Labíd was a true Bedouin, and his _Mu‘allaqa_, with its charmingly fresh pictures of desert life and scenery, must be considered one of the finest examples of the Pre-islamic _qaṣída_ that have come down to us. The poet owes something to his predecessors, but the greater part seems to be drawn from his own observation. He begins in the conventional manner by describing the almost unrecognisable vestiges of the camping-ground of the clan to which his mistress belonged:-- "Waste lies the land where once alighted and did wone The people of Miná: Rijám and Ghawl are lone. The camp in Rayyán's vale is marked by relics dim Like weather-beaten script engraved on ancient stone. Over this ruined scene, since it was desolate, Whole years with secular and sacred months had flown. In spring 'twas blest by showers 'neath starry influence shed, And thunder-clouds bestowed a scant or copious boon. Pale herbs had shot up, ostriches on either slope Their chicks had gotten and gazelles their young had thrown; And large-eyed wild-cows there beside the new-born calves Reclined, while round them formed a troop the calves half-grown. Torrents of rain had swept the dusty ruins bare, Until, as writing freshly charactered, they shone, Or like to curved tattoo-lines on a woman's arm, With soot besprinkled so that every line is shown. I stopped and asked, but what avails it that we ask Dumb changeless things that speak a language all unknown?"[243] After lamenting the departure of his beloved the poet bids himself think no more about her: he will ride swiftly away from the spot. Naturally, he must praise his camel, and he introduces by way of comparison two wonderful pictures of animal life. In the former the onager is described racing at full speed over the backs of the hills when thirst and hunger drive him with his mate far from the barren solitudes into which they usually retire. The second paints a wild-cow, whose young calf has been devoured by wolves, sleeping among the sand-dunes through a night of incessant rain. At daybreak "her feet glide over the firm wet soil." For a whole week she runs to and fro, anxiously seeking her calf, when suddenly she hears the sound of hunters approaching and makes off in alarm. Being unable to get within bowshot, the hunters loose their dogs, but she turns desperately upon them, wounding one with her needle-like horn and killing another. Then, once more addressing his beloved, the poet speaks complacently of his share in the feasting and revelling, on which a noble Arab plumes himself hardly less than on his bravery:--