both boys going?”
“No, Carl remains with me.”
“That will delight Louis and Harvey. And by the way, Saunders, I am
going to move back to my old home in Chucuito this week. Suppose
you and Carl come and live with us after Mrs. Saunders and Harold
leave; or at least make us a visit.”
“I should be very pleased, Dartmoor; that is, to visit until I can find
suitable quarters.”
“Do so, then.”
That evening a meeting was held of those interested in the Bella
mine—for so Captain Cisneros had insisted upon naming the
property after he had learned the true story of the pincushion in
Harvey’s pocket. It was decided that both Hope-Jones and Ferguson
should go to New York, for the purpose of interesting capitalists;
that Señor Cisneros should return to the interior, and that Mr.
Dartmoor should attend to the company’s interests in Callao and
Lima.
So it happened that when the last steamship sailed from Callao
before the blockade commenced, Harvey waved an adieu from a
small boat to the two young men with whom he had passed such
adventurous times in the interior; and from another boat Captain
Saunders and Carl fluttered handkerchiefs and were answered with
love signals waved by Mrs. Saunders and Harold.
 CHAPTER XV.
DARNING THE NEEDLE.

T he darkest period in Peruvian history was the year 1880.

Defeated on sea and on land, the nation had drawn its forces
toward the centre and awaited a final struggle near historic Lima,
the City of the Kings.
But the Chileans, triumphant, were in no haste to follow up the
victories of Tarapacá, Tacna, Arica, and Point Angamos; they realized
the enervating influences that always are at work in an army that is
inactive and on the defensive; and although as early as January
nothing hindered the northward movement of their land forces, they
refrained from striking the decisive blow, and passed the time
perfecting the transport service, increasing the efficiency of the
troops and laying by stores of munitions of war.
The blockade of Callao, established toward the close of 1879, was
maintained without interruption, and the harbor, which only two
years before had been second only to San Francisco in commercial
importance on the west coast of the Americas, became a drear
waste of water, for not a vessel, of sail or steam, was permitted to
enter, unless it might be an occasional war-ship of a neutral power;
nor could any craft depart after the expiration of the forty-eight
hours which the Chilean admiral had given as notification.
During those two days and two nights, craft of all description and
flying flags of all nations prominent in the maritime world put to sea
and sailed north or south, some laden, but the majority in ballast;
and when the last one had departed and the enemy’s cordon was
close drawn in the offing, the Bay of Callao reflected only one story
—the death of commerce.
Where two hundred ships had swung at anchor, a Peruvian sloop or
an abandoned bark rose sluggishly with the ground swell; where
once was seen the men-of-war of the Peruvian navy, awaiting the
word from Lima to dash south, now appeared only the wooden
corvette Union, the obsolete coast defence monitor Atahuallpa, and
the school-ship Maria Theresa; once there was constant danger of
collision in the harbor, because of the press of small boats—cutters,
gigs, and barges, propelled by oars; steam launches darting here
and there, whistles blowing lustily; lighters moving slowly as long
sweeps were pushed, and sailboats gliding with white wings
outstretched,—now the appearance of even a rowboat caused
conjecture.
Before Harvey’s departure for the interior, the bay had been a never
ending source of delight to the three boys; indeed, it had appealed
to all foreign residents, as well as to the natives, but to none more
than to the members of the Callao Rowing Club, for the placid
waters permitted their going some distance from the shore, even in
the racing shells, and the trade wind not reaching the water near the
beach line, and the surface not being ruffled, it was possible to
feather the spoon oars by sliding them, even as is done on pond and
river. After the blockade was established, Carl, Louis, and Harvey
occasionally went out for spins; but the wide waste of harbor had
little attraction, and they soon abandoned visits to the boat-house at
Los Baños, preferring to take their recreation in the fields, on
horseback, or in some of the games that had been introduced from
the United States and England.
Other members of the club felt the same about rowing in the bay;
and a fortnight after the Chilean vessels appeared in the offing, the
governing board decided to close the boat-house until peace should
be declared and normal conditions be restored in Callao. So the
shells, practice boats, canoes, and the sail-boat were carefully
housed in the large covered barge that was anchored a short
distance from shore; the doors were securely fastened, and Pedro,
the keeper, was told he would have to seek other employment. The
members removed their effects from the lockers in the apartments
which had been rented from the owner of the Baños del Oroya, and
the lease to these shore quarters was surrendered. But the Callao
Rowing Club did not disband. The organization was maintained, and
to-day it is a flourishing athletic association, famous up and down
the West Coast.
In naval parlance ships are “darning the needle” when they steam
back and forth before a harbor, out of the reach of shore batteries,
yet near enough to prevent entrance and departure of vessels. This
is what the Chileans did day after day, week after week, and month
after month, and it became an accustomed sight to see their low,
black hulls in the offing, steam rising lazily from the funnels.
The vessels first on blockade duty were the Blanco Encalada, which
flew the admiral’s pennant, the Huascar, the Angamos, the
Pilcomayo, and the Mathias Cousino. Others were added after a
time, and there were frequent changes in the squadron; but the little
Huascar was kept on the station as an aggravation to the Peruvians.
The Angamos was a cruiser of a modern type and armed with one
rifle gun, which, reports said, could throw a shell from Callao to Lima
—eight miles.
The monotony of the blockade was broken after the first month by a
short bombardment of Callao, which was brought about by the
Chucuito forts opening upon a steam launch from the Blanco
Encalada, that ran in close to La Punta, evidently to reconnoitre the
shore battery there. The shots from the land guns were fired at six
o’clock in the evening, and the Chilean squadron steamed into the
harbor one hour later. The first broadside from out in the bay was
followed by a panic in the seacoast city and a wild rush of the
residents to escape into the environs. Among the thousands who
fled from their homes were Mr. Dartmoor and the members of his
family and Captain Saunders and Carl. After that exciting night, most
of which was passed in the fields, they and many others moved to
Lima and only visited Callao during the day.
Little damage was done by the bombardment; only a few houses
were destroyed, and no loss of life was reported. But the brief
engagement was signalled by as remarkable an incident as any ever
related concerning war times, and the story thereof is told in Callao
to this day. Immediately after dinner that evening the daughter of an
American bookseller sat down before the piano in the parlor of her
father’s home and commenced playing. After rendering one of
Mozart’s compositions she swung around on the stool, in order that
she might easily reach for more sheet music, and the motion
brought her feet and lower limbs from beneath the instrument. At
that instant the Blanco Encalada opened fire out in the bay, and a
shot from one of her guns, flying shoreward, pierced the side of this
residence, cut through the piano stool, as neatly as would a buzz-
saw, crushed the lower part of the piano, and made its exit through
another wall. The young woman fell upon the floor unharmed. Had
she not swung partly around her legs would have been shot away.
No other residence of any consequence was struck that night, the
dwellings destroyed being ramshackle structures.
One week later an attempt was made at midnight to destroy the
monitor Atahuallpa with a torpedo, but side-nets had been lowered
around the war-ship, and the submarine engine was caught in the
meshes, where it exploded, throwing water on board. The report
caused alarm in the city, but investigation proved that no damage
had been done. Attempts were made later in January to destroy the
Union, and they also failed. Short bombardments became of more
frequency, and those who remained in Callao grew accustomed to
the gun-fire and the whistling of shot and shell.
Thus passed the late summer and early spring of 1880. With each
succeeding week the value of food products increased, for no
supplies came into port, and the irrigated lands were not of
sufficient area to furnish all vegetable products that were required.
Demand was made on the interior, but the means of transportation
were so poor that articles thus brought commanded almost
prohibitive prices. Eggs were sold for two and three dollars a dozen,
and meat became worth almost that sum per pound; potatoes, even
in the land of their birth, brought fancy prices, and milk and butter
were soon not obtainable. But rice and corn were in plenty, so that,
although the majority were compelled to deny themselves a variety
of diet, there was no fear of starvation.
 CHAPTER XVI.
JOHN LONGMORE’S REVENGE.

S eñor Cisneros returned from the interior toward the latter end of
January, and immediately after the report of the surveyor and
the deputy inspector had been filed, a patent was issued to the Bella
Mining Company of Callao and New York, to dig ores from the
district which had been chartered and to extract precious metals
therefrom.
Beyond this action, which secured the claim, nothing could be done
until peace should be declared. Hope-Jones and Ferguson
undoubtedly had interested capitalists of the United States, but it
was impossible for the Englishman and American to reenter Callao;
and it was equally impossible for them to communicate with their
associates in Peru, because all mail service had ceased with the
establishment of the blockade.
The fact that mining operations had been delayed did not greatly
inconvenience the Dartmoors, for the banks of Lima were only too
glad to come to their assistance. And at that period occurred a
demand for agricultural implements, so great that the receiver who
had control of the bankrupt hardware store reported rapidly
increasing business, notwithstanding the fact that Callao was often
under fire; and with the consent of local creditors he engaged the
former owner of the establishment to conduct the new trade, which
promised soon to pay all indebtedness and leave a profit.
Mr. Dartmoor regretted that he had not sent his wife and children to
the States, when he saw how the war promised to drag along; and
Captain Saunders was sorry that he had not insisted upon Carl going
north with his mother. But the boys were very well satisfied to
remain. Not a day passed without some excitement—the firing upon
forts and the attacks on war-ships at anchor, and the kaleidoscopic
panorama of Lima, which was the centre of a brilliant army corps.
The Dartmoors lived in the capital until the latter part of June, when
the bombardments having practically ceased, they reopened the
house at Chucuito and lived there part of the time. Mrs. Dartmoor
and Rosita would pass several days in each week in the spacious
suburban home, returning to Lima in the evening; but Louis and
Harvey would frequently remain all night, and usually Carl Saunders
was with them. Although the boys enjoyed life in Lima for a season,
they were happier near the ocean, for all three were splendid
swimmers, and every morning they could run over to the Santa Rosa
beach and have a dip before breakfast.
On one of these occasions—it was the morning of July 3—they left
home somewhat earlier than usual; indeed, it was a half hour before
dawn, for they had been asked to go to Callao immediately after
breakfast and assist on their father’s books.
“Whew!” exclaimed Louis, as they emerged from the house. “It’s
rather cold for a dip, isn’t it?”
“The water is warmer than the air, fortunately,” said Carl, who had
been a visitor for nearly a fortnight with his chums.
“And a brisk run will put us in condition,” added Harvey. “So let’s be
off!”
They started at a swinging pace to cover the quarter mile, which
was the width of the peninsula at this point, and leaving behind
them the rough breakers of Mar Bravo, in which no man could live,
they rapidly neared the more peaceful shore on the bay side, where
bathing was safe for those who could swim.
But they did not take a “dip” on this morning; instead they became
witnesses to a tragedy, one of the tragedies of history.
For, as the lads swung down beneath the Santa Rosa fort, toward
the line where the rollers break, they saw a number of forms
gathered on the beach, and a sentinel’s call to “halt” brought them
to a sudden stand.
An officer came running up, a very small officer, who, as soon as he
saw who the intruders were, exclaimed, “Good morning, boys”; and
recognizing General Matajente, they at once felt at their ease.
“You are out rather early, are you not?” he asked. “But you are in
time to witness something that I am sure will interest you. How
would you like to see the Blanco Encalada blown out of water?”
This question was asked in a whisper; and without waiting for it to
be answered, the diminutive general turned and walked down to the
beach, closely followed by the three thoroughly astonished and
interested lads.
A dozen officers and a score of soldiers and sailors were gathered
near the water line; but towering above them all was a figure that
the boys at once recognized in the growing light, and Harvey,
exclaiming: “Why that’s John Longmore! I haven’t seen him since
the Huascar was captured!” darted forward and seized his old-time
friend by the hand.
The man thus addressed had once been a recluse on San Lorenzo
Island, having lived there in solitude from the time of his wife’s
death until the outbreak of the war with Chile. He was an American
by birth, but he had so loved his Peruvian wife, for whom he had
abandoned the sea, that for her sake he had sworn allegiance to this
South American country.
When war had been declared he enlisted on board the Huascar and
was one of the crew during all her famous engagements. Wounded
during the fight off Point Angamos, he was sent home; and soon
thereafter he followed Captain Matajente into the ranks of Pierola’s
forces, and took part in the famous charge upon the artillery in Lima.
The boys had known him while he lived on San Lorenzo Island,
frequently rowing over to the rugged place where his hermit’s hut
was perched; they had been with him during some of the exciting
scenes of the early war and had witnessed his daring in Lima. But
since old John had become a captain in the Peruvian army they had
not met him as frequently, and a week before Harvey’s return he
had been sent north on recruiting duty; so the lad had not been able
to greet him until this morning.
He grasped Harvey cordially by the hand, exchanged a few words
with him, then with Carl and Louis, and finally saying, “You are just
in time,” he left them to attend to the work in hand.
A remarkable sight met their gaze when they turned from greeting
their old-time friend to learn what was going forward. For a space of
several yards the beach appeared to have been transformed into a
market stall. The sand and stones were covered with meats and
fresh vegetables, of a quality that would have made them tempting
even before the blockade had transformed ordinary food products
into delicacies, and of a quantity that bespoke a large outlay of
money. Rich red shoulders of beef, the fat white and firm, told of the
slaughter of a young Andean bull; rounded joints of lamb and
mutton spoke of importations from the fertile grazing lands of the
interior. Quail, snipe, and plover, which all knew must have come
from the mountain valleys, were piled promiscuously, and so were
barnyard fowl of the western slope. There was much green stuff in
sight—corn, sweet potatoes, cauliflower, and beans; baskets were
filled with tomatoes, paltas, and the tempting chirimoyas.
The boys looked upon all this in astonishment, marvelling equally
concerning the use to which it was about to be put, and the means
by which it had been procured. In the rapidly growing light, they
saw other strange sights—articles in marked contrast with the wealth
of edibles: barrels marked “gunpowder” and kegs filled with even
more powerful explosives. Near these was a peculiar machine,
resembling druggists’ scales inverted, and minus the weighing pans.
Drawn up on the beach, so that only the stern rested in the water,
was a large lighter. A number of sentinels surrounded this strange
conglomeration and also the soldiers, sailors, and officers of both
army and navy, who were gathered near.
“Harvey,” said General Matajente, approaching the boys, “it’s lucky
you came. Can you tell us what time the tide turns? Since Captain
Longmore and I left the navy, to join the land forces, we have not
kept posted on such matters.”
It was not unusual for persons to appeal to the younger Dartmoor
boy for information concerning conditions in the bay. For three years
before going into the interior, he had made them a special study,
and had found that the information so gained aided him greatly
when acting as coxswain in regattas. After removing from Lima to
Chucuito, he had resumed these observations, probably more from
force of habit than other reason, and so he was able to answer
promptly, “At twenty-nine minutes after six, sir.”
“Then we have no time to lose. Captain, as this is your idea, I wish
you to take command here and carry out your plans.”
At the order from General Matajente, Old John—the boys could not
think of him save as Old John, the sailor, although he was now an
artillery officer—stepped forward, and by his command work was
begun. The object of their endeavor at first puzzled the lads, but in a
few minutes all became quite clear.
Sailors and soldiers rolled the barrels and kegs of explosives to the
side of the lighter, and the larger ones were lifted into the hull and
placed amidships. Also into the hull went Old John, who was handed
the peculiar mechanical contrivance, and the boys, who were
permitted to peer over the sides, saw him make fast the base to the
floor of the craft, then busy himself adjusting the arms, to one of
which they saw a spring had been attached. The kegs of explosives
were now passed in and placed nearer the peculiar machine than
had been the barrels, then Captain Longmore, still remaining within
the lighter, directed that the provisions be handed to him.
The more bulky of these, such as the shoulders of beef, were
distributed on the bottom of the boat, but arranged in such a
manner that portions of their surface would show above the mass of
green stuff that was soon thrown in. Although the beef, mutton,
potatoes, cauliflower, and the other vegetables were stowed away in
bow and stern with apparent carelessness, more attention was given
to the placing of the products amidships, in the vicinity of the
explosives, and above the mechanism a space about a foot in
diameter was kept open.
The game, the fruit, and the smaller vegetables were placed in
tempting array on top of the coarser products, and after adjusting
the edibles to his satisfaction, John Longmore sprang out and called
all the sailors round him.
“Now, in with her, men! But carefully, so as not to dislodge the
cargo! Wade out beyond the line of breakers and hold her there,
steady, until I come.”
They formed ten deep on each side of the craft, and slowly pushed
her down the beach and into the water; then, following orders, they
waded out until the bow was about ten feet from shore. The big
boat rose and fell on the glassy rollers, and was kept in place by the
sailors, who held firmly to the gunwales.
“What time is it, sir?” asked Old John.
“Exactly half-past six,” replied General Matajente.
“Then the tide has turned and is on the ebb. Shall I let her go, sir?”
“Yes, if all is in readiness.”
“In a moment, sir, as soon as I attach this,” and he held up a
percussion cap; “and this,” and he displayed a small shoulder of
lamb.
Strange combination! thought the boys as they saw these last
articles needed to complete the engine of death that was about to
be set sailing under the most alluring flag of peace—agriculture; and
they watched intently as the gaunt seaman strode through the surf
to the side of the lighter, then climbed on board.
The morning was misty, but at such a short distance from shore he
was easily discernible, bending over and moving his hands and arms.
He was not engaged in this for more than two minutes, then he
dropped over the side, and called out, “Push her off, men!”
Old John waded ashore, and the lighter, loaded with explosives and
disguised with market gardeners’ truck, with the choice from
butchers’ stalls, with delicacies from the fruiterers; yes, even with a
few flowers, which were strewn carelessly on top, as if placed there
by some one who had given them as a memento to the owner of the
cargo—this engine of death drifted slowly into the mist, out toward
the sea, borne by the ebb tide.
The artillery captain spoke for a moment with General Matajente,
then turned to the boys and bade them good-by, saying that he
must go to the castles.
“But first, won’t you please tell us what you did when you went on
the lighter while the men were holding her?” asked Harvey. “We saw
what was done on shore, but cannot understand what followed.”
“Certainly, my lad. You noticed that I carried a percussion cap and a
shoulder of lamb?”
“Yes.”
“I placed the meat on the arm of the machine to which the spring is
made fast, and the percussion cap upon an open keg of powder,
beneath the other arm. Do you understand?”
 “The engine of death drifted
slowly into the mist.”

“Yes, I think so. When the piece of lamb is lifted the spring will fly
up, the opposite arm will descend, explode the cap, and——”
“Exactly,” the captain said.
“But could not a person see all this arrangement and suspect
something?” asked Louis. “You left quite a space there.”
“That is all filled in, and I put the most tempting game and fruit right
above the powder.”
“Then,” said Carl, slowly, “you expect the boat will drift far out in the
bay; will be sighted by one of the ships on blockade; that an attempt
will be made to take the stuff on board, and all hands will be blown
to kingdom come?”
“That is what I hope, my lad.”
“It’s horrible!” said Harvey.
Old John laughed in a peculiar manner and walked away.
As the boys were going slowly up the beach, Carl said:—
“Did you notice the change in Old John? I believe he’s insane.”
“So do I,” said Louis.
“And I,” echoed Harvey. “The old whaler we once knew on San
Lorenzo couldn’t have planned such a trick.”
They had not gone far before they were joined by General
Matajente. He walked on in silence until they reached the La Punta
road, then they heard him mutter:—
“I don’t like it one bit, boys; I don’t like it one bit.”
“Don’t like what, general?”
“That business down on the beach.”
“Why then did you permit it, sir?”
“Orders, my boy, orders. It was not the old boatswain who
suggested the plan to a naval officer, but a captain in the artillery
arm who went to headquarters. John Longmore told the people in
the palace at Lima of his plan, and I was sent down here to oversee
the operations.”
“Then you do not approve of what has been done?”
“Orders, my boy, orders,” was his only reply.
 CHAPTER XVII.
JOHN LONGMORE’S REVENGE (continued).

W hen the sun was an hour high the mist faded away; the gray
mantle disappeared, and Callao Bay became of two colors, a
green within the space of an imaginary arc extending from the tip of
La Punta to Los Baños, and a blue beyond, as far as San Lorenzo,
where it merged into the indigo of the immensity of waters.
Upon the surface of the green, circling around occasionally when
caught by a surface current, but steadily moving with the tide, was a
market gardener’s lighter, crowded from keel to gunwales with every
variety of produce. Such a sight had not been witnessed for more
than six months, not since those ships, discernible far in the offing,
had enforced the closing of the port. Before that time these lighters
had been frequently rowed and sailed over the bay, moving toward
the heart of the city from the fertile region of the Rimac on the
north.
When men saw what manner of craft was adrift they rubbed their
eyes, to make sure that sleep was not with them and conjuring a
fanciful vision in a dream. No, the boat was still there, rising and
falling on the slowly undulating rollers and moving ever toward the
open. Then between La Punta’s tip and the northern shore perhaps a
dozen persons sprang into skiffs, whitehalls, and wherries, and let
fall oars to race for the prize.
“Halt!” called a soldier standing on the beach near the big, smooth
guns on The Point.
“Halt!” An infantryman levelled his rifle beneath the forts at
Chucuito.
“Halt!” yelled a red-uniformed guard, stationed on the mole in
Callao.
“Halt!” A boatman who was pushing off from Los Baños dropped his
oars and came back on shore.
“Halt! Halt! Halt!” was heard at intermediary points, for around all
the sweep of land bordering the bay stood sentinels, and their
orders were to permit no man’s interference with the progress
seaward of that lighter laden with garden truck.
From these guardsmen was learned the nature of the craft that was
so jealously watched, and the news spread with lightning rapidity
over the city of Callao, to Bella Vista and haciendas adjoining, to
Miraflores, to Chorillas, and all over Lima; and from there it was
wafted up the mountains to Chosica and even to Matucana.
Peru was to be revenged! That was the keynote of the message, and
then followed in more or less exaggerated form an account of what
had been done and what was the expected sequel. Revenge! After
having been humiliated in the south by many defeats, after suffering
from blockade—which is a thumb-screw torture inflicted by one
nation upon another—and after being insulted by the flaunting in
their face of the lone star flags hoisted on the Huascar and the
Pilcomayo; after all these had occurred and all this time had elapsed,
Peru was at last to be revenged!
The Chilean fleet would be blown out of the water before noon! This
was the word which was sent from mouth to mouth.
Early risers, who were on the streets soon after dawn,—venders of
water and venders of such scant green stuff as could be obtained,—
hurried to the shore and dotted the beach here and there, gazing
seaward expectantly. All that day jackasses wandered unattended
around the streets of Callao, braying mournfully, and bearing on
their backs casks that had been filled from the river Rimac, or
baskets that contained plantains and coarse vegetables.
In a few minutes these hucksters and providers of the day’s drinking
supply were joined by other men, persons who lived near the beach
and had run from breakfast tables when the news had reached
them; some were only half dressed, for they had jumped from their
beds at the summons. Then from out all the streets of the seacoast
city poured a throng, and men were joined by women and children.
A solid human line marked the entire water-front, and behind it
formed others. Balconies of buildings that faced the sea were rented
that morning, and then space in windows was sold. Callao’s shore
line was the tier of a gigantic amphitheatre; the bay was the arena.
A severe earthquake shock is followed by an exodus from the
seacoast to Lima, which is on high ground and beyond reach of a
tidal wave. At such times all manner of equipages are pressed into
service; railroad trains are overcrowded, and those who cannot ride
in car or carriage, on horses or mules, run or walk along the road.
But no flight from the coast to Lima ever equalled the outpouring
from the City of the Kings toward Callao on this morning of July 3,
1880; and within two hours after the lighter had been pushed from
the Chucuito beach the depopulation of the capital commenced, and
a wave of humanity swept down the highway and spread out over
the pampas country.
After taking leave of General Matajente, the boys had directed their
steps toward the Dartmoor residence on the Mar Bravo side of the
peninsula, and realizing each minute more and more vividly the
stupendousness of the impending tragedy, they increased their
speed accordingly, until, when the house was reached, they were
running as fast as they could; and bounding up the stairs, two and
three at a time, they burst into the dining room, reaching there
nearly out of breath.
Mr. Dartmoor was at breakfast, and with him at table was Captain
Saunders, who had been his guest over night. The men listened in
astonishment to the recital, and at its conclusion the iron merchant
said:—
“No business can be transacted this day. We may as well go to
Callao and witness this deplorable attempt at destruction of life and
property.”
“You may well say deplorable,” remarked Captain Saunders.
“Torpedo warfare is to be regretted under any circumstances. But
against the modern engines of destruction, which are projected
beneath the water, the enemy has some means of defence. He may
let down nets at the sides and entangle the projectile, or by
continual vigilance keep his ship from being struck. Against this
bomb-laden market boat there is no defence, except accidental
discovery of its true character. It is an abominable trap, and if any
one is killed thereby, it will be coldblooded murder.”
“You say that General Matajente did not approve the action?” asked
Mr. Dartmoor.
“Indeed he did not, sir. His expression told us more than did his
words, however. He seemed to be thoroughly disgusted.”
“I should expect as much from him, and I believe that Peru as a
nation will not approve such methods of warfare. Let us hope this
attempt will not succeed. I am surprised, though, boys, that your old
friend should have conceived such a plot.”
“That man, John Longmore, is insane,” said Captain Saunders, with
emphasis. “He has been insane ever since he received that sabre cut
on board the Huascar. He is a monomaniac in his hatred of
Chileans.”
“We noticed his peculiar actions this morning, father,” said Carl.
The boys were hastening their breakfast while this conversation was
taking place, and announced themselves ready for departure as soon
as their fathers pushed back chairs from the table.
“If this succeeds, it will be deplorable for another reason than the
immediate loss of life,” said the captain, rising.
“You mean because of a postponement of peace negotiations?”
“Yes.”
“I fear you are correct.”
“How will it affect the peace negotiations, sir?” Louis asked.
“Because the Chileans will become so incensed that they will not
listen to the propositions for arbitration which have recently been
made by commissioners sent from Washington. Not only that,” said
Captain Saunders, “but any hope of Chile abandoning her idea of
territorial annexation will be gone. I prophesy that if this lighter,
armed and equipped by John Longmore, does any considerable
damage in the Chilean fleet, that Peru will pay for it with the
province of Tarapacá.”
“The richest province?” said Harvey.
“Yes, my lad, the richest nitrate of soda country in the world.”
By this time they were on the plank road that leads from Chucuito to
Callao, and after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes reached the business
section. They were too early to meet the mass of humanity that later
surged through all the streets; but they encountered some hundreds
of persons who were rushing toward the water-front.
“This will be a gala day,” remarked Captain Saunders.
“Yes, until the truth is known,” was Mr. Dartmoor’s reply. “Then you
will see a reaction and genuine sorrow. I know these people, I have
lived among them since we parted company in the States,
immediately after the war—and,” he added in a low tone, “I married
one of them.”
“Pardon me, my old friend,” said Captain Saunders, “I did not intend
to wound your feelings. I was not speaking bitterly of the Peruvians
as a people, but of those who are responsible for this action to-day.”
“You must remember that an American suggested it.”
“That is true, John, but he is insane, I am certain. Those who gave it
the stamp of approval are the guilty ones.”
They had reached the large building owned by the English Railroad
Company, and the boys, who had walked somewhat in advance,
stopped in front of the entrance to the flight of steps and looked
back inquiringly.
“Yes,” said Captain Saunders, in reply, “go ahead.” Then he added,
“There’s no better place, is there?”
“No. We may as well go up here.”
The railroad building was situated on the beach, and a broad
balcony on the second floor jutted out over the water. This veranda
and nearly all the rooms on the floor were leased by the English
Club. From no place, except the tip of La Punta, could a better view
be obtained of the bay.
Mounted on tripods at both ends of this open space were two large
telescopes; numerous marine glasses were on tables. For years, until
1880, these clubrooms had been a favorite place for captains of the
merchant marine and naval officers to lounge during afternoons, and
they had been no less enjoyed by the Anglo-Saxon residents of
Callao and Lima.
The boys hurried to the railing as soon as they had reached the
veranda and looked seaward. Out in the offing, darning the needle,
were six ships on blockade duty. About a mile from shore, heading
well out from the Chucuito beach, was what appeared to be a small
boat. They knew it was the lighter, and glances which each in turn
took through one of the telescopes showed that the cargo of
vegetables and meats had not been disturbed. It was the only craft
moving on the bay. At anchor, but safe under the forts, were the
monitor Atahuallpa, the corvette Union, and the training ship Maria
Theresa, remnants of the Peruvian navy. Within the new pier were
perhaps a score of vessels, tied up until the blockade should be over.
Nothing else was on all that broad expanse of beautiful harbor,
except a little schooner, moored at a buoy, and an abandoned,
unseaworthy bark.
For several weeks after the blockade had been established, the
members thronged the club-house and waited their turn to gaze
through the powerful lenses at the ships flying the lone star flag; but
long before July, 1880, came around, the enemy’s fleet had ceased
to attract attention; and as nothing stirred in the bay, the men
shunned the balcony because the view it commanded was
disheartening. It told of a dead commerce, of stagnant trade. But
this morning all those who possessed the little blue membership
tickets hastened to the quarters, and many brought friends, so that
within an hour after the arrival of Captain Saunders, Mr. Dartmoor,
and the boys, the place was overcrowded, and late comers were
compelled to go higher and seek vantage points in windows of the
railway company’s offices.
The Chucuito party was fortunate, both in arriving early and in being
joined by a number of intimate friends, for they were enabled to
take possession of one of the large telescopes, and hold it for the
morning.
Don Isaac was the first to come, and he listened attentively to the
recital by the boys, who told again, for his benefit, of the strange
doings at the break of day on the Chucuito beach. They had hardly
finished when Señor Cisneros appeared.
“What is this I hear? Are they going to use a torpedo in broad
daylight? I fear it will prove certain death for the crew that attempts
to approach those ships,” and he pointed seaward.
Captain Saunders explained that the torpedo was not of the kind
generally launched from war vessels, or sent from shore, and he
briefly described the construction of John Longmore’s engine of
death. The Peruvian’s face flushed while he listened to the recital,
and his eyebrows contracted.
“This should not be allowed!” he exclaimed. “It is a crime! Pierola
should be appealed to and asked to stop this slaughter.”
At these words Mr. Dartmoor looked at Captain Saunders
triumphantly. He had been correct in his estimate of the people.
First, the officer who had been ordered to oversee the details of
launching the lighter had denounced the work to which he had been
assigned; and now a representative citizen from the interior deplored
the event in even more energetic terms.
It was too late to stop the enactment of the tragedy, too late to
appeal to Pierola. The fiendish plot, hatched in the crazed brain of
the old whaler, and approved by a hot-headed official in Lima, must
go forward. The boat which was laden with market produce had
drifted two miles from shore, and was nearing the line where the
green water of the harbor merged into the blue beyond; as it passed
from one colored surface to the other events began to move rapidly
—and all the while, from along the shore, came the buzz of the
many thousands who had crowded as near as was possible to the
water’s edge.
“Look!” suddenly exclaimed Louis. “A boat is putting off from the
mole!”
“It’s the state barge,” said Harvey, after a glance through the marine
glasses. “I wonder what’s up now.”
The question was soon answered by the craft itself, which was
rowed alongside the Union. Believing it had been sent out only to
carry an officer back to his ship, they paid no more attention to this
section of the harbor until Carl called attention again to the corvette,
by saying that a steam launch had put off from her side. Puffs of
smoke came from the short stack on this small vessel, and after
swinging under the stern of the Union she shaped a course out
toward the open.
The foreigners on the club veranda looked at one another in
amazement; the natives on the beach set up a shout.
“Thank God!” fervently exclaimed Señor Cisneros. “They are going to
tow that lighter back to the shore.”
Out steamed the launch, at full speed, sending spray flying at the
sides of her stem, and leaving astern a narrow path of white that
marked where her propeller had churned the water.
Until this small craft appeared in the bay, the Chileans had evidently
given no heed to the lighter that, by this time, had well entered the
blue; if it had been sighted by them, no sign to that effect had been
made; they continued to steam slowly backward and forward,
patrolling the entrance. But when the launch had covered half the
distance between the shore and the provision-laden barge, the
cruiser Mathias Cousino, which at that time happened to be the
nearest to La Punta, changed her course and made toward the
harbor. Ten minutes later she fired a bow gun, and the shot plunged
into the water not far from the launch.
The Peruvian boat at once put about and made for the Union. A
dense cloud of smoke from her stack told that the stoker on board
was using all his energy, and that the boiler had been called upon
for the highest pressure it could stand.
An expression of disappointment could be seen on the faces of Mr.
Dartmoor and Señor Cisneros. The crowd shouted again, and the
noise made by the many thousands was like the roar of a train, or
the rasping of stones over stones on a beach when the undertow
sucks them back. One could not tell whether this shout was in
approval or disappointment.
“I do not believe it was ever the intention to have that launch tow
the lighter back to port,” said Captain Saunders.
“You do not?”
“No.”
“Why did she go out, then?”
“It was a ruse.”
“But what could have been the object?”
“That ship’s manœuvre answers your question,” and the captain
pointed to the Mathias Cousino, which was moving slowly toward the
provision-laden craft. “The Chileans had not noticed Old John’s
floating mine, or having noticed it were suspicious,” he added. “The
launch was sent to attract their attention, or to lull their fears by an
apparent anxiety to tow the lighter inshore.”
Whether Captain Saunders had surmised correctly or not was never
known in Callao; the instructions given the officer in command of the
launch were not made public.
Every eye had been turned in the direction of the Chilean cruiser
that had left her station, and as she came within a mile of the barge,
men on the club balcony climbed on the railings and on tables, that
they might see the better, expecting that she would prove a victim to
the floating mine. But after a few minutes the Mathias Cousino
altered her course, and describing a broad semicircle, returned to
her position in the squadron.
“She has set signals!” said Captain Saunders, who had been looking
through the telescope.
“And the Blanco is answering!” remarked Señor Cisneros, after
sweeping his marine glasses to the right, where the flagship formed
one of the wings of the fleet.
“She’s shaping a course for the lighter!” exclaimed the captain, who
had swung his telescope around; and then every one looked toward
the north, from which point of the compass the big ironclad was
lumbering shoreward.
A breeze from the south, blowing somewhat earlier in the day than
was usual, had cleared the last shadow of mist away, a cool
temperature had prevented the forming of a heat haze, and the eye
could discern even trees on San Lorenzo Island.
At the time of exchanging signals the Blanco was about six miles
distant from the Mathias Cousino. She moved sluggishly, not over
eight knots an hour, for her hull had become foul with the marine
growth of the South Pacific; and it was a half hour from the time she
left the line before she reached the spot where the cruiser had been.
The lighter had moved some two and a half miles from shore, and
was still drifting. To reach this craft the big man-of-war had
approached so near that even those who had no marine glasses
could make out features of her superstructure; while persons sitting
at the telescopes counted the number of men stationed on the
bridge and on other elevated deck works.
By approaching this close the flagship came within easy range of the
shore guns, and when she was only a few cables’ length distant from
the lighter, a shell was sent screeching over the water from one of
the rifled pieces in the castle. It struck to the south of her, fully a
quarter of a mile.
“That bluff is so poor that I should think her commander would see
through it,” said Captain Saunders.
“What do you mean by a bluff, father?” asked Carl.
“Why, that gun-fire, evidently ordered to lull the suspicions of the
Chileans, who might wonder if no shots were let fly.”
“Didn’t they aim at her, then?”
“Certainly not, son.”
At that moment a shell flew from the Chucuito fort, and it went as
wild as had that from the castle.
Then everybody bent forward breathlessly, looked out over the bay
with staring eyes, and not a word was spoken; a silence as of death
had fallen upon the multitude that thronged the shore lines. For the
Blanco Encalada had slowly passed between the lighter and the
land, had reversed her propeller, and had come to a stop with the
lighter alongside. None could see this boat that was crowded with
food-stuffs and undermined with sufficient explosives to destroy
every ship out there in the offing, but they knew that it had been
made fast, and that greedy eyes of half-famished sailors were spying
the wealth of edibles—enough food to put new life into every man in
the fleet, even as there was sufficient material, hidden by the green,
to insure every man a horrible death.
Minutes passed like hours; the ticking of watches could be heard.
What could they be about on the ironclad? Why the delay? Why did
the crash not come and be over with?
Harvey was watching as were the others, but all at once he buried
his face in his hands and covered his eyes. The boy who had stood
before the Majeronas so bravely became dizzy when he thought of
the awful scene that might spring into being any moment out in the
bay; a lump was in his throat. Carl and Louis also turned away at
times. Strong men were affected and nervously twitched their
fingers, tapped the floor with their feet, or bit the ends of their
mustaches.
“She’s away! She’s safe!” suddenly exclaimed the captain. “She’s
made out the trap and is putting out to sea again!”
Then everybody saw the lighter reappear under the war-ship’s
counter, and gradually the water and sky line broadened between
the big ship and the boat.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
JOHN LONGMORE’S REVENGE (concluded).

S eñor Cisneros gave vent to a sigh of relief; so did Mr. Dartmoor.

The boys were both disappointed and pleased. If they could
have seen a war-ship destroyed without loss of life, the spectacle
would have thrilled them; or could they have been eyewitness to a
naval engagement in which both sides had warning, they would
have enjoyed nothing better. They understood perfectly the attitude
taken by their seniors, and their love of fair play told them that such
methods of warfare as that employed by John Longmore could have
no honest approval.
Captain Saunders picked up his hat from a table, and, rising from
the chair where he had ensconced himself so as to look the better
through the telescope, he prepared to leave the veranda, and waited
a minute until the others could make ready. Several club members
had hurriedly taken their departure, anxious to avoid the crowd that
would throng the streets.
“Come, boys,” Mr. Dartmoor said, and he started toward the stairs.
“Just a minute, please, father?” asked Louis, who had taken a seat
at the telescope. Then he added, “I wonder what the Blanco is
signalling for?”
“She is signalling, that’s a fact,” said Carl, who had taken up a pair of
marine glasses and was looking seaward.
“Hurry! Don’t you see you are keeping us all waiting?” insisted Mr.
Dartmoor.
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