“Alas! the early season flies,Behold the remnants of the spring!My boat in landlocked water lies,At dawn I hear the wild birds sing.“Then, through clouds lingering on the slope,The rising sun breaks on to me,And thrills me with a fleeting hope,—A prisoner longing to be free.“My flowing tears are long since dried,Though care clings closer than it did.But stop! All care we lay asideWhen once they close the coffin lid.”
“Alas! the early season flies,Behold the remnants of the spring!My boat in landlocked water lies,At dawn I hear the wild birds sing.
“Then, through clouds lingering on the slope,The rising sun breaks on to me,And thrills me with a fleeting hope,—A prisoner longing to be free.
“My flowing tears are long since dried,Though care clings closer than it did.But stop! All care we lay asideWhen once they close the coffin lid.”
PO CHÜ-I
Another famous poet, worthy to be mentioned even after Han Yü, wasPo Chü-I(A.D.772-846). As a childhe was most precocious, knowing a considerable number of the written characters at the early age of seven months, after having had each one pointed out only once by his nurse. He graduated at the age of seventeen, and rose to high office in the State, though at one period of his life he was banished to a petty post, which somewhat disgusted him with officialdom. To console himself, he built a retreat at Hsiang-shan, by which name he is sometimes called; and there, together with eight congenial companions, he gave himself up to poetry and speculations upon a future life. To escape recognition and annoyance, all names were dropped, and the party was generally known as the Nine Old Gentlemen of Hsiang-shan. This reaching the ears of the Emperor, he was transferred to be Governor of Chung-chou; and on the accession of Mu Tsung in 821 he was sent as Governor to Hangchow. There he built one of the great embankments of the beautiful Western Lake, still known as Po’s Embankment. He was subsequently Governor of Soochow, and finally rose in 841 to be President of the Board of War. His poems were collected by Imperial command and engraved upon tablets of stone, which were set up in a garden he had made for himself in imitation of his former beloved retreat at Hsiang-shan. He disbelieved in the genuineness of theTao-Tê-Ching, and ridiculed its preposterous claims as follows:—
“‘Who know, speak not; who speak, know naught,’Are words from Lao Tzŭ’s lore.What then becomes of Lao Tzŭ’s own‘Five thousand words and more’?”
“‘Who know, speak not; who speak, know naught,’Are words from Lao Tzŭ’s lore.What then becomes of Lao Tzŭ’s own‘Five thousand words and more’?”
Here is a charming poem from his pen, which tellsthe story of a poor lute-girl’s sorrows. This piece is ranked very high by the commentator Lin Hsi-chung, who points out how admirably the wording is adapted to echo the sense, and declares that such workmanship raises the reader to that state of mental ecstasy known to the Buddhists assamâdhi, and can only be produced once in a thousand autumns. The “guest” is the poet himself, setting out a second time for his place of banishment, as mentioned above, from a point about half-way thither, where he had been struck down by illness:—
“By night, at the riverside, adieus were spoken: beneath the maple’s flower-like leaves, blooming amid autumnal decay. Host had dismounted to speed the parting guest, already on board his boat. Then a stirrup-cup went round, but no flute, no guitar, was heard. And so, ere the heart was warmed with wine, came words of cold farewell beneath the bright moon, glittering over the bosom of the broad stream ... when suddenly across the water a lute broke forth into sound. Host forgot to go, guest lingered on, wondering whence the music, and asking who the performer might be. At this, all was hushed, but no answer given. A boat approached, and the musician was invited to join the party. Cups were refilled, lamps trimmed again, and preparations for festivity renewed. At length, after much pressing, she came forth, hiding her face behind her lute; and twice or thrice sweeping the strings, betrayed emotion ere her song was sung. Then every note she struck swelled with pathos deep and strong, as though telling the tale of a wrecked and hopeless life, while with bent head and rapid finger she poured forth her soul in melody. Now softly, now slowly, her plectrum sped to and fro; now this air, now that; loudly, with the crash of falling rain; softly, as the murmur of whispered words; now loud and soft together, like the patter of pearls and pearlets dropping upon a marble dish. Or liquid, like the warbling of the mango-bird in the bush; trickling, like the streamlet on its downward course. And then, like the torrent, stilled by the grip of frost, so for a moment was the music lulled, in a passion too deep for sound. Then, as bursts the water from the broken vase, as clash the arms upon the mailed horseman, so fell the plectrum once more upon the strings with a slash like the rent of silk.
“Silence on all sides: not a sound stirred the air. The autumn moon shone silver athwart the tide, as with a sigh the musician thrust her plectrum beneath the strings and quietly prepared to take leave. ‘My childhood,’ said she, ‘was spent at the capital, in my home near the hills. At thirteen, I learnt the guitar, and my name was enrolled among theprimasof the day. Themaëstrohimself acknowledged my skill: the most beauteous of women envied my lovely face. The youths of the neighbourhood vied with each other to do me honour: a single song brought me I know not how many costly bales. Golden ornaments and silver pins were smashed, blood-red skirts of silk were stained with wine, in oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed on from year to year, while the spring breeze and autumn moon swept over my careless head.
“‘Then my brother went away to the wars: my mother died. Nights passed and mornings came; and with them my beauty began to fade. My doors were no longer thronged; but few cavaliers remained. So I took a husband and became a trader’s wife. He wasall for gain, and little recked of separation from me. Last month he went off to buy tea, and I remained behind, to wander in my lonely boat on moon-lit nights over the cold wave, thinking of the happy days gone by, my reddened eyes telling of tearful dreams.’
“The sweet melody of the lute had already moved my soul to pity, and now these words pierced me to the heart again. ‘O lady,’ I cried, ‘we are companions in misfortune, and need no ceremony to be friends. Last year I quitted the Imperial city, and fever-stricken reached this spot, where in its desolation, from year’s end to year’s end, no flute or guitar is heard. I live by the marshy river-bank, surrounded by yellow reeds and stunted bamboos. Day and night no sounds reach my ears save the blood-stained note of the nightjar, the gibbon’s mournful wail. Hill songs I have, and village pipes with their harsh discordant twang. But now that I listen to thy lute’s discourse, methinks ’tis the music of the gods. Prithee sit down awhile and sing to us yet again, while I commit thy story to writing.’
“Grateful to me (for she had been standing long), the lute-girl sat down and quickly broke forth into another song, sad and soft, unlike the song of just now. Then all her hearers melted into tears unrestrained; and none flowed more freely than mine, until my bosom was wet with weeping.”
Perhaps the best known of all the works of Po Chü-i is a narrative poem of some length entitled “The Everlasting Wrong.” It refers to the ignominious downfall of the Emperor known as Ming Huang (A.D.685-762), who himself deserves a passing notice. At his accession to the throne in 712, he was called upon to face an attempton the part of his aunt, the T‘ai-p‘ing Princess, to displace him; but this he succeeded in crushing, and entered upon what promised to be a glorious reign. He began with economy, closing the silk factories and forbidding the palace ladies to wear jewels or embroideries, considerable quantities of which were actually burnt. Until 740 the country was fairly prosperous. The administration was improved, the empire was divided into fifteen provinces, and schools were established in every village. The Emperor was a patron of literature, and himself a poet of no mean capacity. He published an edition of the Classic of Filial Piety, and caused the text to be engraved on four tablets of stone,A.D.745. His love of war, however, and his growing extravagance, led to increased taxation. Fond of music, he founded a college for training youth of both sexes in this art. He surrounded himself by a brilliant Court, welcoming such men as the poet Li Po, at first for their talents alone, but afterwards for their readiness to participate in scenes of revelry and dissipation provided for the amusement of the Imperial concubine, the ever-famous Yang Kuei-fei. Eunuchs were appointed to official posts, and the grossest forms of religious superstition were encouraged. Women ceased to veil themselves as of old. Gradually the Emperor left off concerning himself with affairs of State; a serious rebellion broke out, and his Majesty sought safety in flight to Ssŭch‘uan, returning only after having abdicated in favour of his son. The accompanying poem describes the rise of Yang Kuei-fei, her tragic fate at the hands of the soldiery, and her subsequent communication with her heart-broken lover from the world of shadows beyond the grave:—
Ennui.—His Imperial Majesty, a slave to beauty,longed for a “subverter of empires;”[15]For years he had sought in vainto secure such a treasure for his palace....Beauty.—From the Yang family came a maiden,just grown up to womanhood,Reared in the inner apartments,altogether unknown to fame.But nature had amply endowed herwith a beauty hard to conceal,And one day she was summonedto a place at the monarch’s side.Her sparkling eye and merry laughterfascinated every beholder,And among the powder and paint of the haremher loveliness reigned supreme.In the chills of spring, by Imperial mandate,she bathed in the Hua-ch‘ing Pool,Laving her body in the glassy waveletsof the fountain perennially warm.Then, when she came forth, helped by attendants,her delicate and graceful movementsFinally gained for her gracious favour,captivating his Majesty’s heart.Revelry.—Hair like a cloud, face like a flower,headdress which quivered as she walked,Amid the delights of the Hibiscus Pavilionshe passed the soft spring nights.Spring nights, too short alas! for them,albeit prolonged till dawn,—From this time forth no more audiencesin the hours of early morn.Revels and feasts in quick succession,ever without a break,She chosen always for the spring excursion,chosen for the nightly carouse.Three thousand peerless beauties adornedthe apartments of the monarch’s harem,Yet always his Majesty reservedhis attentions for her alone.Passing her life in a “golden house,”[16]with fair girls to wait on her,She was daily wafted to ecstasyon the wine fumes of the banquet-hall.Her sisters and her brothers, one and all,were raised to the rank of nobles.Alas! for the ill-omened glorieswhich she conferred on her family.For thus it came about that fathers and mothersthrough the length and breadth of the empireRejoiced no longer over the birth of sons,but over the birth of daughters.In the gorgeous palacepiercing the grey clouds above,Divine music, borne on the breeze,is spread around on all sides;Of song and the danceto the guitar and flute,All through the live long day,his Majesty never tires.But suddenly comes the rollof the fish-skin war-drums,Breaking rudely upon the airof the “Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket.”Flight.—Clouds of dust envelopthe lofty gates of the capital.A thousand war-chariots and ten thousand horsesmove towards the south-west.Feathers and jewels among the throng,onwards and then a halt.A hundredlibeyond the western gate,leaving behind them the city walls,The soldiers refuse to advance;nothing remains to be doneUntil she of the moth-eyebrowsperishes in sight of all.On the ground lie gold ornamentswith no one to pick them up,Kingfisher wings, golden birds,and hairpins of costly jade.The monarch covers his face,powerless to save;And as he turns to look back,tears and blood flow mingled together.Exile.—Across vast stretches of yellow sandwith whistling winds,Across cloud-capped mountain-topsthey make their way.Few indeed are the travellerswho reach the heights of Mount Omi;The bright gleam of the standardsgrows fainter day by day.Dark the Ssŭch‘uan waters,dark the Ssŭch‘uan hills;Daily and nightly his Majestyis consumed by bitter grief.Travelling along, the very brightnessof the moon saddens his heart,And the sound of a bell through the evening rainsevers his viscera in twain.Return.—Time passes, days go by, and once againhe is there at the well-known spot,And there he lingers on, unableto tear himself wholly away.But from the clods of earthat the foot of the Ma-wei hill,No sign of her lovely face appears,only the place of death.The eyes of sovereign and minister meet,and robes are wet with tears,Eastward they depart and hurry onto the capital at full speed.Home.—There is the pool and there are the flowers,as of old.There is the hibiscus of the pavilion,there are the willows of the palace.In the hibiscus he sees her face,in the willow he sees her eyebrows:How in the presence of theseshould tears not flow,—In spring amid the flowersof the peach and plum,In autumn rains when the leavesof thewu t‘ungfall?To the south of the western palaceare many trees,And when their leaves cover the steps,no one now sweeps them away.The hair of the Pear-Garden musiciansis white as though with age;The guardians of the Pepper Chamber[17]seem to him no longer young.Where fireflies flit through the hall,he sits in silent grief;Alone, the lamp-wick burnt out,he is still unable to sleep.Slowly pass the watches,for the nights are now too long,And brightly shine the constellations,as though dawn would never come.Cold settles upon the duck-and-drake tiles,[18]and thick hoar-frost,The kingfisher coverlet is chill,with none to share its warmth.Parted by life and death,time still goes on,But never once does her spirit come backto visit him in dreams.Spirit-Land.—A Taoist priest of Lin-ch‘ung,of the Hung-tu school,Was able, by his perfect art, to summonthe spirits of the dead.Anxious to relieve the fretting mindof his sovereign,This magician receives ordersto urge a diligent quest.Borne on the clouds, charioted upon ether,he rushes with the speed of lightningHigh up to heaven, low down to earth,seeking everywhere.Above, he searches the empyrean;below, the Yellow Springs,But nowhere in these vast areascan her place be found.At length he hears of an Isle of the Blestaway in mid-ocean,Lying in realms of vacuity,dimly to be descried.There gaily decorated buildingsrise up like rainbow clouds,And there many gentle and beautiful Immortalspass their days in peace.Among them is one whose namesounds upon lips as Eternal,And by her snow-white skin and flower-like facehe knows that this is she.Knocking at the jade doorat the western gate of the golden palace,He bids a fair waiting-maid announce himto her mistress, fairer still.She, hearing of this embassysent by the Son of Heaven,Starts up from her dreamsamong the tapestry curtains.Grasping her clothes and pushing away the pillow,she arises in haste,And begins to adorn herselfwith pearls and jewels.Her cloud-like coiffure, dishevelled,shows that she has just risen from sleep,And with her flowery head-dress awry,she passes into the hall.The sleeves of her immortal robesare filled out by the breeze,As once more she seems to danceto the “Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket.”Her features are fixed and calm,though myriad tears fall,Wetting a spray of pear-bloom,as it were with the raindrops of spring.Subduing her emotions, restraining her grief,she tenders thanks to his Majesty,Saying how since they partedshe has missed his form and voice;And how, although their love on earthhas so soon come to an end,The days and months among the Blestare still of long duration.And now she turns and gazestowards the abode of mortals,But cannot discern the Imperial citylost in the dust and haze.Then she takes out the old keepsakes,tokens of undying love,A gold hairpin, an enamel brooch,and bids the magician carry these back.One half of the hairpin she keeps,and one half of the enamel brooch,Breaking with her hands the yellow gold,and dividing the enamel in two.“Tell him,” she said, “to be firm of heart,as this gold and enamel,And then in heaven or on earth belowwe two may meet once more.”At parting, she confided to the magicianmany earnest messages of love,Among the rest recalling a pledgemutually understood;How on the seventh day of the seventh moon,in the Hall of Immortality,At midnight, when none were near,he had whispered in her ear,“I swear that we will ever flylike the one-winged birds,[19]Or grow united like the treewith branches which twine together.”[20]Heaven and Earth, long-lasting as they are,will some day pass away;But this great wrong shall stretch out for ever,endless, for ever and ay.
Ennui.—His Imperial Majesty, a slave to beauty,longed for a “subverter of empires;”[15]For years he had sought in vainto secure such a treasure for his palace....
Beauty.—From the Yang family came a maiden,just grown up to womanhood,Reared in the inner apartments,altogether unknown to fame.But nature had amply endowed herwith a beauty hard to conceal,And one day she was summonedto a place at the monarch’s side.Her sparkling eye and merry laughterfascinated every beholder,And among the powder and paint of the haremher loveliness reigned supreme.In the chills of spring, by Imperial mandate,she bathed in the Hua-ch‘ing Pool,Laving her body in the glassy waveletsof the fountain perennially warm.Then, when she came forth, helped by attendants,her delicate and graceful movementsFinally gained for her gracious favour,captivating his Majesty’s heart.
Revelry.—Hair like a cloud, face like a flower,headdress which quivered as she walked,Amid the delights of the Hibiscus Pavilionshe passed the soft spring nights.Spring nights, too short alas! for them,albeit prolonged till dawn,—From this time forth no more audiencesin the hours of early morn.Revels and feasts in quick succession,ever without a break,She chosen always for the spring excursion,chosen for the nightly carouse.Three thousand peerless beauties adornedthe apartments of the monarch’s harem,Yet always his Majesty reservedhis attentions for her alone.Passing her life in a “golden house,”[16]with fair girls to wait on her,She was daily wafted to ecstasyon the wine fumes of the banquet-hall.Her sisters and her brothers, one and all,were raised to the rank of nobles.Alas! for the ill-omened glorieswhich she conferred on her family.For thus it came about that fathers and mothersthrough the length and breadth of the empireRejoiced no longer over the birth of sons,but over the birth of daughters.In the gorgeous palacepiercing the grey clouds above,Divine music, borne on the breeze,is spread around on all sides;Of song and the danceto the guitar and flute,All through the live long day,his Majesty never tires.But suddenly comes the rollof the fish-skin war-drums,Breaking rudely upon the airof the “Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket.”
Flight.—Clouds of dust envelopthe lofty gates of the capital.A thousand war-chariots and ten thousand horsesmove towards the south-west.Feathers and jewels among the throng,onwards and then a halt.A hundredlibeyond the western gate,leaving behind them the city walls,The soldiers refuse to advance;nothing remains to be doneUntil she of the moth-eyebrowsperishes in sight of all.On the ground lie gold ornamentswith no one to pick them up,Kingfisher wings, golden birds,and hairpins of costly jade.The monarch covers his face,powerless to save;And as he turns to look back,tears and blood flow mingled together.
Exile.—Across vast stretches of yellow sandwith whistling winds,Across cloud-capped mountain-topsthey make their way.Few indeed are the travellerswho reach the heights of Mount Omi;The bright gleam of the standardsgrows fainter day by day.Dark the Ssŭch‘uan waters,dark the Ssŭch‘uan hills;Daily and nightly his Majestyis consumed by bitter grief.Travelling along, the very brightnessof the moon saddens his heart,And the sound of a bell through the evening rainsevers his viscera in twain.
Return.—Time passes, days go by, and once againhe is there at the well-known spot,And there he lingers on, unableto tear himself wholly away.But from the clods of earthat the foot of the Ma-wei hill,No sign of her lovely face appears,only the place of death.The eyes of sovereign and minister meet,and robes are wet with tears,Eastward they depart and hurry onto the capital at full speed.
Home.—There is the pool and there are the flowers,as of old.There is the hibiscus of the pavilion,there are the willows of the palace.In the hibiscus he sees her face,in the willow he sees her eyebrows:How in the presence of theseshould tears not flow,—In spring amid the flowersof the peach and plum,In autumn rains when the leavesof thewu t‘ungfall?To the south of the western palaceare many trees,And when their leaves cover the steps,no one now sweeps them away.The hair of the Pear-Garden musiciansis white as though with age;The guardians of the Pepper Chamber[17]seem to him no longer young.Where fireflies flit through the hall,he sits in silent grief;Alone, the lamp-wick burnt out,he is still unable to sleep.Slowly pass the watches,for the nights are now too long,And brightly shine the constellations,as though dawn would never come.Cold settles upon the duck-and-drake tiles,[18]and thick hoar-frost,The kingfisher coverlet is chill,with none to share its warmth.Parted by life and death,time still goes on,But never once does her spirit come backto visit him in dreams.
Spirit-Land.—A Taoist priest of Lin-ch‘ung,of the Hung-tu school,Was able, by his perfect art, to summonthe spirits of the dead.Anxious to relieve the fretting mindof his sovereign,This magician receives ordersto urge a diligent quest.Borne on the clouds, charioted upon ether,he rushes with the speed of lightningHigh up to heaven, low down to earth,seeking everywhere.Above, he searches the empyrean;below, the Yellow Springs,But nowhere in these vast areascan her place be found.At length he hears of an Isle of the Blestaway in mid-ocean,Lying in realms of vacuity,dimly to be descried.There gaily decorated buildingsrise up like rainbow clouds,And there many gentle and beautiful Immortalspass their days in peace.Among them is one whose namesounds upon lips as Eternal,And by her snow-white skin and flower-like facehe knows that this is she.Knocking at the jade doorat the western gate of the golden palace,He bids a fair waiting-maid announce himto her mistress, fairer still.She, hearing of this embassysent by the Son of Heaven,Starts up from her dreamsamong the tapestry curtains.Grasping her clothes and pushing away the pillow,she arises in haste,And begins to adorn herselfwith pearls and jewels.Her cloud-like coiffure, dishevelled,shows that she has just risen from sleep,And with her flowery head-dress awry,she passes into the hall.The sleeves of her immortal robesare filled out by the breeze,As once more she seems to danceto the “Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket.”Her features are fixed and calm,though myriad tears fall,Wetting a spray of pear-bloom,as it were with the raindrops of spring.Subduing her emotions, restraining her grief,she tenders thanks to his Majesty,Saying how since they partedshe has missed his form and voice;And how, although their love on earthhas so soon come to an end,The days and months among the Blestare still of long duration.And now she turns and gazestowards the abode of mortals,But cannot discern the Imperial citylost in the dust and haze.Then she takes out the old keepsakes,tokens of undying love,A gold hairpin, an enamel brooch,and bids the magician carry these back.One half of the hairpin she keeps,and one half of the enamel brooch,Breaking with her hands the yellow gold,and dividing the enamel in two.“Tell him,” she said, “to be firm of heart,as this gold and enamel,And then in heaven or on earth belowwe two may meet once more.”At parting, she confided to the magicianmany earnest messages of love,Among the rest recalling a pledgemutually understood;How on the seventh day of the seventh moon,in the Hall of Immortality,At midnight, when none were near,he had whispered in her ear,“I swear that we will ever flylike the one-winged birds,[19]Or grow united like the treewith branches which twine together.”[20]Heaven and Earth, long-lasting as they are,will some day pass away;But this great wrong shall stretch out for ever,endless, for ever and ay.
LI HO
A precocious and short-lived poet wasLi Ho, of the ninth century. He began to write verses at the age of seven. Twenty years later he met a strange man riding on a hornless dragon, who said to him, “God Almighty has finished his Jade Pavilion, and has sent for you to be his secretary.” Shortly after this he died. The following is a specimen of his poetry:—
“With flowers on the ground like embroidery spread,At twenty, the soft glow of wine in my head,My white courser’s bit-tassels motionless gleamWhile the gold-threaded willow scent sweeps o’er the stream.Yet untilshehas smiled, all these flowers yield no ray;When her tresses fall down the whole landscape is gay;My hand on her sleeve as I gaze in her eyes,A kingfisher hairpin will soon be my prize.”
“With flowers on the ground like embroidery spread,At twenty, the soft glow of wine in my head,My white courser’s bit-tassels motionless gleamWhile the gold-threaded willow scent sweeps o’er the stream.Yet untilshehas smiled, all these flowers yield no ray;When her tresses fall down the whole landscape is gay;My hand on her sleeve as I gaze in her eyes,A kingfisher hairpin will soon be my prize.”
Chang Chi, who also flourished in the ninth century, was eighty years old when he died. He was on terms of close friendship with Han Yü, and like him, too, a vigorous opponent of both Buddhism and Taoism. The following is his most famous poem, the beauty of which, says a commentator, lies beyond the words:—
“Knowing, fair sir, my matrimonial thrall,Two pearls thou sentest me, costly withal.And I, seeing that Love thy heart possessed,I wrapped them coldly in my silken vest.“For mine is a household of high degree,My husband captain in the King’s army;And one with wit like thine should say,‘The troth of wives is for ever and ay.’“With thy two pearls I send thee back two tears:Tears—that we did not meet in earlier years.”
“Knowing, fair sir, my matrimonial thrall,Two pearls thou sentest me, costly withal.And I, seeing that Love thy heart possessed,I wrapped them coldly in my silken vest.
“For mine is a household of high degree,My husband captain in the King’s army;And one with wit like thine should say,‘The troth of wives is for ever and ay.’
“With thy two pearls I send thee back two tears:Tears—that we did not meet in earlier years.”
Many more poets of varying shades of excellence must here be set aside, their efforts often brightened by those quaint conceits which are so dear to the Chinese reader, but which approach so perilously near to bathos when they appear in foreign garb. A few specimens, torn from their setting, may perhaps have an interest of their own. Here is a lady complaining of the leaden-footed flight of time as marked by the water-clock:—
“It seems that the clepsydrahas been filled up with the sea,To make the long, long night appearan endless night to me!”
“It seems that the clepsydrahas been filled up with the sea,To make the long, long night appearan endless night to me!”
The second line in the next example is peculiarly characteristic:—
“Dusk comes, the east wind blows, and birdspipe forth a mournful sound;Petals, like nymphs from balconies,come tumbling to the ground.”
“Dusk comes, the east wind blows, and birdspipe forth a mournful sound;Petals, like nymphs from balconies,come tumbling to the ground.”
The next refers to candles burning in a room where two friends are having a last talk on the night before parting for a long period:—
“The very wax sheds sympathetic tears,And gutters sadly down till dawn appears.”
“The very wax sheds sympathetic tears,And gutters sadly down till dawn appears.”
This last is from a friend to a friend at a distance:—
“Ah, when shall we ever snuff candles again,And recall the glad hours of that evening of rain?”
“Ah, when shall we ever snuff candles again,And recall the glad hours of that evening of rain?”
LI SHÊ
A popular poet of the ninth century wasLi Shê, especially well known for the story of his capture by highwaymen. The chief knew him by name and called for a sample of his art, eliciting the following lines, which immediately secured his release:—
“The rainy mist sweeps gently o’er the village by the stream,When from the leafy forest glades the brigand daggers gleam....And yet there is no need to fear, nor step from out their way,For more than half the world consists of bigger rogues than they!”
“The rainy mist sweeps gently o’er the village by the stream,When from the leafy forest glades the brigand daggers gleam....And yet there is no need to fear, nor step from out their way,For more than half the world consists of bigger rogues than they!”
A popular physician in great request, as well as a poet, wasMa Tzŭ-Jan(d.A.D.880). He studied Taoism in a hostile sense, as would appear from the following poem by him; nevertheless, according to tradition, he was ultimately taken up to heaven alive:—
“In youth I went to studyTaoat its living fountain-head,And then lay tipsy half the day upon a gilded bed.‘What oaf is this,’ the Master cried, ‘content with human lot?’And bade me to the world get back and call myself a sot.But wherefore seek immortal life by means of wondrous pills?Noise is not in the market-place, nor quiet on the hills.The secret of perpetual youth is already known to me:Accept with philosophic calm whatever fate may be.”
“In youth I went to studyTaoat its living fountain-head,And then lay tipsy half the day upon a gilded bed.‘What oaf is this,’ the Master cried, ‘content with human lot?’And bade me to the world get back and call myself a sot.But wherefore seek immortal life by means of wondrous pills?Noise is not in the market-place, nor quiet on the hills.The secret of perpetual youth is already known to me:Accept with philosophic calm whatever fate may be.”
Hsü An-chên, of the ninth century, is entitled to a place among the T‘ang poets, if only for the following piece:—
“When the Bear athwart was lying,And the night was just on dying,And the moon was all but gone,How my thoughts did ramble on!“Then a sound of music breaksFrom a lute that some one wakes,And I know that it is she,The sweet maid next door to me.“And as the strains steal o’er meHer moth-eyebrows rise before me,And I feel a gentle thrillThat her fingers must be chill.“But doors and locks between usSo effectually screen usThat I hasten from the streetAnd in dreamland pray to meet.”
“When the Bear athwart was lying,And the night was just on dying,And the moon was all but gone,How my thoughts did ramble on!
“Then a sound of music breaksFrom a lute that some one wakes,And I know that it is she,The sweet maid next door to me.
“And as the strains steal o’er meHer moth-eyebrows rise before me,And I feel a gentle thrillThat her fingers must be chill.
“But doors and locks between usSo effectually screen usThat I hasten from the streetAnd in dreamland pray to meet.”
The following lines byTu Ch‘in-niang, a poetess of the ninth century, are included in a collection of 300 gems of the T‘ang dynasty:—
“I would not have thee grudge those robeswhich gleam in rich array,But I would have thee grudge the hoursof youth which glide away.Go, pluck the blooming flower betimes,lest when thou com’st againAlas! upon the withered stemno blooming flowers remain!”
“I would not have thee grudge those robeswhich gleam in rich array,But I would have thee grudge the hoursof youth which glide away.Go, pluck the blooming flower betimes,lest when thou com’st againAlas! upon the withered stemno blooming flowers remain!”
SSŬ-K‘UNG T‘U
It is time perhaps to bring to a close the long list, which might be almost indefinitely lengthened.Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u(A.D.834-908) was a secretary in the Board of Rites, but he threw up his post and became a hermit. Returning to Court in 905, he accidentally dropped part of his official insignia at an audience,—an unpardonable breach of Court etiquette,—and was allowed to retire once more to the hills, where he ultimately starved himself to death through grief at the murder of the youthful Emperor. He is commonly known as the Last of the T‘angs; his poetry, which is excessively difficult to understand, ranking correspondingly high in the estimation of Chinese critics. The following philosophical poem, consisting of twenty-four apparently unconnected stanzas, is admirably adapted to exhibit the form under which pure Taoism commends itself to the mind of a cultivated scholar:—
i.—Energy—Absolute.
“Expenditure of force leads to outward decay,Spiritual existence means inward fulness.Let us revert to Nothing and enter the Absolute,Hoarding up strength for Energy.Freighted with eternal principles,Athwart the mighty 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.”
“Expenditure of force leads to outward decay,Spiritual existence means inward fulness.Let us revert to Nothing and enter the Absolute,Hoarding up strength for Energy.Freighted with eternal principles,Athwart the mighty 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.”
ii.—Tranquil Repose.
“It dwells in quietude, speechless,Imperceptible in the cosmos,Watered by the eternal harmonies,Soaring with the lonely crane.It is like a gentle breeze in spring,Softly bellying the flowing robe;It is like the note of the bamboo flute,Whose sweetness we would fain make our own.Meeting by chance, it seems easy of access,Seeking, we find it hard to secure.Ever shifting in semblance,It shifts from the grasp and is gone.”
“It dwells in quietude, speechless,Imperceptible in the cosmos,Watered by the eternal harmonies,Soaring with the lonely crane.It is like a gentle breeze in spring,Softly bellying the flowing robe;It is like the note of the bamboo flute,Whose sweetness we would fain make our own.Meeting by chance, it seems easy of access,Seeking, we find it hard to secure.Ever shifting in semblance,It shifts from the grasp and is gone.”
iii.—Slim—Stout.
“Gathering the water-plantsFrom the wild luxuriance of spring,Away in the depth of a wild valleyAnon 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 forwardAs the reality grows upon me....’Tis the eternal themeWhich, though old, is ever new.”
“Gathering the water-plantsFrom the wild luxuriance of spring,Away in the depth of a wild valleyAnon 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 forwardAs the reality grows upon me....’Tis the eternal themeWhich, though old, is ever new.”
iv.—Concentration.
“Green pines and a rustic hut,The sun sinking through pure air,I take off my cap and stroll alone,Listening to the song of birds.No wild geese fly hither,And she is far away;But my thoughts make her presentAs in the days gone by.Across the water dark clouds are whirled,Beneath the moonbeams the eyots stand revealed,And sweet words are exchangedThough the great River rolls between.”
“Green pines and a rustic hut,The sun sinking through pure air,I take off my cap and stroll alone,Listening to the song of birds.No wild geese fly hither,And she is far away;But my thoughts make her presentAs in the days gone by.Across the water dark clouds are whirled,Beneath the moonbeams the eyots stand revealed,And sweet words are exchangedThough the great River rolls between.”
v.—Height—Antiquity.
“Lo the Immortal, borne by spirituality,His hand grasping a lotus flower,Away to Time everlasting,Trackless through the regions of Space!With the moon he issues from the Ladle,[21]Speeding upon a favourable gale;Below, Mount Hua looms dark,And from it sounds a clear-toned bell.Vacantly I gaze after his vanished image,Now passed beyond the bounds of mortality....Ah, the Yellow Emperor and Yao,They, peerless, are his models.”
“Lo the Immortal, borne by spirituality,His hand grasping a lotus flower,Away to Time everlasting,Trackless through the regions of Space!With the moon he issues from the Ladle,[21]Speeding upon a favourable gale;Below, Mount Hua looms dark,And from it sounds a clear-toned bell.Vacantly I gaze after his vanished image,Now passed beyond the bounds of mortality....Ah, the Yellow Emperor and Yao,They, peerless, are his models.”
vi.—Refinement.
“A jade kettle with a purchase of spring,[22]A shower on the thatched hutWherein sits a gentle scholar,With tall bamboos growing right and left,And white clouds in the newly-clear sky,And birds flitting in the depths of trees.Then pillowed on his lute in the green shade,A waterfall tumbling overhead,Leaves dropping, not a word spoken,The man placid, like a chrysanthemum,Noting down the flower-glory of the season,—A book well worthy to be read.”
“A jade kettle with a purchase of spring,[22]A shower on the thatched hutWherein sits a gentle scholar,With tall bamboos growing right and left,And white clouds in the newly-clear sky,And birds flitting in the depths of trees.Then pillowed on his lute in the green shade,A waterfall tumbling overhead,Leaves dropping, not a word spoken,The man placid, like a chrysanthemum,Noting down the flower-glory of the season,—A book well worthy to be read.”
vii.—Wash—Smelt.
“As iron from the mines,As silver from lead,So purify thy heart,Loving the limpid and clean.Like a clear pool in spring,With its wondrous mirrored shapes,So make for the spotless and true,And, riding the moonbeam, revert to the Spiritual.Let your gaze be upon the stars of heaven,[23]Let your song be of the hiding hermit;[23]Like flowing water is our to-day,Our yesterday, the bright moon.”[24]
“As iron from the mines,As silver from lead,So purify thy heart,Loving the limpid and clean.Like a clear pool in spring,With its wondrous mirrored shapes,So make for the spotless and true,And, riding the moonbeam, revert to the Spiritual.Let your gaze be upon the stars of heaven,[23]Let your song be of the hiding hermit;[23]Like flowing water is our to-day,Our yesterday, the bright moon.”[24]
viii.—Strength.
“The mind as though in the void,The vitality as though of the rainbow,Among the thousand-ell peaks of Wu,Flying with the clouds, racing with the wind;Drink of the spiritual, feed on force,Store them for daily use, guard them in your heart,Be like Him in His might,[25]For this is to preserve your energy;Be a peer of Heaven and Earth,A co-worker in Divine transformation....Seek to be full of these,And hold fast to them alway.”
“The mind as though in the void,The vitality as though of the rainbow,Among the thousand-ell peaks of Wu,Flying with the clouds, racing with the wind;Drink of the spiritual, feed on force,Store them for daily use, guard them in your heart,Be like Him in His might,[25]For this is to preserve your energy;Be a peer of Heaven and Earth,A co-worker in Divine transformation....Seek to be full of these,And hold fast to them alway.”
ix.—Embroideries.
“If the mind has wealth and rank,One may make light of yellow gold.Rich pleasures pall ere long,Simple joys deepen ever.A mist-cloud hanging on the river bank,Pink almond-flowers along the bough,A flower-girt cottage beneath the moon,A painted bridge half seen in shadow,A golden goblet brimming with wine,A friend with his hand on the lute....Take these and be content;They will swell thy heart beneath thy robe.”
“If the mind has wealth and rank,One may make light of yellow gold.Rich pleasures pall ere long,Simple joys deepen ever.A mist-cloud hanging on the river bank,Pink almond-flowers along the bough,A flower-girt cottage beneath the moon,A painted bridge half seen in shadow,A golden goblet brimming with wine,A friend with his hand on the lute....Take these and be content;They will swell thy heart beneath thy robe.”
x.—The Natural.
“Stoop, and there it is;Seek it not right and left.All roads lead thither,—One touch and you have spring![26]As though coming upon opening flowers,As though gazing upon the new year,Verily I will not snatch it,Forced, it will dwindle away.I will be like the hermit on the hill,Like duckweed gathered on the stream,[27]And when emotions crowd upon me,I will leave them to the harmonies of heaven.”
“Stoop, and there it is;Seek it not right and left.All roads lead thither,—One touch and you have spring![26]As though coming upon opening flowers,As though gazing upon the new year,Verily I will not snatch it,Forced, it will dwindle away.I will be like the hermit on the hill,Like duckweed gathered on the stream,[27]And when emotions crowd upon me,I will leave them to the harmonies of heaven.”
xi.—Set Free.
“Joying in flowers without let,Breathing the empyrean,ThroughTaoreverting to ether,And there to be wildly free,Wide-spreading as the wind of heaven,Lofty as the peaks of ocean,Filled with a spiritual strength,All creation by my side,Before me the sun, moon, and stars,The phœnix following behind.In the morning I whip up my leviathansAnd wash my feet in Fusang.”[28]
“Joying in flowers without let,Breathing the empyrean,ThroughTaoreverting to ether,And there to be wildly free,Wide-spreading as the wind of heaven,Lofty as the peaks of ocean,Filled with a spiritual strength,All creation by my side,Before me the sun, moon, and stars,The phœnix following behind.In the morning I whip up my leviathansAnd wash my feet in Fusang.”[28]
xii.—Conservation.