Most noted of all the Arab poets was Mutanabbi (905-965). His fantastic imagery and extravagant refinements of language were held by his admirers to be the very perfection of literature. More than forty commentaries were written to explain the subtleties of his verse. Such, indeed, was the intensity of Mutanabbi's poetic ecstasy that he fancied himself a prophet and began to preach a new religion, until a term in prison persuaded him to cling to the accepted form of Mohammedanism. In one well-known passage ridiculed by the great French critic, Huart, Mutanabbi says of an advancing army that it was so vast "The warriors marched hidden in their dust; They saw only with their ears." The commentators explain, perhaps unnecessarily, that this means that the warriors' senses were confused by all the tumult, so that while they thought they saw, in reality they only heard the clamor of the marchers around them. In translation, Mutanabbi's verses lose all value. Deprived of their Arabic melody they seem mere bombast and absurdity. This, in fact, is the general charge which must be made against the later Arabic poetry. It too often degenerated into empty sound. THE POETS OF ARABIA THE SONG OF MAISUNA[28] (WIFE OF THE CALIPH MOWIAH) The russet suit of camel's hair, With spirits light, and eye serene, Is dearer to my bosom far Than all the trappings of a queen. The humble tent and murmuring breeze That whistles thro' its fluttering wall, My unaspiring fancy please Better than towers and splendid halls. Th' attendant colts that bounding fly And frolic by the litter's side, Are dearer in Maisuna's eye Than gorgeous mules in all their pride. The watch-dog's voice that bays whene'er A stranger seeks his master's cot, Sounds sweeter in Maisuna's ear Than yonder trumpet's long-drawn note. The rustic youth unspoilt by art, Son of my kindred, poor but free, Will ever to Maisuna's heart Be dearer, pamper'd fool, than thee. TO MY FATHER[29] (BY THE CALIPH YAZID) Must then my failings from the shaft Of anger ne'er escape? And dost thou storm because I've quaff'd The water of the grape? That I can thus from wine be driv'n Thou surely ne'er canst think— Another reason thou hast giv'n Why I resolve to drink. 'Twas sweet the flowing cup to seize, 'Tis sweet thy rage to see; And first I drink myself to please; And next—to anger thee. ON FATALISM[30] (BY THE HOLY IMAN SHAFAY) Not always wealth, not always force A splendid destiny commands; The lordly vulture gnaws the corse That rots upon yon barren sands. Nor want, nor weakness still conspires To bind us to a sordid state; The fly that with a touch expires Sips honey from the royal plate. TO THE CALIPH HAROUN AL RASHID[31] (BY PRINCE IBRAHIM BEN ADHAM)