Sabla, them saw'st th' exulting foe
In fancied triumphs crown'd;
Thou heard'st their frantic females throw
These galling taunts around:--
"Make now your choice--the terms we give,
Desponding victims, hear;
These fetters on your hands receive,
Or in your hearts the spear."
"And is the conflict o'er," we cried,
"And lie we at your feet?
And dare you vauntingly decide
The fortune we must meet?
"A brighter day we soon shall see,
Tho' now the prospect lowers,
And conquest, peace, and liberty
Shall gild our future hours."
The foe advanc'd:--in firm array
We rush'd o'er Sabla's sands,
And the red sabre mark'd our way
Amidst their yielding bands.
Then, as they writh'd in death's cold grasp,
We cried, "Our choice is made,
These hands the sabre's hilt shall clasp,
Your hearts shall have the blade."
_Jaafer Ben Alba_.
[5] This poem and the one following it are both taken from the Hamasa
and afford curious instances of the animosity which prevailed
amongst the several Arabian clans, and of the rancor with which
they pursued each other, when once at variance.