a wisdom that never sleeps, a bounty that never fails. Their home is God's own land, His chosen of old; their faith is steadfast. Their hope is set on naught but the world to come. Their sandals are soft and fine, and girded with chastity, they welcome with garlands sweet the dawn of the Feast of Palms. There greets them when they come home full many a handmaid fine, and ready, on trestles, hang the mantles of scarlet silk. Yea, softly they wrap their limbs, well-knowing of wealth and ease, in rich raiment, white-sleeved, green at the shoulder--in royal guise. They look not on Weal as men who know not that Woe comes, too: they look not on evil days as though they would never mend. _Lo, this was my gift to Ghassân, what time I sought My people; and all my paths were darkened, and strait my ways_. NUSAIB The poem characterizes the separation of a wife and mother--a slave--from her family: Translation of C.J. Lyall. They said last night--To-morrow at first of dawning, or maybe at eventide, must Laila go!-- My heart at the word lay helpless, as lies a Kat[=a] in net night-long, and struggles with fast-bound wing. Two nestlings she left alone, in a nest far distant, a nest which the winds smite, tossing it to and fro. They hear but the whistling breeze, and stretch necks to greet her; but she they await--the end of her days is come! So lies she, and neither gains in the night her longing, nor brings her the morning any release from pain. VENGEANCE By al-Find, of the Zimman Tribe: Translation of C.J. Lyall Forgiveness had we for Hind's sons: We said, "The men our brothers are; The days may bring that yet again They be the folk that once they were." But when the Ill stood clear and plain, And naked Wrong was bold to brave, And naught was left but bitter Hate-- We paid them in the coin they gave. We strode as stalks a lion forth At dawn, a lion wrathful-eyed; Blows rained we, dealing shame on shame, And humbling pomp and quelling pride. Too kind a man may be with fools, And nerve them but to flout him more; And Mischief oft may bring thee peace, When Mildness works not Folly's cure. PATIENCE From Ibrahîm, Son of Kunaif of Nabhan: Translation of C.J. Lyall