Leave me alone, O Umaimah--alone with my sleepless pain-- alone with the livelong night and the wearily lingering stars; It draws on its length of gloom; methinks it will never end, nor ever the Star-herd lead his flock to their folds of rest;-- Alone with a breast whose griefs, that roamed far afield by day, the darkness has brought all home: in legions they throng around. A favor I have with 'Amr, a favor his father bore toward me of old; a grace that carried no scorpion sting. I swear (and my word is true--an oath that hath no reserve, and naught in my heart is hid save fair thought of him, my friend)-- If these twain his fathers were, who lie in their graves; the one al-Jillik, the others al-Saidâ, by Hârib's side, And Hârith, of Jafnah's line, the lord of his folk of old-- yea, surely his might shall reach the home of his enemy! In him hope is sure of help when men say--"The host is sped, the horsemen of Ghassân's line unblemished, no hireling herd, His cousins, all near of kin, their chief 'Amr, 'Âmir's son-- a people are they whose might in battle shall never fail!" When goes forth the host to war, above them in circles wheel battalions of eagles, pointing the path to battalions more; Their friendship is old and tried, fast comrades, in foray bred to look unafraid on blood, as hounds to the chase well trained. Behold them, how they sit there, behind where their armies meet, watching with eyes askance, like elders in gray furs wrapt, Intent; for they know full well that those whom they follow, when the clash of the hosts shall come, will bear off the victory. Ay, well is that custom known, a usage that time has proved when lances are laid in rest on withers of steeds arow-- Of steeds in the spear-play skilled, with lips for the fight drawn back, their bodies with wounds all scarred, some bleeding and some half-healed. And down leap the riders where the battle is strait and stern, and spring in the face of Death like stallions amid the herd; Between them they give and take deep draughts of the wine of doom as their hands ply the white swords, thin and keen in the smiting-edge. In shards fall the morions burst by the fury of blow on blow, and down to the eyebrows, cleft, fly shattered the skulls beneath. In them no defect is found, save only that in their swords are notches, a many, gained from smiting of host on host: An heirloom of old, those blades, from the fight of Halîmah's day, and many the mellay fierce that since has their temper proved; Therewith do they cleave in twain the hauberk of double woof, and kindle the rock beneath to fire, ere the stroke is done. A nature is theirs--God gives the like to no other men--