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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text @@ -0,0 +1,3752 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext of A Lute of Jade, by L. Cranmer-Byng + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +A Lute of Jade/Being Selections from the Classical Poets of China + +by L. Cranmer-Byng + +January, 1996 [Etext #390] + + +entered/proofed by A. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois + Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Illinois Benedictine College". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +A Lute of Jade: Being Selections from the Classical Poets of China +by L. Cranmer-Byng + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are capitalized. +Some slight errors have been corrected.] + + +[Due to the method of transliteration used in this text, +including many accent marks (and some strange ones), +please refer to the following chart to see how these words +originally appeared, and how they are presented in this text. +In each case, the line with the letters is the same as in the text, +and the accent marks are on the line above. + + +Names of People +--------------- + " " ^ ^ " +Ch`u Yuan Meng Hao-jan Ts`en-Ts`an Po Chu-i + + " ^ * * +Ssu-K`ung T`u T`ai Chen Lao Tzu Chuang Tzu + + +Names of Places +--------------- + * " +Ssuch`uan Ch`u + + +The accent marked by an asterisk resembles the lower half of a circle. + +It is noted in the appendix that Mr. Lionel Giles is responsible +for these transliterations.] + + +[This etext has been transcribed from a New York edition of 1909. +Please note that not only is the system of transliteration out of date +(though perhaps still easier to use than the current standard), +but other things may be out of date as well. The study of Chinese literature +has come a long way from the time when Mr. Cranmer-Byng had to include +books in four languages to come up with a short bibliography. +Still, this book may serve well as an introduction to the subject.] + + + + + + + A LUTE OF JADE + + + + + + +To Professor Herbert Giles + + + + + + +A Lute of Jade + +Being Selections from the Classical Poets of China + + +Rendered with an Introduction +by L. Cranmer-Byng +Author of "The Odes of Confucius" + + + + + + +With lutes of gold and lutes of Jade + Li Po + + + + + + +Contents + + + +Introduction + The Ancient Ballads + Poetry before the T`angs + The Poets of the T`ang Dynasty + A Poet's Emperor + Chinese Verse Form + The Influence of Religion on Chinese Poetry + +The Odes of Confucius + Sadness + Trysting Time + The Soldier + +Ch`u Yuan + The Land of Exile + +Wang Seng-ju + Tears + +Ch`en Tzu Ang + The Last Revel + +Sung Chih-Wen + The Court of Dreams + +Kao-Shih + Impressions of a Traveller + Desolation + +Meng Hao-jan + The Lost One + A Friend Expected + +Ch`ang Ch`ien + A Night on the Mountain + +Ts`en-Ts`an + A Dream of Spring + +Tu Fu + The Little Rain + A Night of Song + The Recruiting Sergeant + Chants of Autumn + +Li Po + To the City of Nan-king + Memories with the Dusk Return + An Emperor's Love + On the Banks of Jo-yeh + Thoughts in a Tranquil Night + The Guild of Good-fellowship + Under the Moon + Drifting + +Wang Ch`ang-ling + The Song of the Nenuphars + Tears in the Spring + +Chang Chih-ho + A World Apart + +Chang Jo-hu + +T`ung Han-ching + The Celestial Weaver + +Po Chu-i + The Lute Girl + The Never-ending Wrong + The River and the Leaf + Lake Shang + The Ruined Home + A Palace Story + Peaceful Old Age + Sleeplessness + The Grass + Autumn across the Frontier + The Flower Fair + The Penalties of Rank + The Island of Pines + Springtide + The Ancient Wind + +Li Hua + An Old Battle-field + +Ssu-K`ung T`u + Return of Spring + The Colour of Life + Set Free + Fascination + Tranquil Repose + The Poet's Vision + Despondent + Embroideries + Concentration + Motion + +Ou-Yang Hsiu of Lu-ling + Autumn + At the Graveside + +Appendix + + + + + + +Editorial Note + + + +The object of the Editors of this series is a very definite one. +They desire above all things that, in their humble way, +these books shall be the ambassadors of good-will and understanding +between East and West -- the old world of Thought and the new of Action. +In this endeavour, and in their own sphere, they are but followers of +the highest example in the land. They are confident that a deeper knowledge +of the great ideals and lofty philosophy of Oriental thought +may help to a revival of that true spirit of Charity +which neither despises nor fears the nations of another creed and colour. +Finally, in thanking press and public for the very cordial reception given +to this Series, they wish to state that no pains have been spared +to secure the best specialists for the treatment of the various subjects +at hand. + L. Cranmer-Byng. + S. A. Kapadia. +Northbrook Society, + 185 Piccadilly, W. + + + + + + +A Lute of Jade + + + + + + +Introduction + + + + + + The Ancient Ballads + + + +A little under three hundred years, from A.D. 618 to 906, +the period of the T`ang dynasty, and the great age of Chinese poetry +had come and gone. Far back in the twilight of history, +at least 1,700 years before Christ, the Chinese people sang their songs +of kings and feudal princes good or bad, of husbandry, or now and then +songs with the more personal note of simple joys and sorrows. +All things in these Odes collected by Confucius belong to the surface of life; +they are the work of those who easily plough light furrows, +knowing nothing of hidden gold. Only at rare moments of exaltation or despair +do we hear the lyrical cry rising above the monotone of dreamlike content. +Even the magnificent outburst at the beginning of this book, +in which the unhappy woman compares her heart to a dying moon, +is prefaced by vague complaint: + + My brothers, although they support me not, + Are angry if I speak of my sadness. + + My sadness is so great, + Nearly all are jealous of me; + Many calumnies attack me, + And scorning spares me not. + Yet what harm have I done? + I can show a clear conscience. + +Yes, the conscience is clear and the song is clear, and so these +little streams flow on, shining in the clear dawn of a golden past +to which all poets and philosophers to come will turn with wistful eyes. +These early ballads of the Chinese differ in feeling from almost all +the ballad literature of the world. They are ballads of peace, +while those of other nations are so often war-songs and the remembrances +of brave deeds. Many of them are sung to a refrain. +More especially is this the case with those whose lines breathe sadness, +where the refrain comes like a sigh at the end of a regret: + + Cold from the spring the waters pass + Over the waving pampas grass, + All night long in dream I lie, + Ah me! ah me! to awake and sigh -- + Sigh for the City of Chow. + + Cold from its source the stream meanders + Darkly down through the oleanders, + All night long in dream I lie, + Ah me! ah me! to awake and sigh -- + Sigh for the City of Chow. + +In another place the refrain urges and importunes; it is time for flight: + + Cold and keen the north wind blows, + Silent falls the shroud of snows. + You who gave me your heart, + Let us join hands and depart! + Is this a time for delay? + Now, while we may, + Let us away. + + Only the lonely fox is red, + Black but the crow-flight overhead. + You who gave me your heart -- + The chariot creaks to depart. + Is this a time for delay? + Now, while we may, + Let us away. + +Perhaps these Odes may best be compared with the little craftless figures +in an early age of pottery, when the fragrance of the soil +yet lingered about the rough clay. The maker of the song was a poet, +and knew it not. The maker of the bowl was an artist, and knew it not. +You will get no finish from either -- the lines are often blurred, +the design but half fulfilled; and yet the effect is not inartistic. +It has been well said that greatness is but another name for interpretation; +and in so far as these nameless workmen of old interpreted themselves +and the times in which they lived, they have attained enduring greatness. + + + + + Poetry before the T`angs + + + +Following on the Odes, we have much written in the same style, +more often than not by women, or songs possibly written to be sung by them, +always in a minor key, fraught with sadness, yet full of quiet resignation +and pathos. + +It is necessary to mention in passing the celebrated Ch`u Yuan +(fourth cent. B.C.), minister and kinsman of a petty kinglet under +the Chou dynasty, whose `Li Sao', literally translated `Falling into Trouble', +is partly autobiography and partly imagination. His death by drowning +gave rise to the great Dragon-boat Festival, which was originally +a solemn annual search for the body of the poet. + +Soon a great national dynasty arrives whose Emperors are often +patrons of literature and occasionally poets as well. The House of Han +(200 B.C.-A.D. 200) has left its mark upon the Empire of China, +whose people of to-day still call themselves "Sons of Han". +There were Emperors beloved of literary men, Emperors beloved of the people, +builders of long waterways and glittering palaces, and one great conqueror, +the Emperor Wu Ti, of almost legendary fame. This was an age of preparation +and development of new forces. Under the Hans, Buddhism first began +to flourish. The effect is seen in the poetry of the time, +especially towards the closing years of this dynasty. The minds of poets +sought refuge in the ideal world from the illusions of the senses. + +The third century A.D. saw the birth of what was probably +the first literary club ever known, the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove. +This little coterie of friends was composed of seven famous men, +who possessed many talents in common, being poets and musicians, +alchemists, philosophers, and mostly hard drinkers as well. +Their poetry, however, is scarcely memorable. Only one great name +stands between them and the poets of the T`ang dynasty -- +the name of T`ao Ch`ien (A.D. 365-427), whose exquisite allegory +"The Peach Blossom Fountain" is quoted by Professor Giles +in his `Chinese Literature'. The philosophy of this ancient poet +appears to have been that of Horace. `Carpe diem!' + +"Ah, how short a time it is that we are here! Why then not set our hearts +at rest, ceasing to trouble whether we remain or go? What boots it +to wear out the soul with anxious thoughts? I want not wealth; +I want not power: heaven is beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll +through the bright hours as they pass, in my garden among my flowers, +or I will mount the hill and sing my song, or weave my verse +beside the limpid brook. Thus will I work out my allotted span, +content with the appointments of Fate, my spirit free from care."* +For him enjoyment and scarcely happiness is the thing. +And although many of his word-pictures are not lacking in charm or colour, +they have but little significance beyond them. They are essentially +the art works of an older school than that of the Seven Sages. But we must +have due regard for them, for they only miss greatness by a little, +and remind us of the faint threnodies that stir in the throats +of bird musicians upon the dawn. + +-- +* Giles, `Chinese Literature', p. 130. +-- + + + + + The Poets of the T`ang Dynasty + + + +At last the golden age of Chinese poetry is at hand. +Call the roll of these three hundred eventful years, +and all the great masters of song will answer you. This is an age +of professional poets, whom emperors and statesmen delight to honour. +With the Chinese, verse-making has always been a second nature. +It is one of the accomplishments which no man of education +would be found lacking. Colonel Cheng-Ki-Tong, in his delightful book +`The Chinese Painted by Themselves', says: "Poetry has been in China, +as in Greece, the language of the gods. It was poetry that inculcated +laws and maxims; it was by the harmony of its lines that traditions +were handed down at a time when memory had to supply the place of writing; +and it was the first language of wisdom and of inspiration." +It has been above all the recreation of statesmen and great officials, +a means of escape from the weariness of public life and the burden of ruling. +A study of the interminable biographies of Chinese poets and men of letters +would reveal but a few professional poets, men whose lives +were wholly devoted to their art; and of these few the T`ang dynasty +can claim nearly all. Yet strange as it may seem, this matters but little +when the quality of Chinese poetry is considered. The great men of the age +were at once servants of duty and the lords of life. To them official routine +and the responsibilities of the state were burdens to be borne +along the highway, with periods of rest and intimate re-union with nature +to cheer the travellers. When the heavy load was laid aside, +song rose naturally from the lips. Subtly connecting the arts, +they were at once painters and poets, musicians and singers. +And because they were philosophers and seekers after the beauty that underlies +the form of things, they made the picture express its own significance, +and every song find echo in the souls of those that heard. +You will find no tedium of repetition in all their poetry, +no thin vein of thought beaten out over endless pages. The following extract +from an ancient treatise on the art of poetry called `Ming-Chung' +sets forth most clearly certain ideals to be pursued: + +"To make a good poem, the subject must be interesting, +and treated in an attractive manner; genius must shine throughout the whole, +and be supported by a graceful, brilliant, and sublime style. The poet +ought to traverse, with a rapid flight, the lofty regions of philosophy, +without deviating from the narrow way of truth. . . . +Good taste will only pardon such digressions as bring him towards his end, +and show it from a more striking point of view. + +"Disappointment must attend him, if he speaks without speaking to the purpose, +or without describing things with that fire, with that force, +and with that energy which present them to the mind as a painting does +to the eyes. Bold thought, untiring imagination, softness and harmony, +make a true poem. + +"One must begin with grandeur, paint everything expressed, +soften the shades of those which are of least importance, +collect all into one point of view, and carry the reader thither +with a rapid flight." + +Yet when due respect has been paid to this critic of old time, +the fact still remains that concentration and suggestion +are the two essentials of Chinese poetry. There is neither Iliad nor Odyssey +to be found in the libraries of the Chinese; indeed, a favourite feature +of their verse is the "stop short", a poem containing only four lines, +concerning which another critic has explained that only the words stop, +while the sense goes on. But what a world of meaning is to be found +between four short lines! Often a door is opened, a curtain drawn aside, +in the halls of romance, where the reader may roam at will. +With this nation of artists in emotion, the taste of the tea +is a thing of lesser importance; it is the aroma which remains and delights. +The poems of the T`angs are full of this subtle aroma, this suggestive +compelling fragrance which lingers when the songs have passed away. +It is as though the Aeolian harps had caught some strayed wind +from an unknown world, and brought strange messages from peopled stars. + +A deep simplicity touching many hidden springs, a profound regard +for the noble uses of leisure, things which modern critics of life +have taught us to despise -- these are the technique and the composition +and colour of all their work. + +Complete surrender to a particular mood until the mood itself +surrenders to the artist, and afterwards silent ceaseless toil +until a form worthy of its expression has been achieved -- +this is the method of Li Po and his fellows. And as for leisure, +it means life with all its possibilities of beauty and romance. +The artist is ever saying, "Stay a little while! See, +I have captured one moment from eternity." Yet it is only in the East +that poetry is truly appreciated, by those to whom leisure to look around them +is vital as the air they breathe. This explains the welcome given +by Chinese Emperors and Caliphs of Bagdad to all roving minstrels +in whose immortality, like flies in amber, they are caught. + + + + + A Poet's Emperor + + + +In the long list of imperial patrons the name of the Emperor Ming Huang +of the T`ang dynasty holds the foremost place. History alone would not have +immortalized his memory.* But romance is nearer to this Emperor's life +than history. He was not a great ruler, but an artist stifled in ceremony +and lost in statecraft. Yet what Emperor could escape immortality +who had Tu Fu and Li Po for contemporaries, Ch`ang-an for his capital, +and T`ai Chen of a thousand songs to wife? Poet and sportsman, +mystic and man of this world, a great polo player, and the passionate lover +of one beautiful woman whose ill-starred fate inspired Po Chu-i, +the tenderest of all their singers,** Ming Huang is more to literature +than to history. Of his life and times the poets are faithful recorders. +Tu Fu in `The Old Man of Shao-Ling' leaves us this memory of his peaceful days +passed in the capital, before the ambition of the Turkic general An Lu-shan +had driven his master into exile in far Ssuch`uan. The poet himself +is speaking in the character of a lonely old man, wandering slowly +down the winding banks of the river Kio. + +-- +* A.D. 685-762. + +** See <Po Chu-i> and <The Never-ending Wrong>. +-- + +"`Alas!' he murmured, `they are closed, the thousand palace doors, +mirrored in clear cool waters. The young willows and the rushes renewing +with the year -- for whom will they now grow green?' + +"Once in the garden of the South waved the standard of the Emperor. + +"All that nature yields was there, vying with the rarest hues. + +"There lived she whom the love of the first of men had made first among women. + +"She who rode in the imperial chariot, in the excursions on sunny days. + +"Before the chariot flashed the bright escort of maidens +armed with bow and arrow. + +"Mounted upon white steeds which pawed the ground, champing their golden bits. + +"Gaily they raised their heads, launching their arrows into the clouds, + +"And, laughing, uttered joyous cries when a bird fell victim to their skill." + +In the city of Ch`ang-an, with its triple rows of glittering walls +with their tall towers uprising at intervals, its seven royal palaces +all girdled with gardens, its wonderful Yen tower nine stories high, +encased in marble, the drum towers and bell towers, the canals and lakes +with their floating theatres, dwelt Ming Huang and T`ai Chen. +Within the royal park on the borders of the lake stood a little pavilion +round whose balcony crept jasmine and magnolia branches scenting the air. +Just underneath flamed a tangle of peonies in bloom, leaning down +to the calm blue waters. Here in the evening the favourite reclined, +watching the peonies vie with the sunset beyond. Here the Emperor +sent his minister for Li Po, and here the great lyrist +set her mortal beauty to glow from the scented, flower-haunted balustrade +immortally through the twilights yet to come. + + What matter if the snow + Blot out the garden? She shall still recline + Upon the scented balustrade and glow + With spring that thrills her warm blood into wine. + +Once, and once alone, the artist in Ming Huang was merged in the Emperor. +In that supreme crisis of the empire and a human soul, +when the mutinous soldiers were thronging about the royal tent +and clamouring for the blood of the favourite, it was the Emperor +who sent her forth -- + + lily pale, + Between tall avenues of spears, to die. + +Policy, the bane of artists demanded it, and so, for the sake +of a thousand issues and a common front to the common foe, +he placed the love of his life upon the altar of his patriotism, and went, +a broken-hearted man, into the long exile. From that moment the Emperor died. +History ceases to take interest in the crownless wanderer. +His return to the place of tragedy, and on to the capital +where the deserted palace awaits him with its memories, +his endless seeking for the soul of his beloved, her discovery +by the priest of Tao in that island of P`eng Lai where -- + + gaily coloured towers + Rise up like rainbow clouds, and many gentle + And beautiful Immortals pass their days in peace, + +her message to her lover with its splendid triumphant note of faith +foretelling their reunion at the last -- in fine, the story of their love +with the grave between them -- is due to the genius of Po Chu-i. +And to all poets coming after, these two lovers have been types +of romantic and mystic love between man and woman. Through them +the symbols of the mandarin duck and drake, the one-winged birds, +the tree whose boughs are interwoven, are revealed. +They are the earthly counterparts of the heavenly lovers, +the Cow-herd and the Spinning-maid in the constellations of Lyra and Aquila. +To them Chinese poetry owes some of its finest inspirations, +and at least two of its greatest singers, Tu Fu and Li Po. + + + + + Chinese Verse Form + + + +In passing it is necessary to refer to the structure of Chinese verse, +which, difficult as it is to grasp and differing in particulars +from our European ideas of technique, has considerable interest +for the student of verse form and construction. + +The favourite metres of the T`ang poets were in lines +of five or seven syllables. There is no fixed rule as regards +the length of a poem, but, generally speaking, they were composed of four, +eight, twelve, or sixteen lines. Only the even lines rhyme, +except in the four-line or stop-short poem, when the first line often rhymes +with the second and fourth, curiously recalling the Rubaiyat form +of the Persian poets. There is also a break or caesura +which in five-syllable verses falls after the second syllable +and in seven-syllable verses after the fourth. The Chinese also make use +of two kinds of tone in their poetry, the Ping or even, +and the Tsze or oblique. + +The even tone has two variations differing from each other only in pitch; +the oblique tone has three variations, known as "Rising, Sinking, +and Entering." In a seven-syllable verse the odd syllables can have any tone; +as regards the even syllables, when the second syllable is even, +then the fourth is oblique, and the sixth even. Furthermore, +lines two and three, four and five, six and seven, have the same tones +on the even syllables. The origin of the Chinese tone is not a poetical one, +but is undoubtedly due to the necessity of having some distinguishing method +of accentuation in a language which only contains about four hundred +different sounds. + + + + + The Influence of Religion on Chinese Poetry + + + +To Confucius, as has been already stated, is due that groundwork +of Chinese poetry -- the Odes. But the master gave his fellow countrymen +an ethical system based upon sound common sense, and a deep knowledge of +their customs and characteristics. There is little in the Confucian classics +to inspire a poet, and we must turn to Buddhism and the mystical philosophy +of Lao Tzu for any source of spiritual inspiration from which +the poets have drawn. Buddhism and Taoism are sisters. +Their parents are self-observance and the Law. Both are quietists, +yet in this respect they differ, that the former is the grey quietist, +the latter the pearl. The neutral tint is better adapted to the sister +in whose eyes all things are Maya -- illusion. The shimmer of pearl +belongs of right to her whose soul reflects the colour and quiet radiance +of a thousand dreams. Compassion urged the one, the love of harmony +led the other. How near they were akin! how far apart they have wandered! +Yet there has always been this essential difference between them, +that while the Buddhist regards the senses as windows looking out +upon unreality and mirage, to the Taoist they are doors through which +the freed soul rushes to mingle with the colours and tones and contours +of the universe. Both Buddha and Lao Tzu are poets, one listening to +the rhythm of infinite sorrow, one to the rhythm of infinite joy. +Neither knows anything of reward at the hands of men or angels. +The teaching of the Semitic religions, "Do good to others that you may benefit +at their hands," does not occur in their pages, nor any hints +of sensuous delights hereafter.* In all the great Buddhist poems, +of which the Shu Hsing Tsan Ching is the best example, +there is the same deep sadness, the haunting sorrow of doom. +To look on beautiful things is only to feel more poignantly +the passing of bright days, and the time when the petals must leave the rose. +The form of desire hides within it the seeds of decay. In this epic +of which I have spoken, Buddha sees the lovely and virtuous Lady Aruna +coming to greet him, says to his disciples: + +-- +* This is a simplistic and inaccurate picture of religious teachings. +Mr. Cranmer-Byng, like many cross-cultural scholars, +seems to have fallen into the trap of seeing only noble things afar, +and only ignoble things at hand. As counter-examples, there are +numerous schools of Buddhism, some of which DO offer a type of heaven; +and the Confucian ideal of reciprocity can easily be, and often has been, +misinterpreted in the same way as Semitic religions. -- A. Light, 1995. +-- + +"This woman is indeed exceedingly beautiful, able to fascinate the minds +of the religious; so then keep your recollections straight! Let wisdom +keep your mind in subjection! Better fall into the fierce tiger's mouth, +or under the sharp knife of the executioner, than to dwell with a woman. . . . +A woman is anxious to exhibit her form and shape, whether walking, standing, +sitting, or even sleeping; even when represented as a picture, +she desires most of all to set off the blandishments of her beauty, +and thus rob men of their steadfast heart! How then ought you +to guard yourselves? By regarding her tears and her smiles as enemies, +her stooping form, her hanging arms, and all her disentangled hair +as toils designed to entrap man's heart. Then how much more +should you suspect her studied, amorous beauty! when she displays +her dainty outline, her richly ornamented form, and chatters gaily +with the foolish man! Ah, then! what perturbation and what evil thoughts, +not seeing underneath the sorrows of impermanence, the impurity, +the unreality! Considering these as the reality, all desires die out."* + +-- +* `Sacred Books of the East', vol. 19 pp. 253-4. +-- + +How different is this meeting of beauty and Buddhism from the meeting +of Ssu-K`ung T`u, the great Taoist poet, with an unknown girl! + + Gathering the water-plants + From the wild luxuriance of spring, + Away in the depth of a wild valley + Anon, I see a lovely girl. + With green leaves the peach-trees are loaded, + The breeze blows gently along the stream, + Willows shade the winding path, + Darting orioles collect in groups. + Eagerly I press forward + As the reality grows upon me. . . . + 'Tis the eternal theme, + Which, though old, is ever new.* + +Here is reality emerging from the unreal, spring renewing, love and beauty +triumphant over death and decay. The girl is the central type and symbol. +From her laughing eyes a thousand dead women look out once more on spring, +through her poets find their inspiration. Beauty is the key that unlocks +the secrets of the frozen world, and brings the dead to life again. + +-- +* `History of Chinese Literature', by Professor Herbert Giles, p. 180. +-- + +The Symbol of Decay! + +The Symbol of Immortality! + +It is perhaps both. There are times when the grave words of the Dhammapada +fall like shadows along the path: "What is life but the flower or the fruit +which falls when ripe, yet ever fears the untimely frost? Once born, +there is naught but sorrow; for who is there can escape death? +From the first moment of life, the result of passionate love and desire, +there is nought but the bodily form transitional as the lightning flash." +Yet apart from all transitory passions and the ephemeral results +of mortal love, the song of the Taoist lover soars unstained, untrammelled. +Man attains not by himself, nor woman by herself, but, +like the one-winged birds of the Chinese legend, they must rise together. +To be a great lover is to be a great mystic, since in the highest conception +of mortal beauty that the mind can form there lies always the unattainable, +the unpossessed, suggesting the world of beauty and finality +beyond our mortal reach. It is in this power of suggestion +that the Chinese poets excel. Asked to differentiate between +European and Chinese poetry, some critics would perhaps insist upon +their particular colour sense, instancing the curious fact +that where we see blue to them it often appears green, and vice versa, +or the tone theories that make their poems so difficult to understand; +in fact, a learned treatise would be written on these lines, to prove that +the Chinese poets were not human beings as we understand humanity at all. +It is, however, not by this method that we can begin to trace the difference +between the poets of East and West, but in the two aspects of life +which no amount of comparison can reconcile. + +To the Chinese such commonplace things as marriage, friendship, and home +have an infinitely deeper meaning than can be attached to them +by civilisation which practically lives abroad, in the hotels and restaurants +and open houses of others, where there is no sanctity of the life within, +no shrine set apart for the hidden family re-union, +and the cult of the ancestral spirit. To the Western world, +life, save for the conventional hour or so set aside on the seventh day, +is a thing profane. In the far East the head of every family +is a high-priest in the calling of daily life. It is for this reason +that a quietism is to be found in Chinese poetry ill appealing to +the unrest of our day, and as dissimilar to our ideals of existence +as the life of the planets is to that of the dark bodies +whirling aimlessly through space. + + + + + + +The Odes of Confucius + +1765-585 B.C. + +Collected by Confucius about 500 B.C. + + + + + + Sadness + + + +The sun is ever full and bright, +The pale moon waneth night by night. + Why should this be? + +My heart that once was full of light +Is but a dying moon to-night. + +But when I dream of thee apart, +I would the dawn might lift my heart, + O sun, to thee. + + + + + Trysting Time + + + + I + +A pretty girl at time o' gloaming +Hath whispered me to go and meet her + Without the city gate. +I love her, but she tarries coming. +Shall I return, or stay and greet her? + I burn, and wait. + + + II + +Truly she charmeth all beholders, +'Tis she hath given me this jewel, + The jade of my delight; +But this red jewel-jade that smoulders, +To my desire doth add more fuel, + New charms to-night. + + + III + +She has gathered with her lily fingers + A lily fair and rare to see. +Oh! sweeter still the fragrance lingers + From the warm hand that gave it me. + + + + + The Soldier + + + +I climbed the barren mountain, + And my gaze swept far and wide +For the red-lit eaves of my father's home, + And I fancied that he sighed: + My son has gone for a soldier, + For a soldier night and day; + But my son is wise, and may yet return, + When the drums have died away. + +I climbed the grass-clad mountain, + And my gaze swept far and wide +For the rosy lights of a little room, + Where I thought my mother sighed: + My boy has gone for a soldier, + He sleeps not day and night; + But my boy is wise, and may yet return, + Though the dead lie far from sight. + +I climbed the topmost summit, + And my gaze swept far and wide +For the garden roof where my brother stood, + And I fancied that he sighed: + My brother serves as a soldier + With his comrades night and day; + But my brother is wise, and may yet return, + Though the dead lie far away. + + + + + + +Ch`u Yuan + +Fourth Century, B.C. + + + + + +A loyal minister to the feudal Prince of Ch`u, towards the close +of the Chou dynasty. His master having, through disregard of his counsel, +been captured by the Ch`in State, Ch`u Yuan sank into disfavour with his sons, +and retired to the hills, where he wrote his famous `Li Sao', +of which the following is one of the songs. He eventually drowned himself +in the river Mi-Lo, and in spite of the search made for his body, +it was never found. The Dragon-boat Festival, held on the fifth day +of the fifth moon, was founded in his honour. + + + + + The Land of Exile + + + +Methinks there's a genius +Roams in the mountains, +Girdled with ivy +And robed in wisteria, +Lips ever smiling, +Of noble demeanour, +Driving the yellow pard, +Tiger-attended, +Couched in a chariot +With banners of cassia, +Cloaked with the orchid, +And crowned with azaleas; +Culling the perfume +Of sweet flowers, he leaves +In the heart a dream-blossom, +Memory haunting. +But dark is the forest +Where now is my dwelling, +Never the light of day +Reaches its shadow. +Thither a perilous +Pathway meanders. +Lonely I stand +On the lonelier hill-top, +Cloudland beneath me +And cloudland around me. +Softly the wind bloweth, +Softly the rain falls, +Joy like a mist blots +The thoughts of my home out; +There none would honour me, +Fallen from honours. +I gather the larkspur +Over the hillside, +Blown mid the chaos +Of boulder and bellbine; +Hating the tyrant +Who made me an outcast, +Who of his leisure +Now spares me no moment: +Drinking the mountain spring, +Shading at noon-day +Under the cypress +My limbs from the sun glare. +What though he summon me +Back to his palace, +I cannot fall +To the level of princes. +Now rolls the thunder deep, +Down the cloud valley, +And the gibbons around me +Howl in the long night. +The gale through the moaning trees +Fitfully rushes. +Lonely and sleepless +I think of my thankless +Master, and vainly would +Cradle my sorrow. + + + + + + +Wang Seng-ju + +Sixth Century, A.D. + + + + + + Tears + + + +High o'er the hill the moon barque steers. + The lantern lights depart. +Dead springs are stirring in my heart; + And there are tears. . . . +But that which makes my grief more deep +Is that you know not when I weep. + + + + + + +Ch`en Tzu Ang + +A.D. 656-698 + + + + + +Famous for writing that kind of impromptu descriptive verse +which the Chinese call "Ying". In temperament he was less Chinese +than most of his contemporaries. His passionate disposition +finally brought him into trouble with the magistrate of his district, +who had him cast into prison, where he died at the age of forty-two. + +Whatever his outward demeanour may have been, his poetry gives us +no indication of it, being full of delicate mysticism, +almost impossible to reproduce in the English language. +For this reason I have chosen one of his simpler poems as a specimen. + + + + + The Last Revel + + + +From silver lamps a thin blue smoke is streaming, +And golden vases 'mid the feast are gleaming; + Now sound the lutes in unison, + Within the gates our lives are one. + We'll think not of the parting ways + As long as dawn delays. + +When in tall trees the dying moonbeams quiver: +When floods of fire efface the Silver River, + Then comes the hour when I must seek + Lo-Yang beyond the furthest peak. + But the warm twilight round us twain + Will never rise again. + + + + + + +Sung Chih-Wen + +Died A.D. 710 + + + +The son of a distinguished general, he began his career as attache +to the military advisers of the Emperor. These advisers were always drawn +from the literary class, and their duties appear to have been chiefly +administrative and diplomatic. Of his life, the less said the better. +He became involved in a palace intrigue, and only saved himself +by betraying his accomplices. In the end he was banished, +and finally put to death by the Emperor's order. It is necessary, however, +to dissociate the man from his poetry, and Sung Chih-Wen's poetry +often touches a high level of inspiration. + + + + + The Court of Dreams + + + +Rain from the mountains of Ki-Sho +Fled swiftly with a tearing breeze; +The sun came radiant down the west, +And greener blushed the valley trees. + +I entered through the convent gate: +The abbot bade me welcome there, +And in the court of silent dreams +I lost the thread of worldly care. + +That holy man and I were one, +Beyond the bounds that words can trace: +The very flowers were still as we. +I heard the lark that hung in space, +And Truth Eternal flashed on me. + + + + + + +Kao-Shih + +Circa A.D. 700 + + + + + +One of the most fascinating of all the T`ang poets. His life was +one long series of romantic adventure. At first, a poor youth +battling with adversity; then the lover of an actress, +whom he followed through the provinces, play-writing for the strolling troupe +to which she was attached; the next, secretary to a high personage +engaged in a mission to Thibet; then soldier, and finally poet of renown, +acquiring with his latter years the fortune and honours denied him +in his youth. + +The chief characteristics of his poetry are intense concentration, +a vivid power of impressionism, and a strong leaning +in the direction of the occult. Indeed, one of his best-known poems, +"The Return to the Mountains", makes mention of the projection +of the astral body through space during sleep. Many of his poems leave us +with a strange sense of horror which is suggested rather than revealed. +It is always some combination of effects which produces this result, +and never a concrete form. + + + + + Impressions of a Traveller + + + +In a silent, desolate spot, +In the night stone-frozen and clear, +The wanderer's hand on the sail +Is gripped by the fingers of fear. + +He looketh afar o'er the waves, +Wind-ruffled and deep and green; +And the mantle of Autumn lies +Over wood and hill and ravine. + +'Tis Autumn! -- time of decay, +And the dead leaves' 'wildering flight; +And the mantle of Autumn lies +On the wanderer's soul to-night! + + + + + Desolation + + + + I + +There was a King of Liang* -- a king of wondrous might -- +Who kept an open palace, where music charmed the night -- + + + II + +Since he was Lord of Liang a thousand years have flown, +And of the towers he builded yon ruin stands alone. + + + III + +There reigns a heavy silence; gaunt weeds through windows pry, +And down the streets of Liang old echoes, wailing, die. + +-- +* Strictly speaking, the pronunciation of all words such as Liang, +Kiang, etc., is nearer one syllable than two. For purposes of euphony, +however, without which the lines would be harsh and unpoetical, +I have invariably made two syllables of them. +-- + + + + + + +Meng Hao-jan + +A.D. 689-740 + + + + + +One of the few literary men of the day whose later life +was devoted entirely to literature. He was the inseparable friend +of the famous Buddhist poet and doctor, Wang Wei. He spent the first +forty years of his life in acquiring knowledge, but having failed to obtain +his doctor's degree, he returned to the quiet hills of his native province +and dedicated his remaining years to composition. Most of his poems, +other than certain political satire, which drew on him the Emperor's wrath, +are full of subtle sadness and fragrant regret, reminding one of pot-pourri +in some deep blue porcelain bowl. + + + + + The Lost One + + + +The red gleam o'er the mountains + Goes wavering from sight, +And the quiet moon enhances + The loveliness of night. + +I open wide my casement + To breathe the rain-cooled air. +And mingle with the moonlight + The dark waves of my hair. + +The night wind tells me secrets + Of lotus lilies blue; +And hour by hour the willows + Shake down the chiming dew. + +I fain would take the zither, + By some stray fancy led; +But there are none to hear me, + And who can charm the dead? + +So all my day-dreams follow + The bird that leaves the nest; +And in the night I gather + The lost one to my breast. + + + + + A Friend Expected + + + +Over the chain of giant peaks + The great red sun goes down, +And in the stealthy floods of night + The distant valleys drown. + +Yon moon that cleaves the gloomy pines + Has freshness in her train; +Low wind, faint stream, and waterfall + Haunt me with their refrain. + +The tired woodman seeks his cot + That twinkles up the hill; +And sleep has touched the wanderers + That sang the twilight still. + +To-night -- ah! beauty of to-night + I need my friend to praise, +So take the lute to lure him on + Through the fragrant, dew-lit ways. + + + + + + +Ch`ang Ch`ien + +Circa A.D. 720 + + + + + +One of the great philosopher-poets of the Taoist school. His life was spent +far from the court and away from the sounds of civil warfare, +in the endeavour to set himself in harmony with the universe -- to become, +in fact, like an Aeolian harp through which all the cords of nature +might sweep at will. How far he attained the end desired may be seen +in his work, which is penetrated by a sense of profound beauty, +recalling the quiet twilight upon the mountain-side, +which he so well describes. + + + + + A Night on the Mountain + + + +I sat upon the mountain-side and watched +A tiny barque that skimmed across the lake, +Drifting, like human destiny upon +A world of hidden peril; then she sailed +From out my ken, and mingled with the blue +Of skies unfathomed, while the great round sun +Weakened towards the waves. + The whole expanse +Suddenly in the half-light of the dusk +Glimmered and waned. The last rays of the sun +Lit but the tops of trees and mountain-peaks +With tarnished glory; and the water's sheen, +Once blue and bright, grew lustreless, and soon +A welter of red clouds alone betrayed +The passing of the sun. The scattered isles +Uprose, black-looming o'er the tranquil deeps, +Where the reflected heavens wanly showed +A lingering gleam. Already wood and hill +Sank in obscurity. The river marge +Seemed but a broken line to failing sight. + + . . . . . + +Night is at hand; the night winds fret afar, +The North winds moan. The waterfowl are gone +To cover o'er the sand-dunes; dawn alone +Shall call them from the sedges. Some bright star + +Mirrors her charms upon the silver shoal; +And I have ta'en the lute, my only friend: +The vibrant chords beneath my fingers blend; +They sob awhile, then as they slip control + +Immortal memories awake, and the dead years +Through deathless voices answer to my strings, +Till from the brink of Time's untarnished springs +The melting night recalls me with her tears. + + + + + + +Ts`en-Ts`an + +Circa A.D. 750 + + + + + +Of his life we know little, save that he was the intimate friend +of the great poet Tu Fu, and came of a noble family. He was, +moreover, Censor under the Emperor Su Tsung (A.D. 756-762), +and rose to be Governor of Chia-chou. What remains of his verse +mostly takes the form of quatrains, yet for originality of thought, +wealth of imagery and style, they have seldom been excelled. +He was a master of metre, and contributed certain modifications +to the laws of Chinese prosody which exist to the present day. + + + + + A Dream of Spring + + + +Last night within my chamber's gloom some vague light breath of Spring +Came wandering and whispering, and bade my soul take wing. + +A hundred moonlit miles away the Chiang crept to sea; +O keeper of my heart, I came by Chiang's ford to thee. + +It lingered but a moment's space, that dream of Spring, and died; +Yet as my head the pillows pressed, my soul had found thy side. + +Oh! Chiang Nan's a hundred miles, yet in a moment's space +I've flown away to Chiang Nan and touched a dreaming face. + + + + + + +Tu Fu + +A.D. 712-770 + + + + + +Tu Fu, whom his countrymen called the God of Verse, was born in the province +of Hu-Kuang, and this was his portrait from contemporaries: + +He was tall and slightly built, yet robust with finely chiselled features; +his manners were exquisite, and his appearance distinguished. +He came of a literary family, and, as he says of himself, +from his seventh to his fortieth year study and letter occupied +all his available time. At the age of twenty-seven he came to the capital +with his fame in front of him, and there Li Po the poet and Ts`en-Ts`an +became his friends, and Ming Huang his patron. He obtained a post at Court +somewhat similar to that of Master of Ceremonies in our own Court. +Yet the poet had few sympathies outside the artistic life. +He was so unworldly and so little of a courtier that when the new Emperor +Su Tsung returned in triumph to the capital and appointed him Imperial Censor, +he fulfilled his new duties by telling his majesty the whole unpalatable truth +in a manner strangely free from ornamental apology, and was promptly rewarded +with the exile of a provincial governorship. But Tu Fu was no man of affairs, +and knew it. On the day of his public installation he took off +his insignia of office before the astonished notables, and, laying them +one by one on the table, made them a profound reverence, and quietly withdrew. + +Like his friend Li Po, he became a homeless wanderer, but, unlike him, +he concealed his brilliant name, obtaining food and patronage +for his delightful nameless self alone, and not for his reputation's sake. +Finally, he was discovered by the military governor +of the province of Ssuch`uan, who applied on his behalf +for the post of Restorer of Ancient Monuments in the district, +the one congenial appointment of his life. For six years he kept his post; +then trouble in the shape of rebel hordes burst once more upon the province, +and again he became an exile. The last act of this eventful life +took place in his native district: some local mandarin gave a great banquet +in honour of the distinguished poet, whom he had rescued, +half drowned and famishing, from the ruined shrine by the shore +where the waters had cast him up. The wine-cup brimmed again and again, +food was piled up in front of the honoured guest, and the attendant who waited +was Death. The end was swift, sudden, and pitiful. The guest died +from the banquet of his rescuer. + +Of all poets Tu Fu is the first in craftsmanship. It is interesting to add +that he was a painter as well, and the friend of painters, +notably the soldier-artist, Kiang-Tu, to whom he dedicates a poem. +Possibly it is to this faculty that he owes his superb technique. +He seeks after simplicity and its effects as a diver seeks +for sunken gold. In his poem called "The Little Rain", +which I have (perhaps somewhat rashly) attempted, there is +all the graciousness of fine rain falling upon sullen furrows, +which charms the world into spring. "The Recruiting Sergeant" +has the touch of grim desolation, which belongs inevitably to a country +plundered of its men and swept with the ruinous winds of rebellion. + +Li Po gives us Watteau-like pictures of life in Ch`ang-an before the flight +of the Emperor. The younger poet paints, with the brush of Verestchagin, +the realism and horrors of civil war. In most of Tu Fu's work +there is an underlying sadness which appears continually, +sometimes in the vein that runs throughout the poem, +sometimes at the conclusion, and often at the summing up of all things. +Other poets have it, some more, some less, with the exception of those +who belong to the purely Taoist school. The reason is that the Chinese poet +is haunted. He is haunted by the vast shadow of a past without historians -- +a past that is legendary, unmapped and unbounded, and yields, therefore, +Golcondas and golden lands innumerable to its bold adventurers. +He is haunted from out the crumbled palaces of vanished kings, +where "in the form of blue flames one sees spirits moving through +each dark recess." He is haunted by the traditional voices +of the old masters of his craft, and lastly, more than all, +by the dead women and men of his race, the ancestors that count +in the making of his composite soul and have their silent say +in every action, thought, and impulse of his life. + + + + + The Little Rain + + + +Oh! she is good, the little rain! and well she knows our need +Who cometh in the time of spring to aid the sun-drawn seed; +She wanders with a friendly wind through silent nights unseen, +The furrows feel her happy tears, and lo! the land is green. + +Last night cloud-shadows gloomed the path that winds to my abode, +And the torches of the river-boats like angry meteors glowed. +To-day fresh colours break the soil, and butterflies take wing +Down broidered lawns all bright with pearls in the garden of the King. + + + + + A Night of Song + + + +The wind scarce flutters through the leaves, +The young moon hath already gone, +And kind and cool the dews descend: +The lute-strings wake for night alone. + +In shadow lapse the twinkling streams, +The lilied marge their waves caress; +And the sheer constellations sway +O'er soundless gulfs of nothingness. + +What cadence charms the poet's ear! +What fire-fly fancies round him swarm! +He dreads the lantern lights may fail +Long ere his thoughts have taken form. + +Now gallants tap their two-edged swords, +And pride and passion swell amain; +Like red stars flashing through the night +The circling wine-cups brim again. + +There steals the old sad air of Ou -- +Each calls his latest song to mind; +Then white sails taper down the stream, +While lingering thoughts still look behind. + + + + + The Recruiting Sergeant + + + +At sunset in the village of Che-Kao* +I sought for shelter; on my heels there trod +A grim recruiting sergeant, of the kind +That seize their prey by night. A poor old man +Saw -- scaled the wall, and vanished. Through the gate +An old bent woman hobbled, and she marched +A pace before him. Loudly in his wrath +The grim recruiter stormed; and bitterly +She answered: "Listen to the voice of her +Who drags before you. Once I had three sons -- +Three in the Emperor's camp. A letter came +From one, and -- there was one; the others fell +In the same battle -- he alone was left, +Scarce able from the iron grasp of Death +To tear his miserable life. + Alas +My two dead boys! for ever and for aye +Death holds them. In our wretched hut remains +The last of all the men -- a little child, +Still at his mother's breast. She cannot flee, +Since her few tatters scarce suffice to clothe +Her shrunken limbs. + My years are nearly done, +My strength is well-nigh spent; yet I will go +Readily to the camping-ground. Perchance +I may be useful for some humble task, +To cook the rice or stir the morning meal." + + . . . . . + +Night slipped away. The clamour and the cries +Died down; but there was weeping and the sound +Of stifled moans around me. + At the break +Of dawn I hurried on my road, and left +None but an old and broken man behind. + +-- +* All words ending in `ao' are pronounced `ow', as in English +`vow', `allow', etc. +-- + + + + + Chants of Autumn + + + + Shorn by the frost with crystal blade, + The dry leaves, scattered, fall at last; + Among the valleys of Wu Chan + Cold winds of death go wailing past. +Tumultuous waves of the great river rise + And seem to storm the skies, +While snow-bright peak and prairie mist combine, +And greyness softens the harsh mountain line. + + Chrysanthemums unfurl to-day, + To-morrow the last flowers are blown. + I am the barque that chains delay: + My homeward thoughts must sail alone. +From house to house warm winter robes are spread, + And through the pine-woods red +Floats up the sound of the washerman's bat who plies +His hurried task ere the brief noon wanes and dies. + + + + + + +Li Po + +A.D. 702-762 + + + + + +The most famous name in Chinese literature. Born in the province +of Ssuch`uan, Li Po obtained his doctor's degree at the age of twenty, +and was already known as a brilliant, inspired poet +before Ming Huang became his patron in the capital. +A suite of rooms overlooking the beautiful gardens of T`eng-hsiang T`ing, +where the Emperor retired after the routine of the day, was assigned to him. +Here the poet improvised, whilst Ming Huang himself wrote down the verses +that he afterwards set to music, and accompanied while the poet sang. +But Li Po, with all his enthusiasm for his patron and the delights +of the garden-life, was little of a courtier. When Ming Huang +bade the masterful eunuch Kao Li-shih unlace the poet's boots, +he gave him a relentless enemy whose malice pursued him, +until at length he was glad to beg leave to retire from the court, +where he was never at ease and to which he never returned. +Troubadour-like, he wandered through the provinces, +the guest of mandarin and local governor, the star of the drinking-taverns, +the delight and embarrassment of all his hosts. At length +a friend of former days, to whom he had attached himself, +unhappily involved him in the famous rebellion of An Lu-shan. +The poet was seized and thrown into prison. Yet prison doors were +ill warders of his fame, and letters of recall followed closely upon pardon; +but death overtook the exile before he could reach the capital, +and at the age of sixty his wanderings came to an end. + +Li Po was a poet with a sword by his side. He would have ruffled bravely +with our Elizabethans, and for a Chinese is strangely warlike in sentiment. +How he loves the bravo of Chao with his sabre from the Chinese Sheffield +of Wu, "with the surface smooth as ice and dazzling as snow, +with his saddle broidered with silver upon his white steed; +who when he passes, swift as the wind, may be said to resemble +a shooting star!" He compares the frontiersman, who has never so much +as opened a book in all his life, yet knows how to follow in the chase, +and is skilful, strong, and hardy, with the men of his own profession. +"From these intrepid wanderers how different our literary men +who grow grey over their books behind a curtained window." + +It is harder to write of Li Po than of any other Chinese poet. +Po Chu-i has his own distinctive feeling for romance, +Tu Fu his minute literary craftsmanship, Ssu-K`ung T`u the delicate aroma +of suggestive mysticism; but Li Po is many-sided, and has perhaps +more of the world-spirit than all of them. We can imagine this bold, +careless, impulsive artist, with his moments of great exaltation +and alternate depression, a kind of Chinese Paul Verlaine, +with his sensitive mind of a child, always recording impressions as they come. +T`ai Chen the beautiful and the grim frontiersman are alike +faithfully portrayed. He lives for the moment, and the moment is often +wine-flushed like the rosy glow of dawn, or grey and wan as the twilight +of a hopeless day. + + + + + To the City of Nan-king + + + +Thou that hast seen six kingdoms pass away, +Accept my song and these three cups I drain! +There may be fairer gardens light the plain; +Thine are the dim blue hills more fair than they. + +Here Kings of Wu were crowned and overthrown, +Where peaceful grass along the ruin wins; +Here -- was it yesterday? -- the royal Tsins +Called down the dreams of sunset into stone. + +One end awaits for all that mortal be; +Pride and despair shall find a common grave: +The Yang-tse-kiang renders wave and wave +To mingle with the abysms of the sea. + + + + + Memories with the Dusk Return + + + +The yellow dusk winds round the city wall; + The crows are drawn to nest, + Silently down the west +They hasten home, and from the branches call. +A woman sits and weaves with fingers deft + Her story of the flower-lit stream, + Threading the jasper gauze in dream, +Till like faint smoke it dies; and she, bereft, + Recalls the parting words that died +Under the casement some far eventide, + And stays the disappointed loom, + While from the little lonely room + Into the lonely night she peers, +And, like the rain, unheeded fall her tears. + + + + + An Emperor's Love + + + +In all the clouds he sees her light robes trail, +And roses seem beholden to her face; +O'er scented balustrade the scented gale +Blows warm from Spring, and dew-drops form apace. +Her outline on the mountain he can trace, +Now leans she from the tower in moonlight pale. + +A flower-girt branch grows sweeter from the dew. +A spirit of snow and rain unheeded calls. +Who wakes to memory in these palace walls? +Fei-yen!* -- but in the robes an Empress knew. + +The most renowned of blossoms, most divine +Of those whose conquering glances overthrow +Cities and kingdoms, for his sake combine +And win the ready smiles that ever flow +From royal lips. What matter if the snow +Blot out the garden? She shall still recline +Upon the scented balustrade and glow +With spring that thrills her warm blood into wine. + +-- +* A delicate compliment to the beautiful T`ai Chen, +of which the meaning is that, as the Emperor Yang-ti of the Sui dynasty +elevated his mistress Fei-yen to share with him the throne, +so shall T`ai Chen become the Empress of Ming Huang. +-- + + + + + On the Banks of Jo-yeh + + + +They gather lilies down the stream, +A net of willows drooping low +Hides boat from boat; and to and fro +Sweet whispered confidences seem + 'Mid laughing trills to flow. + +In the green deeps a shaft of gold +Limns their elaborate attire; +Through silken sleeves the winds aspire, +Embalmed, to stray, and, growing bold, + Swell them to their desire. + +But who are these, the cavaliers +That gleam along the river-side? +By three, by five they prance with pride +Beyond the willow-line that sheers + Over the trellised tide. + +A charger neighs; one turns to start, +Crushing the kingcups as he flies, +And one pale maiden vainly tries +To hush the tumult in her heart + And veil the secret of her eyes. + + + + + Thoughts in a Tranquil Night + + + + Athwart the bed + I watch the moonbeams cast a trail + So bright, so cold, so frail, + That for a space it gleams +Like hoar-frost on the margin of my dreams. + I raise my head, -- + The splendid moon I see: + Then droop my head, + And sink to dreams of thee -- + My Fatherland, of thee! + + + + + The Guild of Good-fellowship + + + +The universe is but a tenement +Of all things visible. Darkness and day +The passing guests of Time. Life slips away, +A dream of little joy and mean content. + +Ah! wise the old philosophers who sought +To lengthen their long sunsets among flowers, +By stealing the young night's unsullied hours +And the dim moments with sweet burdens fraught. + +And now Spring beckons me with verdant hand, +And Nature's wealth of eloquence doth win +Forth to the fragrant-bowered nectarine, +Where my dear friends abide, a careless band. + +There meet my gentle, matchless brothers, there +I come, the obscure poet, all unfit +To wear the radiant jewellery of wit, +And in their golden presence cloud the air. + +And while the thrill of meeting lingers, soon +As the first courtly words, the feast is spread, +While, couched on flowers 'mid wine-cups flashing red, +We drink deep draughts unto The Lady Moon. + +Then as without the touch of verse divine +There is no outlet for the pent-up soul, +'Twas ruled that he who quaffed no fancy's bowl +Should drain the "Golden Valley"* cups of wine. + +-- +* i.e. drink three cups of wine, the "Golden Valley" being the name +of a garden, the owner of which enforced this penalty +among his boon companions (`Gems of Chinese Literature', p. 113). +-- + + + + + Under the Moon + + + +Under the crescent moon's faint glow +The washerman's bat resounds afar, +And the autumn breeze sighs tenderly. +But my heart has gone to the Tartar war, +To bleak Kansuh and the steppes of snow, +Calling my husband back to me. + + + + + Drifting + + + + We cannot keep the gold of yesterday; + To-day's dun clouds we cannot roll away. +Now the long, wailing flight of geese brings autumn in its train, +So to the view-tower cup in hand to fill and drink again, + + And dream of the greatest singers of the past, + Their fadeless lines of fire and beauty cast. +I too have felt the wild-bird thrill of song behind the bars, +But these have brushed the world aside and walked amid the stars. + + In vain we cleave the torrent's thread with steel, + In vain we drink to drown the grief we feel; +When man's desire with fate doth war this, this avails alone -- +To hoist the sail and let the gale and the waters bear us on. + + + + + + +Wang Ch`ang-ling + +Circa A.D. 750 + + + + + +This poet came from the district of Chiang-ning to the capital, +where he obtained his doctor's degree and distinguished himself +as a man of letters. For some time he filled a minor post, +but was eventually disgraced and exiled to the province of Hunan. +When the rebellion of An Lu-shan broke out, he returned to his native place, +where he was cruelly murdered by the censor Lu Ch`in-hsiao. +(See Hervey Saint-Denys, `Poe/sies des Thang', p. 224; +Giles, `Biog. Dict.' p. 8087.) + + + + + The Song of the Nenuphars + + + +Leaves of the Nenuphars and silken skirts the same pale green, +On flower and laughing face alike the same rose-tints are seen; +Like some blurred tapestry they blend within the lake displayed: +You cannot part the leaves from silk, the lily from the maid. + Only when sudden voices swell + Do maidens of their presence tell. + +Here long ago the girls of Sou, the darlings of the King, +Dabbled their shining skirts with dew from the gracious blooms of Spring. +When to the lake's sun-dimpled marge the bright procession wends, +The languid lilies raise their heads as though to greet their friends; + When down the river-banks they roam, + The white moon-lady leads them home. + + + + + Tears in the Spring + + + +Clad in blue silk and bright embroidery +At the first call of Spring the fair young bride, +On whom as yet Sorrow has laid no scar, +Climbs the Kingfisher's Tower. Suddenly +She sees the bloom of willows far and wide, +And grieves for him she lent to fame and war. + + + + + + +Chang Chih-ho + +Circa A.D. 750 + + + + + +A Taoist philosopher who lived in the time of the Emperor Su Tsung, +and held office under him. For some offence he was exiled, +and the royal pardon found him far too occupied to dream of return. + +Like so many of the same philosophy, he became a lonely wanderer, +calling himself the "Old Fisherman of the Mists and Waters". +Professor Giles (`Chinese Literature', p. 191) adds the curious statement +that "he spent his time in angling, but used no bait, +his object not being to catch fish." + + + + + A World Apart + + + +The Lady Moon is my lover, + My friends are the oceans four, +The heavens have roofed me over, + And the dawn is my golden door +I would liefer follow the condor + Or the seagull, soaring from ken, +Than bury my godhead yonder + In the dust of the whirl of men. + + + + + + +Chang Jo-hu + +Circa A.D. 800 + + + + + +When heaven reveals her primal stainless blue, +Alone within the firmament there burns +The tiny torch of dusk. What startled eyes +Uplifted from the restless stream first met +The full round glory of the moon! Yon orb +That pales upon the flood of broad Kiang, +When did she first through twilight mists unveil +Her wonders to the world? + Men come and go; +New generations hunger at the heels +Of those that yield possession. Still the moon +Fulfils her phases. While the tides of time +Eat out the rocks of empire, and the stars +Of human destiny adown the void +Go glittering to their doom, she changeless sweeps +Through all her times and destinies. Alas! +The little lives that swarmed beneath the moon, +I cannot count them. This alone I know -- +That, wave on wave, the Kiang seeks the sea, +And not a wave returns. + One small white cloud +Threading the vasty vault of heaven recalls +My heart unto her loneliness. I sail +Between two banks, where heavy boughs enlace, +Whose verdurous luxuriance wakes once more +My many griefs. None know me as I am, +Steering to strange adventure. None may tell +If, steeped in the same moonlight, lies afar +Some dim pavilion where my lady dreams +Of me. Ah, happy moon! low lingering moon! +That with soft touch now brightens into jade +Lintel and door, and when she lifts the blind +Floats through the darkened chamber of her sleep; +While leagues away my love-winged messages +Go flocking home; and though they mingle not, +Our thoughts seek one another. In the lilt +Of winds I hear her whisper: "Oh that I +Might melt into the moonbeams, and with them +Leap through the void, and shed myself with them +Upon my lover." Slow the night creeps on. +Sleep harbours in the little room. She dreams -- +Dreams of a fall o' flowers. Alas! young Spring +Lies on the threshold of maternity, +And still he comes not. Still the flowing stream +Sweeps on, but the swift torrents of green hours +Are licked into the brazen skies between +Their widening banks. The great deliberate moon +Now leans toward the last resort of night, +Gloom of the western waves. She dips her rim, +She sinks, she founders in the mist; and still +The stream flows on, and to the insatiate sea +Hurries her white-wave flocks innumerable +In never-ending tale. On such a night +How many tireless travellers may attain +The happy goal of their desire! So dreams +My lady till the moon goes down, and lo! +A rush of troubled waters floods her soul, +While black forebodings rise from deeps unknown +And the cold trail of fear creeps round her heart. + + + + + + +T`ung Han-ching + +Circa A.D. 800 + + + + + + The Celestial Weaver + + + +A thing of stone beside Lake Kouen-ming +Has for a thousand autumns borne the name +Of the Celestial Weaver. Like that star +She shines above the waters, wondering +At her pale loveliness. Unnumbered waves +Have broidered with green moss the marble folds +About her feet. Toiling eternally +They knock the stone, like tireless shuttles plied +Upon a sounding loom. + Her pearly locks +Resemble snow-coils on the mountain top; +Her eyebrows arch -- the crescent moon. A smile +Lies in the opened lily of her face; +And, since she breathes not, being stone, the birds +Light on her shoulders, flutter without fear +At her still breast. Immovable she stands +Before the shining mirror of her charms +And, gazing on their beauty, lets the years +Slip into centuries past her. . . . + + + + + + +Po Chu-i + +A.D. 772-846 + + + + + +Seventeen years old and already a doctor of letters, a great future +was before him. The life of such a man would seem to be one sure progress +from honour to honour. Yet it is to some petty exile, +some temporary withdrawal of imperial favour, that we owe "The Lute Girl", +perhaps the most delicate piece of work that has survived the age +of the golden T`angs. Certainly the music is the most haunting, +suggestive of many-coloured moods, with an undertone of sadness, +and that motive of sympathy between the artist-exiles of the universe +which calls the song from the singer and tears from the heart of the man. +So exile brought its consolations, the voice and presence of "The Lute Girl", +and the eight nameless poets who became with Po Chu-i the literary communists +of Hsiang-shan. In China it has always been possible for the artist +to live away from the capital. Provincial governor and high official +send for him; all compete for the honour of his presence. +Respect, which is the first word of Chinese wisdom according to Confucius, +is paid to him. In provincial Europe his very presence would be unknown +unless he beat his wife on the high-road or stole a neighbour's pig. +But his Celestial Majesty hears of the simple life at Hsiang-shan +and becomes jealous for his servant. The burden of ruling must once more +be laid on not too willing shoulders. Po Chu-i is recalled and promoted +from province to province, till eventually, five years before his death, +he is made President of the Board of War. Two short poems here rendered -- +namely, "Peaceful Old Age" and "The Penalties of Rank" -- +give us a glimpse of the poet in his old age, conscious of decaying powers, +glad to be quit of office, and waiting with sublime faith +in his Taoist principles to be "one with the pulsings of Eternity". + +Po Chu-i is almost nearer to the Western idea of a poet +than any other Chinese writer. He was fortunate enough to be born +when the great love-tragedy of Ming Huang and T`ai Chen was still fresh +in the minds of men. He had the right perspective, being not too near +and yet able to see clearly. He had, moreover, the feeling for romance +which is so ill-defined in other poets of his country, +though strongly evident in Chinese legend and story. He is an example +of that higher patriotism rarely met with in Chinese official life +which recognises a duty to the Emperor as Father of the national family -- +a duty too often forgotten in the obligation to the clan and the desire +to use power for personal advantage. Passionately devoted to literature, +he might, like Li Po and Tu Fu, have set down the seals of office +and lived for art alone by the mountain-side of his beloved Hsiang-shan. +But no one knew better than Po Chu-i that from him that hath much, +much shall be expected. The poet ennobled political life, +the broader outlook of affairs enriched his poetry and humanised it. + +And when some short holiday brought him across the frontier, and the sunlight, +breaking out after a noon of rain over the dappled valleys of China, +called him home, who shall blame him for lingering awhile +amid his forest dreams with his fishing and the chase. + +Yet solitude and the picturesque cannot hold him for long, +nor even the ardours of the chase. Po Chu-i is above all +the poet of human love and sorrow, and beyond all the consoler. +Those who profess to find pessimism in the Chinese character +must leave him alone. At the end of the great tragedy +of "The Never-ending Wrong" a whispered message of hope is borne +to the lonely soul beating against the confines of the visible world: -- + +"Tell my lord," she murmured, "to be firm of heart as this gold and enamel; +then in heaven or earth below we twain may meet once more." + +It is the doctrine of eternal constancy, so dimly understood +in the Western world, which bids the young wife immolate herself +on her husband's tomb rather than marry again, and makes the whole world +seem too small for the stricken Emperor with all the youth and beauty of China +to command. + + + + + The Lute Girl + + + +The following is Po Chu-i's own preface to his poem: -- + + + When, after ten years of regular service, I was wrongfully dismissed + from the Prefecture of the Nine Rivers and the Mastership of the Horse, + in the bright autumn of the year I was sent away to Ko-pen Creek's mouth. + It was there that I heard, seated in my boat at midnight, the faint tones + of a lute. It seemed as though I was listening to the tones + of the gongs in the Palace of the Capital. On asking an old man, + I learnt that it was the performance of a woman who for many years + had cultivated the two talents of music and singing to good effect. + In the course of time her beauty faded, she humbled her pride, + and followed her fate by becoming a merchant's wife. + + . . . . . + + The wine ran out and the songs ceased. My grief was such + that I made a few short poems to set to music for singing. + + . . . . . + + But now perturbed, engulfed, distressed, worn out, I move about + the river and lake at my leisure. I have been out of office + for two years, but the effect of this man's words is such as to produce + a peaceful influence within me. + + This evening I feel that I have dismissed all the reproachful thoughts + I harboured, and in consequence have made a long poem + which I intend to present to the court. + + +By night, beside the river, underneath +The flower-like maple leaves that bloom alone +In autumn's silent revels of decay, +We said farewell. The host, dismounting, sped +The parting guest whose boat rocked under him, +And when the circling stirrup-cup went round, +No light guitar, no lute, was heard again; +But on the heart aglow with wine there fell +Beneath the cold bright moon the cold adieu +Of fading friends -- when suddenly beyond +The cradled waters stole the lullaby +Of some faint lute; then host forgot to go, +Guest lingered on: all, wondering at the spell, +Besought the dim enchantress to reveal +Her presence; but the music died and gave +No answer, dying. Then a boat shot forth +To bring the shy musician to the shore. +Cups were refilled and lanterns trimmed again, +And so the festival went on. At last, +Slow yielding to their prayers, the stranger came, +Hiding her burning face behind her lute; +And twice her hand essayed the strings, and twice +She faltered in her task; then tenderly, +As for an old sad tale of hopeless years, +With drooping head and fingers deft she poured +Her soul forth into melodies. Now slow +The plectrum led to prayer the cloistered chords, +Now loudly with the crash of falling rain, +Now soft as the leaf whispering of words, +Now loud and soft together as the long +Patter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dish +Of marble; liquid now as from the bush +Warbles the mango bird; meandering +Now as the streamlet seawards; voiceless now +As the wild torrent in the strangling arms +Of her ice-lover, lying motionless, +Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound. +Then as the water from the broken vase +Gushes, or on the mailed horseman falls +The anvil din of steel, as on the silk +The slash of rending, so upon the strings +Her plectrum fell. . . . + Then silence over us. +No sound broke the charmed air. The autumn moon +Swam silver o'er the tide, as with a sigh +The stranger stirred to go. + "I passed," said she, +"My childhood in the capital; my home +Was near the hills. A girl of twelve, I learnt +The magic of the lute, the passionate +Blending of lute and voice that drew the souls +Of the great masters to acknowledgment; +And lovely women, envious of my face, +Bowed at the shrine in secret. The young lords +Vied for a look's approval. One brief song +Brought many costly bales. Gold ornaments +And silver pins were smashed and trodden down, +And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wine +In oft-times echoing applause. And so +I laughed my life away from year to year +While the spring breezes and the autumn moon +Caressed my careless head. Then on a day +My brother sought the battles in Kansuh; +My mother died: nights passed and mornings came, +And with them waned my beauty. Now no more +My doors were thronged; few were the cavaliers +That lingered by my side; so I became +A trader's wife, the chattel of a slave +Whose lord was gold, who, parting, little recked +Of separation and the unhonoured bride. +Since the tenth moon was full my husband went +To where the tea-fields ripen. I remained, +To wander in my little lonely boat +Over the cold bright wave o' nights, and dream +Of the dead days, the haze of happy days, +And see them set again in dreams and tears." + + . . . . . + +Already the sweet sorrows of her lute +Had moved my soul to pity; now these words +Pierced me the heart. "O lady fair," I cried, +"We are the vagrants of the world, and need +No ceremony to be friends. Last year +I left the Imperial City, banished far +To this plague-stricken spot, where desolation +Broods on from year to heavy year, nor lute +Nor love's guitar is heard. By marshy bank +Girt with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboos +I dwell. Night long and day no stir, no sound, +Only the lurking cuckoo's blood-stained note, +The gibbon's mournful wail. Hill songs I have, +And village pipes with their discordant twang. +But now I listen to thy lute methinks +The gods were parents to thy music. Sit +And sing to us again, while I engrave +Thy story on my tablets!" Gratefully +(For long she had been standing) the lute girl +Sat down and passed into another song, +Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the song +Of now ago. Then all her hearers wept +In sorrow unrestrained; and I the more, +Weeping until the pale chrysanthemums +Upon my darkened robe were starred with dew. + + + + + The Never-ending Wrong + + + +I have already alluded to the story of the Emperor Ming Huang and the lady +Yang Kwei-fei, or T`ai Chen, as she is called, in my introduction. +In order that the events which led up to her tragic death may be understood, +I have given in front of the poem a short extract from the old Chinese annals +translated into French by the Jesuit Father Joseph de Mailla in 1778. +The Emperor is fleeing with a small, ill-disciplined force +before the rebellious general An Lu-shan into the province of Ssuch`uan. +So the bald narrative resumes: + + + As the Emperor was followed by a numerous suite, and because + time was lacking, the arrangements for so long a journey + were found to be insufficient. On their arrival at Ma-wei + both officers and men murmured loudly against Yang Kuo-chung*, + accusing him of having brought all the present evils upon them. + The ambassador of the King of Tibet, followed by twenty retainers, + seeing the Prime Minister pass, stopped him, and asked for provisions. + Then the soldiers cried out that Yang was conspiring with the strangers, + and throwing themselves upon him, they cut off his head, + which they exposed on a stake to the public gaze. The Emperor, + becoming aware of this violence, did not, however, dare to exact punishment. + He sent an officer to the chief of those who had slain the Prime Minister, + to find out the reason for their deed; he replied that they had done so + because Yang was on the point of rebellion. The leader of the revolt + even demanded the instant execution of the lady T`ai Chen, + as she was the sister of the supposed rebel, Yang. The Emperor, + who loved her, desired to prove her innocence by showing that it was + impossible for her, living always as she did within the Palace precincts, + to be confederate to her brother's plot. His envoy, however, + urged him that it was politic, after the events he had witnessed, + to sacrifice her, innocent as she was, if he wished to escape + from the dangers of (another) revolution. The Emperor, + yielding to political necessity, gave her into the hands of the envoy + with the order that she should be strangled. + +-- +* Minister of State, brother to T`ai Chen. +-- + + + Ennui + +Tired of pale languors and the painted smile, +His Majesty the Son of Heaven, long time +A slave of beauty, ardently desired +The glance that brings an Empire's overthrow. + + + Beauty + +From the Yang family a maiden came, +Glowing to womanhood a rose aflame, +Reared in the inner sanctuary apart, +Lost to the world, resistless to the heart; +For beauty such as hers was hard to hide, +And so, when summoned to the monarch's side, +Her flashing eye and merry laugh had power +To charm into pure gold the leaden hour; +And through the paint and powder of the court +All gathered to the sunshine that she brought. +In spring, by the Imperial command, +The pool of Hua`ch`ing beheld her stand, +Laving her body in the crystal wave +Whose dimpled fount a warmth perennial gave. +Then when, her girls attending, forth she came, +A reed in motion and a rose in flame, +An empire passed into a maid's control, +And with her eyes she won a monarch's soul. + + + Revelry + +Hair of cloud o'er face of flower, +Nodding plumes where she alights, +In the white hibiscus bower +She lingers through the soft spring nights -- +Nights too short, though wearing late +Till the mimosa days are born. +Never more affairs of State +Wake them in the early morn. +Wine-stained moments on the wing, +Moonlit hours go luting by, +She who leads the flight of Spring +Leads the midnight revelry. +Flawless beauties, thousands three, +Deck the Imperial harem,* +Yet the monarch's eyes may see +Only one, and one supreme. +Goddess in a golden hall, +Fairest maids around her gleam, +Wine-fumes of the festival +Daily waft her into dream. +Smiles she, and her sires are lords, +Noble rank her brothers win: +Ah, the ominous awards +Showered upon her kith and kin! +For throughout the land there runs +Thought of peril, thought of fire; +Men rejoice not in their sons -- +Daughters are their sole desire. +In the gorgeous palaces, +Piercing the grey skies above, +Music on the languid breeze +Draws the dreaming world to love. +Song and dance and hands that sway +The passion of a thousand lyres +Ever through the live-long day, +And the monarch never tires. +Sudden comes the answer curt, +Loud the fish-skin war-drums roar; +Cease the plaintive "rainbow skirt": +Death is drumming at the door. + +-- +* Pronounced `hareem'. +-- + + + Flight + +Clouds upon clouds of dust enveloping +The lofty gates of the proud capital. +On, on, to the south-west, a living wall, +Ten thousand battle-chariots on the wing. + +Feathers and jewels flashing through the cloud +Onwards, and then an halt. The legions wait +A hundred li beyond the western gate; +The great walls loom behind them wrapt in cloud. + +No further stirs the sullen soldiery, +Naught but the last dread office can avail, +Till she of the dark moth-eyebrows, lily pale, +Shines through tall avenues of spears to die. + +Upon the ground lie ornaments of gold, +One with the dust, and none to gather them, +Hair-pins of jade and many a costly gem, +Kingfishers' wings and golden birds scarce cold. + +The king has sought the darkness of his hands, +Veiling the eyes that looked for help in vain, +And as he turns to gaze upon the slain, +His tears, her blood, are mingled on the sands. + + + Exile + +Across great plains of yellow sand, + Where the whistling winds are blown, +Over the cloud-topped mountain peaks, + They wend their way alone. + +Few are the pilgrims that attain + Mount Omi's heights afar; +And the bright gleam of their standard grows + Faint as the last pale star. + +Dark the Ssuch`uan waters loom, + Dark the Ssuch`uan hills, +And day and night the monarch's life + An endless sorrow fills. + +The brightness of the foreign moon + Saddens his lonely heart; +And a sound of a bell in the evening rain + Doth rend his soul apart. + + + Return + +The days go by, and once again, +Among the shadows of his pain, +He lingers at the well-known place +That holds the memory of her face. + +But from the clouds of earth that lie +Beneath the foot of tall Ma-wei +No signs of her dim form appear, +Only the place of death is here. + +Statesman's and monarch's eyes have met, +And royal robes with tears are wet; +Then eastward flies the frantic steed +As on to the Red Wall they speed. + + + Home + +There is the pool, the flowers as of old, +There the hibiscus at the gates of gold, +And there the willows round the palace rise. +In the hibiscus flower he sees her face, +Her eyebrows in the willow he can trace, +And silken pansies thrill him with her eyes. + +How in this presence should his tears not come, +In spring amid the bloom of peach and plum, +In autumn rains when the wut`ung leaves must fall? +South of the western palace many trees +Shower their dead leaves upon the terraces, +And not a hand to stir their crimson pall. + +Ye minstrels of the Garden of the Pear,* +Grief with the touch of age has blanched your hair. +Ye guardians of the Pepper Chamber,** now +No longer young to him, the firefly flits +Through the black hall where, lost to love, he sits, +Folding the veil of sorrows round his brow, + +Alone, and one by one the lanterns die, +Sleep with the lily hands has passed him by, +Slowly the watches of the night are gone, +For now, alas! the nights are all too long, +And shine the stars, a silver, mocking throng, +As though the dawn were dead or slumbered on. + +Cold settles on the painted duck and drake, +The frost a ghostly tapestry doth make, +Chill the kingfisher's quilt with none to share. +Parted by life and death; the ebb and flow +Of night and day over his spirit go; +He hunts her face in dreams, and finds despair. + +-- +* The Pear Garden was a college of music founded by Ming Huang +for the purpose of training the youth of both sexes. + +** The women's part of the palace. +-- + + + Spirit-Land + +A priest of Tao, one of the Hung-tu school, +Was able by his magic to compel +The spirits of the dead. So to relieve +The sorrows of his king, the man of Tao +Receives an urgent summons. Borne aloft +Upon the clouds, on ether charioted, +He flies with speed of lightning. High to heaven, +Low down to earth, he, seeking everywhere, +Floats on the far empyrean, and below +The yellow springs; but nowhere in great space +Can he find aught of her. At length he hears +An old-world tale: an Island of the Blest* -- +So runs the legend -- in mid-ocean lies +In realms of blue vacuity, too faint +To be described; there gaily coloured towers +Rise up like rainbow clouds, and many gentle +And beautiful Immortals pass their days +In peace. Among them there is one whose name +Sounds upon lips as Eternal. By the bloom +Of her white skin and flower-like face he knows +That this is she. Knocking at the jade door +At the western gate of the golden house, he bids +A fair maid breathe his name to one more fair +Than all. She, hearing of this embassy +Sent by the Son of Heaven, starts from her dreams +Among the tapestry curtains. Gathering +Her robes around her, letting the pillow fall, +She, risen in haste, begins to deck herself +With pearls and gems. Her cloud-like hair, dishevelled, +Betrays the nearness of her sleep. And with the droop +Of her flowery plumes in disarray, she floats +Light through the hall. The sleeves of her divine +Raiment the breezes fill. As once again +To the Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket air +She seems to dance, her face is fixed and calm, +Though many tear-drops on an almond bough +Fall, and recall the rains of spring. Subdued +Her wild emotions and restrained her grief, +She tenders thanks unto his Majesty, +Saying how since they parted she has missed +His form and voice; how, though their love had reached +Too soon its earthly limit, yet among +The blest a multitude of mellow noons +Remain ungathered. Turning now, she leans +Toward the land of the living, and in vain +Would find the Imperial city, lost in the dust +And haze. Then raising from their lacquered gloom +Old keepsakes, tokens of undying love, +A golden hair-pin, an enamel brooch, +She bids him bear them to her lord. One-half +The hair-pin still she keeps, one-half the brooch, +Breaking with her dim hands the yellow gold, +Sundering the enamel. "Tell my lord," +She murmured, "to be firm of heart as this +Gold and enamel; then, in heaven or earth, +Below, we twain may meet once more." At parting +She gave a thousand messages of love, +Among the rest recalled a mutual pledge, +How on the seventh day of the seventh moon, +Within the Hall of Immortality +At midnight, whispering, when none were near, +Low in her ear, he breathed, "I swear that we, +Like to the one-winged birds, will ever fly, +Or grow united as the tree whose boughs +Are interwoven. Heaven and earth shall fall, +Long lasting as they are. But this great wrong +Shall stretch from end to end the universe, +And shine beyond the ruin of the stars." + +-- +* The fabled Island of P`eng-lai. +-- + + + + + The River and the Leaf + + + +Into the night the sounds of luting flow; +The west wind stirs amid the root-crop blue; +While envious fireflies spoil the twinkling dew, +And early wild-geese stem the dark Kin-ho. + +Now great trees tell their secrets to the sky, +And hill on hill looms in the moon-clear night. +I watch one leaf upon the river light, +And in a dream go drifting down the Hwai. + + + + + Lake Shang + + + +Oh! she is like a picture in the spring, +This lake of Shang, with the wild hills gathering +Into a winding garden at the base +Of stormless waters; pines, deep blue, enlace +The lessening slopes, and broken moonlight gleams +Across the waves like pearls we thread in dreams. +Like a woof of jasper strands the corn unfolds, +Field upon field beyond the quiet wolds; +The late-blown rush flaunts in the dusk serene +Her netted sash and slender skirt of green. +Sadly I turn my prow toward the shore, +The dream behind me and the world before. +O Lake of Shang, his feet may wander far +Whose soul thou holdest mirrored as a star. + + + + + The Ruined Home + + + +Who was the far-off founder of the house, +With its red gates abutting to the road? -- +A palace, though its outer wings are shorn, +And domes of glittering tiles. The wall without +Has tottered into ruin, yet remain +The straggling fragments of some seven courts, +The wreck of seven fortunes: roof and eaves +Still hang together. From this chamber cool +The dense blue smoke arose. Nor heat nor cold +Now dwells therein. A tall pavilion stands +Empty beside the empty rooms that face +The pine-browed southern hills. Long purple vines +Frame the verandahs. + Mount the sunken step +Of the red, joyous threshold, and shake down +The peach and cherry branches. Yonder group +Of scarlet peonies hath ringed about +A lordly fellow with ten witnesses +Of his official rank. The taint of meat +Lingers around the kitchen, and a trace +Of vanished hoards the treasury retains. + + . . . . . + +Who can lay hold upon my words? Give heed +And commune with thyself! How poor and mean +Is the last state of wretchedness, when cold +And famine thunder at the gates, and none +But pale endurance on the threshold stands +With helpless hands and hollow eyes, the dumb +Beholder of calamity. O thou +That would protect the land a thousand years, +Behold they are not that herein once bloomed +And perished; but the garden breathes of them, +And all the flowers are fragrant for their sakes. +Salute the garden that salutes the dead! + + + + + A Palace Story + + + +A network handkerchief contains no tear. +'Tis dawn at court ere wine and music sate. +The rich red crops no aftermath await. +Rest on a screen, and you will fall, I fear. + + + + + Peaceful Old Age + + Chuang Tzu said: "Tao* gives me this toil in manhood, + this repose in old age, this rest in death." + + + +Swiftly and soon the golden sun goes down, +The blue sky wells afar into the night. +Tao is the changeful world's environment; +Happy are they that in its laws delight. + +Tao gives me toil, youth's passion to achieve, +And leisure in life's autumn and decay. +I follow Tao -- the seasons are my friends; +Opposing it misfortunes come my way. + +Within my breast no sorrows can abide; +I feel the great world's spirit through me thrill, +And as a cloud I drift before the wind, +Or with the random swallow take my will. + +As underneath the mulberry-tree I dream, +The water-clock drips on, and dawn appears: +A new day shines on wrinkles and white hair, +The symbols of the fulness of my years. + +If I depart, I cast no look behind: +Still wed to life, I still am free from care. +Since life and death in cycles come and go, +Of little moments are the days to spare. + +Thus strong in faith I wait, and long to be +One with the pulsings of Eternity. + +-- +* Literally, "The Way". +-- + + + + + Sleeplessness + + + +I cannot rest when the cool is gone from June, +But haunt the dim verandah till the moon + Fades from the dawn's pursuit. +The stirrup-fires beneath the terrace flare; +Over the star-domed court a low, sad air + Roams from a hidden lute. + +This endless heat doth urge me to extremes; +Yet cool of autumn waits till the wild goose screams + In the track of whirling skies. +My hand is laid upon the cup once more, +And of the red-gold vintage I implore + The sleep that night denies. + + + + + The Grass + + + +How beautiful and fresh the grass returns! +When golden days decline, the meadow burns; +Yet autumn suns no hidden root have slain, +The spring winds blow, and there is grass again. + +Green rioting on olden ways it falls: +The blue sky storms the ruined city walls; +Yet since Wang Sun departed long ago, +When the grass blooms both joy and fear I know. + + + + + Autumn across the Frontier + + + +The last red leaves droop sadly o'er the slain; +In the long tower my cup of wine I drain, +Watching the mist-flocks driven through the hills, +And great blown roses ravished by the rain. + +The beach tints linger down the frontier line, +And sounding waters shimmer to the brine; +Over the Yellow Kingdom breaks the sun, +Yet dreams, and woodlands, and the chase are mine. + + + + + The Flower Fair + + + +The city walls rise up to greet + Spring's luminous twilight hours; +The clamour of carts goes down the street: + This is the Fair of Flowers. +Leisure and pleasure drift along, +Beggar and marquis join the throng, +And care, humility, rank, and pride +In the sight of the flowers are laid aside. +Bright, oh! bright are a thousand shades, +Crimson splashes and slender blades + With five white fillets bound. +Tents are here that will cover all, +Ringed with trellis and leafy wall, + And the dust is laid around. +Naught but life doth here display; +The dying flower is cast away; +Families meet and intermingle, +Lovers are parted, and friends go single. + One ambition all avow -- +A roof to harbour, a field to plough. +See, they come to the Flower Fair, +Youth and maiden, a laughing pair. +Bowed and sighing the greybeard wends +Alone to the mart where sighing ends. +For here is a burden all may bear, +The crimson and gold of the Flower Fair. + + + + + The Penalties of Rank + + + +Three score and ten! A slave to office yet! +In the Li Chi these luminous words befall: +"The lust for honours honours not at all," +Here is the golden line we most forget. + +Alas! how these long years afflict a man! +When teeth are gone, and failing eyes grow dim. +The morning dews brought dreams of fame to him +Who bears in dusk the burdens of his clan. + +His eyes still linger on the tassel blue, +And still the red sedan of rank appeals, +But his shrunk belly scarce the girdle feels +As, bowed, he crawls the Prince's Gateway through. + +Where is the man that would not wealth acclaim? +Who would not truckle for his sovereign's grace? +Yet years of high renown their furrows trace, +And greatness overwhelms the weary frame. + +The springs of laughter flow not from his heart, +Where bide the dust and glamour of old days. +Who walks alone in contemplation's ways? +'TIS HE, THE HAPPY MAN, WHO DWELLS APART. + + + + + The Island of Pines + + + +Across the willow-lake a temple shines, +Pale, through the lotus-girdled isle of pines, +And twilight listens to the drip of oars -- +The coming of dark boats with scented stores +Of orange seed; the mist leans from the hill, +While palm leaves sway 'twixt wind and water chill, +And waves of smoke like phantoms rise and fade +Into a trembling tangle of green jade. +I dream strange dreams within my tower room, +Dreams from the glimmering realms of even gloom; +Until each princely guest doth, landing, raise +His eyes, upon the full-orbed moon to gaze -- +The old moon-palace that in ocean stands +Mid clouds of thistle-down and jewelled strands. + + + + + Springtide + + + +The lonely convent on the hill +Draws merchants faring from the west; +Almost upon the waters still +The quiet clouds lean down and rest. + +In green pavilions of warm trees +The golden builders toil and sing; +While swallows dip along the leas, +And dabble in the ooze of Spring. + +A thousand flowers, a thousand dreams, +Bright pageants in confusion pass. +See yonder, where the white horse gleams +His fetlocks deep in pliant grass. + +Beside the eastern lake there calls +No laughing throng, no lover goes; +But in the long embankment walls +The willow shade invites repose. + + + + + The Ancient Wind + + + +The peach blooms open on the eastern wall -- +I breathe their fragrance, laughing in the glow +Of golden noontide. Suddenly there comes +The revelation of the ancient wind, +Flooding my soul with glory; till I feel +One with the brightness of the first far dawn, +One with the many-coloured spring; and all +The secrets of the scented hearts of flowers +Are whispered through me; till I cry aloud. +Alas! how grey and scentless is the bloom +Of mortal life! This -- this alone I fear, +That from yon twinkling mirror of delight +The unreal flowers may fade; that with the breath +Of the fiery flying Dragon they will fall +Petal by petal, slowly, yet too soon, +Into the world's green sepulchre. Alas! +My little friends, my lovers, we must part, +And, like some uncompanioned pine that stands, +Last of the legions on the southern slopes, +I too shall stand alone, and hungry winds +Shall gnaw the lute-strings of my desolate heart. + + + + + + +Li Hua + +Circa A.D. 850 + + + + + + An Old Battle-field + + + +Vast, vast -- an endless wilderness of sand; +A stream crawls through its tawny banks; the hills +Encompass it; where in the dismal dusk +Moan the last sighs of sunset. Shrubs are gone, +Withered the grass; all chill as the white rime +Of early morn. The birds go soaring past, +The beasts avoid it; for the legend runs -- +Told by the crook'd custodian of the place -- +Of some old battle-field. "Here many a time," +He quavered, "armies have been overwhelmed, +And the faint voices of the unresting dead +Often upon the darkness of the night +Go wailing by." + O sorrow! O ye Ch`ins! +Ye Hans! ye dynasties for ever flown! +Ye empires of the dust! for I have heard +How, when the Ch`is and Weis embattled rose +Along the frontier, when the Chings and Hans +Gathered their multitudes, a myriad leagues +Of utter weariness they trod. By day +Grazing their jaded steeds, by night they ford +The hostile stream. The endless earth below, +The boundless sky above, they know no day +Of their return. Their breasts are ever bared +To the pitiless steel and all the wounds of war +Unspeakable. + Methinks I see them now, +Dust-mantled in the bitter wind, a host +Of Tartar warriors in ambuscade. +Our leader scorns the foe. He would give battle +Upon the threshold of the camp. The stream +Besets a grim array where order reigns, +Though many hearts may beat, where discipline +Is all, and life of no account. + The spear +Now works its iron will, the startled sand +Blinding the combatants together locked +In the death-grip; while hill and vale and stream +Glow with the flash and crash of arms. Then cold +The shades of night o'erwhelm them; to the knee +In snow, beards stiff with ice. The carrion bird +Hath sought its nest. The war-horse in its strength +Is broken. Clothes avail not. Hands are dead, +Flesh to the frost succumbs. Nature herself +Doth aid the Tartar with a deadly blast +Following the wild onslaught. Wagons block +The way. Our men, beset with flank attacks, +Surrender with their officers. Their chief +Is slain. The river to its topmost banks +Swollen with death; the dykes of the Great Wall +Brimming with blood. Nation and rank are lost +In that vast-heaped corruption. + Faintly now, +And fainter beats the drum; for strength is shorn, +And arrows spent, and bow-strings snapped, and swords +Shattered. The legions fall on one another +In the last surge of life and death. To yield +Is to become a slave; to fight is but +To mingle with the desert sands. +. . . . . . . No sound +Of bird now flutters from the hushed hillside; +All, all is still, save for the wind that wails +And whistles through the long night where the ghosts +Hither and thither in the gloom go by, +And spirits from the nether world arise +Under the ominous clouds. The sunlight pales +Athwart the trampled grass; the fading moon +Still twinkles on the frost-flakes scattered round. + + + + + + +Ssu-K`ung T`u + +A.D. 834-903 + + + + + +Little is known of his life, except that he was Secretary +to the Board of Rites and retired from this position to lead +the contemplative life. His introduction to the European world +is entirely due to Professor Giles. No mention is made of him +in the French collection of the T`ang poets by the Marquis de Saint-Denys. +Yet the importance of his work cannot well be over-estimated. +He is perhaps the most Chinese of the poets dealt with, +and certainly one of the most philosophical. By his subtly simple +method of treatment, lofty themes are clothed in the bright raiment of poetry. +If through the red pine woods, or amid the torrent of peach-blossom +rushing down the valley, some mortal beauty strays, she is but a symbol, +a lure that leads us by way of the particular into the universal. +Whatever senses we possess may be used as means of escape from +the prison of personality into the boundless freedom of the spiritual world. +And once the soul is set free, there is no need for painful +aimless wanderings, no need for Mahomet to go to the Mountain, +for resting in the centre of all things the universe will be our home +and our share in the secrets of the World-Builder will be made known. + + Freighted with eternal principles + Athwart the night's void, + Where cloud masses darken, + And the wind blows ceaseless around, + Beyond the range of conceptions + Let us gain the Centre, + And there hold fast without violence, + Fed from an inexhaustible supply.* + +-- +* `Chinese Literature', p. 179. +-- + +With such a philosophy there are infinite possibilities. +The poet is an occultist in the truest sense of the word. +For him, Time and Space no longer exist, and by "concentration" +he is able to communicate with the beloved, and + + Sweet words falter to and fro -- + Though the great River rolls between. + +Ssu-K`ung T`u, more than any poet, teaches how unreal +are the apparent limitations of man. "He is the peer of heaven and earth"; +"A co-worker in Divine transformation". With his keen vision +the poet sees things in a glance and paints them in a single line, +and in the poem as a whole you get the sense of beauty beyond beauty, +as though the seer had looked into a world that underlay the world of form. +And yet there is nothing strained, no peering through telescopes +to find new worlds or magnify the old; the eyes need only be lifted +for a moment, and the great power is not the power of sight, but sympathy. + +And Nature, ever prodigal to her lovers, repays their favours in full measure. +To this old artist-lover she grants no petty details, no chance revelations +of this or that sweetness and quality but her whole pure self. +Yet such a gift is illimitable; he may only win from secret to secret +and die unsatisfied. + + You grasp ten thousand, and secure one. + +This might well be written over his tomb, if any verse were needed +to encompass him. By entering into harmony with his environment, +Ssu-K`ung T`u allowed his splendid vitality to find expression, +and after the lapse of a thousand years these glowing pages +torn from the book of life have drifted towards us like rose-leaves +down a sombre stream. + + + + + Return of Spring + + + +A lovely maiden, roaming + The wild dark valley through, +Culls from the shining waters + Lilies and lotus blue. +With leaves the peach-trees are laden, + The wind sighs through the haze, +And the willows wave their shadows + Down the oriole-haunted ways. +As, passion-tranced, I follow, + I hear the old refrain +Of Spring's eternal story, + That was old and is young again. + + + + + The Colour of Life + + + +Would that we might for ever stay +The rainbow glories of the world, +The blue of the unfathomed sea, +The rare azalea late unfurled, +The parrot of a greener spring, +The willows and the terrace line, +The stranger from the night-steeped hills, +The roselit brimming cup of wine. +Oh for a life that stretched afar, +Where no dead dust of books were rife, +Where spring sang clear from star to star; +Alas! what hope for such a life? + + + + + Set Free + + + +I revel in flowers without let, +An atom at random in space; +My soul dwells in regions ethereal, +And the world is my dreaming-place. + +As the tops of the ocean I tower, +As the winds of the air spreading wide, +I am 'stablished in might and dominion and power, +With the universe ranged at my side. + +Before me the sun, moon, and stars, +Behind me the phoenix doth clang; +In the morning I lash my leviathans, +And I bathe my feet in Fusang. + + + + + Fascination + + + +Fair is the pine grove and the mountain stream +That gathers to the valley far below, +The black-winged junks on the dim sea reach, adream, +The pale blue firmament o'er banks of snow. +And her, more fair, more supple smooth than jade, +Gleaming among the dark red woods I follow: +Now lingering, now as a bird afraid +Of pirate wings she seeks the haven hollow. +Vague, and beyond the daylight of recall, +Into the cloudland past my spirit flies, +As though before the gold of autumn's fall, +Before the glow of the moon-flooded skies. + + + + + Tranquil Repose + + + +It dwells in the quiet silence, + Unseen upon hill and plain, +'Tis lapped by the tideless harmonies, + It soars with the lonely crane. + +As the springtime breeze whose flutter + The silken skirts hath blown, +As the wind-drawn note of the bamboo flute + Whose charm we would make our own, -- + +Chance-met, it seems to surrender; + Sought, and it lures us on; +Ever shifting in form and fantasy, + It eludes us, and is gone. + + + + + The Poet's Vision + + + +Wine that recalls the glow of spring, +Upon the thatch a sudden shower, +A gentle scholar in the bower, +Where tall bamboos their shadows fling, +White clouds in heavens newly clear, +And wandering wings through depths of trees, +Then pillowed in green shade, he sees +A torrent foaming to the mere; +Around his dreams the dead leaves fall; +Calm as the starred chrysanthemum, +He notes the season glories come, +And reads the books that never pall. + + + + + Despondent + + + +A gale goes ruffling down the stream, +The giants of the forest crack; +My thoughts are bitter -- black as death -- +For she, my summer, comes not back. + +A hundred years like water glide, +Riches and rank are ashen cold, +Daily the dream of peace recedes: +By whom shall Sorrow be consoled? + +The soldier, dauntless, draws his sword, +And there are tears and endless pain; +The winds arise, leaves flutter down, +And through the old thatch drips the rain. + + + + + Embroideries + + + +If rank and wealth within the mind abide, +Then gilded dust is all your yellow gold. +Kings in their fretted palaces grow old; +Youth dwells for ever at Contentment's side. +A mist cloud hanging at the river's brim, +Pink almond flowers along the purple bough, +A hut rose-girdled under moon-swept skies, +A painted bridge half-seen in shadows dim, -- +These are the splendours of the poor, and thou, +O wine of spring, the vintage of the wise. + + + + + Concentration + + + +A hut green-shadowed among firs, -- +A sun that slopes in amber air, -- +Lone wandering, my head I bare, +While some far thrush the silence stirs. + +No flocks of wild geese thither fly, +And she -- ah! she is far away; +Yet all my thoughts behold her stay, +As in the golden hours gone by. + +The clouds scarce dim the water's sheen, +The moon-bathed islands wanly show, +And sweet words falter to and fro -- +Though the great River rolls between. + + + + + Motion + + + + Like a water-wheel awhirl, + Like the rolling of a pearl; + Yet these but illustrate, + To fools, the final state. +The earth's great axis spinning on, +The never-resting pole of sky -- +Let us resolve their Whence and Why, +And blend with all things into One; +Beyond the bounds of thought and dream, +Circling the vasty void as spheres +Whose orbits round a thousand years: +Behold the Key that fits my theme. + + + + + + +Ou-Yang Hsiu of Lu-ling + +A.D. 1007-1072 + + + + + +With the completion of the T`ang dynasty, it was my design +to bring this work to conclusion. I have, however, decided to include +Ou-Yang Hsiu of the Sung dynasty, if only for the sake of his "Autumn", +which many competent critics hold to be one of the finest things +in Chinese literature. His career was as varied as his talents. +In collaboration with the historian Sung C`hi he prepared a history of +the recent T`ang dynasty. He also held the important post of Grand Examiner, +and was at one time appointed a Governor in the provinces. +It is difficult to praise the "Autumn" too highly. With its daring imagery, +grave magnificence of language and solemn thought, it is nothing less +than Elizabethan, and only the masters of that age could have done it justice +in the rendering. + + + + + Autumn + + + +One night, when dreaming over ancient books, +There came to me a sudden far-off sound +From the south-west. I listened, wondering, +As on it crept: at first a gentle sigh, +Like as a spirit passing; then it swelled +Into the roaring of great waves that smite +The broken vanguard of the cliff: the rage +Of storm-black tigers in the startled night +Among the jackals of the wind and rain. +It burst upon the hanging bell, and set +The silver pendants chattering. It seemed +A muffled march of soldiers hurriedly +Sped to the night attack with muffled mouths, +When no command is heard, only the tramp +Of men and horses onward. "Boy," said I, +"What sound is that? Go forth and see." My boy, +Returning, answered, "Lord! the moon and all +Her stars shine fair; the silver river spans +The sky. No sound of man is heard without; +'Tis but a whisper of the trees." "Alas!" +I cried, "then Autumn is upon us now. +'Tis thus, O boy, that Autumn comes, the cold +Pitiless autumn of the wrack and mist, +Autumn, the season of the cloudless sky, +Autumn, of biting blasts, the time of blight +And desolation; following the chill +Stir of disaster, with a shout it leaps +Upon us. All the gorgeous pageantry +Of green is changed. All the proud foliage +Of the crested forests is shorn, and shrivels down +Beneath the blade of ice. For this is Autumn, +Nature's chief executioner. It takes +The darkness for a symbol. It assumes +The temper of proven steel. Its symbol is +A sharpened sword. The avenging fiend, it rides +Upon an atmosphere of death. As Spring, +Mother of many-coloured birth, doth rear +The young light-hearted world, so Autumn drains +The nectar of the world's maturity. +And sad the hour when all ripe things must pass, +For sweetness and decay are of one stem, +And sweetness ever riots to decay. +Still, what availeth it? The trees will fall +In their due season. Sorrow cannot keep +The plants from fading. Stay! there yet is man -- +Man, the divinest of all things, whose heart +Hath known the shipwreck of a thousand hopes, +Who bears a hundred wrinkled tragedies +Upon the parchment of his brow, whose soul +Strange cares have lined and interlined, until +Beneath the burden of life his inmost self +Bows down. And swifter still he seeks decay +When groping for the unattainable +Or grieving over continents unknown. +Then come the snows of time. Are they not due? +Is man of adamant he should outlast +The giants of the grove? Yet after all +Who is it that saps his strength save man alone? +Tell me, O boy, by what imagined right +Man doth accuse his Autumn blast?" My boy +Slumbered and answered not. The cricket gave +The only answer to my song of death. + + + + + At the Graveside + + + +Years since we last foregathered, O Man-ch`ing! + Methinks I see thee now, + Lord of the noble brow, +And courage from thy glances challenging. +Ah! when thy tired limbs were fain to keep + The purple cerements of sleep, + Thy dim beloved form + Passed from the sunshine warm, +From the corrupting earth, that sought to hold +Its beauty, to the essence of pure gold. +Or haply art thou some far-towering pine, -- + Some rare and wondrous flower? + What boots it, this sad hour? +Here in thy loneliness the eglantine +Weaves her sweet tapestries above thy head, + While blow across thy bed, +Moist with the dew of heaven, the breezes chill: +Fire-fly, will-o'-the-wisp, and wandering star +Glow in thy gloom, and naught is heard but the far +Chanting of woodman and shepherd from the hill, + Naught but the startled bird is seen + Soaring away in the moonland sheen, +Or the hulk of the scampering beast that fears + Their plaintive lays as, to and fro, + The pallid singers go. +Such is thy loneliness. A thousand years, +Haply ten thousand, hence the fox shall make +His fastness in thy tomb, the weasel take +Her young to thy dim sanctuary. Such is the lot + For ever of the great and wise, + Whose tombs around us rise; +Man honours where the grave remembers not. + Ah! that a song could bring + Peace to thy dust, Man-ch`ing! + + + + + + +Appendix + + + + + +In the preparation of this little volume I have drawn largely upon +the prose translations of the great English and French pioneers +in the field of Chinese literature, notably Professor Giles +and the Marquis d'Hervey-Saint-Denys. The copy of the latter's +`Poe/sies des Thang' which I possess has been at various times +the property of William Morris, York Powell, and John Payne, +and contains records of all three, and pencil notes of illuminating criticism, +for which I believe the translator of `The Arabian Nights' +is mainly responsible. My thanks are due to Mr. Lionel Giles +for the translation of Po Chu-i's "Peaceful Old Age", +and for the thorough revision of the Chinese names throughout the book. +Mr. Walter Old is also responsible for a few of Po Chu-i's shorter poems +here rendered. For the convenience of readers who desire +to pursue the subject further, I have appended a short list +of the very few books obtainable. In this matter Mr. A. Probsthain +has given me invaluable assistance. + + + The Odes + +The King, or Book of Chinese Poetry, being the Collection of Ballads, +Sagas, Hymns, etc., translated by C. E. R. Allen, 1891. +(The best book available on the Odes of Confucius. +It contains a complete metrical translation.) + +The Old Poetry Classic of the Chinese, a metrical translation +by W. Jennings, with notes, 1891. + +The Odes of Confucius, rendered by L. Cranmer-Byng. +(A free metrical rendering in The Wisdom of the East Series.) + +The Chinese Text, with French and Latin translations, by S. Couvreur, 1896. + + + Ch`u Yuan + +Ch`u Yuan's Tsoo-Sze Elegies of Ch`u, in stanzas and lines, +edited by Wang Yi, 2nd Century. In Chinese. A reprint, 1885. + +The Same -- Li Sao. Poe\me traduit du Chinois +par le Marquis d'Hervey-Saint-Denys. Paris, 1870. + +The Same -- Li Sao. Chinese Text, with English translation and notes +by J. Legge. London, 1875. + + + The T`ang Dynasty + +Chinese Literature, by H. A. Giles. Short Histories of The Literatures +of the World Series, 1901. +(The standard book, containing a survey of Chinese Literature +from the earliest times up to about 1850. Professor Giles devotes +considerable space to the poets of the T`ang dynasty, and gives +some delightful renderings of the greater poets, such as Li Po and Tu Fu.) + +Poe/sies de l'E/poque des Thang. Paris, 1862. +By the Marquis d'Hervey-Saint-Denys. +(A valuable monograph on the poetry of the T`ang period, +containing many prose translations and a careful study of Chinese verse form.) + +The Jade Chaplet, in Twenty-four Beads. A Collection of Songs, Ballads, etc., +from the Chinese, by G. C. Stent. London, 1874. +(Contains translations of some of the old Chinese ballads +on the subject of the Emperor Ming Huang of the T`ang dynasty. +The verse is poor in quality but the subject-matter of great interest.) + +Poems of the T`ang Dynasty, in Chinese. Two volumes. + +Ueber zwei Sammlungen chinesischer Gedichte aus der Dynastie Thang, +von H. Plath. Vienna, 1869. + +Blueten chinesischer Dichtung, aus der Zeit der Hansechs Dynastie. +Magdeburg, 1899. +(A most valuable book on the subject. Contains 21 Chinese illustrations.) + + + General + +The Poetry of the Chinese, by Sir John Davis. London, 1870. +(An interesting essay on Chinese poetry, together with +several examples rendered into English verse. Owing, however, +to the researches of later sinologues, many of his conclusions, +especially as regards pronunciation, are out of date.) + +La Poe/sie Chinoise, by C. de Harlez. Bruxelles, 1892. +(The best treatise on Chinese poetry that has yet appeared. +The passage dealing with Chinese style is especially illuminating. +The whole essay is deserving of a wider circulation.) + +Notes on Chinese Literature, by A. Wylie. London, 1867. +(Contains a vast deal of interesting information on the subject +of Chinese literature, and notices of all the important collections +of Chinese verse that have been made from the earliest times.) + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of A Lute of Jade + + + + Binary files differdiff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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