THE METHOD OF TRANSLATION

After long illness one first realizes that seeking medicines is a mistake;In one’s decaying years one begins to repent that one’s study of books was deferred.

This device, used with some discretion in T’ang, becomes an irritating trick in the hands of the Sung poets.

[1]Not to be confused with the Four Tones of the Mandarin dialect, in which the old names are used to describe quite different enunciations.

The Odes.—From the songs current in his day Confucius (551-479B.C.) chose about three hundred which he regarded as suitable texts for his ethical and social teaching. Many of them are eulogies of good rulers or criticisms of bad ones. Out of the three hundred and five still extant only about thirty are likely to interest the modern reader. Of these half deal with war and half with love. Many translations exist, the best being those of Legge in English and of Couvreur in French. There is still room for an English translation displaying more sensitivity to word-rhythm than that of Legge. It should not, I think, include more than fifty poems. But the Odes are essentiallylyricpoetry, and their beauty lies in effects which cannot be reproduced in English. For that reason I have excluded them from this book; nor shall I discuss them further here, for full information will be found in the works of Legge or Couvreur.

Elegies of the Land of Ch’u.—We come next to Ch’ü Yüan (third centuryB.C.) whose famous poem “Li Sao,”or “Falling into Trouble,” has also been translated by Legge. It deals, under a love-allegory, with the relation between the writer and his king. In this poem, sex and politics are curiously interwoven, as we need not doubt they were in Chü Yüan’s own mind. He affords a striking example of the way in which abnormal mentality imposes itself. We find his followers unsuccessfully attempting to use the same imagery and rhapsodical verbiage, not realizing that these were, as De Goncourt would say, the product of their master’spropre névrosité.

“The Battle,” his one thoroughly intelligible poem, has hitherto been only very imperfectly translated. A literal version will be found on p.23.

His nephew Sung Yü was no servile imitator. In addition to “elegies” in the style of the Li Sao, he was the author of many “Fu” or descriptive prose-poems, unrhymed but more or less metrical.

The Han Dynasty.—Most of the Han poems in this book were intended to be sung. Many of them are from the official song-book of the dynasty and are known as Yo Fu or Music Bureau poems, as distinct fromshih, which were recited. Ch’in Chia’s poem and his wife’s reply (p.54) are bothshih; but all the rest might, I think, be counted as songs.

The Han dynasty is rich in Fu (descriptions), but none of them could be adequately translated. They are written in an elaborate and florid style which recalls Apuleius or Lyly.

The Chin Dynasty.

(1)Popular Songs(Songs of Wu). The popular songs referred to the Wu (Soochow) district and attributed to thefourth century may many of them have been current at a much earlier date. They are slight in content and deal with only one topic. They may, in fact, be called “Love-epigrams.” They find a close parallel in thecoplasof Spain,cf.:

El candil se esta apagando,La alcuza no tiene aceite—No te digo que te vayas, ...No te digo que te quedes.The brazier is going out,The lamp has no more oil—I do not tell you to go, ...I do not tell you to stay.

El candil se esta apagando,La alcuza no tiene aceite—No te digo que te vayas, ...No te digo que te quedes.

The brazier is going out,The lamp has no more oil—I do not tell you to go, ...I do not tell you to stay.

A Han song, which I will translate quite literally, seems to be the forerunner of the Wu songs.

On two sides of river, wedding made:Time comes; no boat.Lusting heart loses hopeNot seeing what-it-desires.

(2)The Taoists.—Confucius inculcated the duty of public service. Those to whom this duty was repulsive found support in Taoism, a system which denied this obligation. The third and fourth centuriesA.D.witnessed a great reaction against state service. It occurred to the intellectuals of China that they would be happier growing vegetables in their gardens than place-hunting at Nanking. They embraced the theory that “by bringing himself into harmony with Nature” man can escape every evil. Thus Tao (Nature’s Way) corresponds to the Nirvana of Buddhism, and the God of Christian mysticism.

They reduced to the simplest standard their houses, apparel, and food; and discarded the load of book-learning which Confucianism imposed on its adherents.

The greatest of these recluses was T’ao Ch’ien (A.D.365-427), twelve of whose poems will be found on p.71,seq.Something of his philosophy may be gathered from the poem “Substance, Shadow, and Spirit” (p.73), his own views being voiced by the last speaker. He was not an original thinker, but a great poet who reflects in an interesting way the outlook of his time.

Liang and Minor Dynasties.—This period is known as that of the “Northern and Southern Courts.” The north of China was in the hands of the Tungusie Tartars, who founded the Northern Wei dynasty—a name particularly familiar, since it is the habit of European collectors to attribute to this dynasty any sculpture which they believe to be earlier than T’ang. Little poetry was produced in the conquered provinces; the Tartar emperors, though they patronized Buddhist art, were incapable of promoting literature. But at Nanking a series of emperors ruled, most of whom distinguished themselves either in painting or poetry. The Chinese have always (and rightly) despised the literature of this period, which is “all flowers and moonlight.” A few individual writers, such as Pao Chao, stand out as exceptions.The Emperor Yüan-ti—who hacked his way to the throne by murdering all other claimants, including his own brother—is typical of the period both as a man and as a poet. A specimen of his sentimental poetry will be found on p.90. When at last forced to abdicate, he heaped together 200,000 books and pictures; and, setting fire to them, exclaimed: “The culture of the Liang dynasty perishes with me.”

T’ang.—I have already described the technical developments of poetry during this dynasty. Form was at thistime valued far above content. “Poetry,” says a critic, “should draw its materials from the Han and Wei dynasties.” With the exception of a few reformers, writers contented themselves with clothing old themes in new forms. The extent to which this is true can of course only be realized by one thoroughly familiar with the earlier poetry.

In the main, T’ang confines itself to a narrow range of stock subjects. Themise-en-scèneis borrowed from earlier times. If a battle-poem be written, it deals with the campaigns of the Han dynasty, not with contemporary events. The “deserted concubines” of conventional love-poetry are those of the Han Court. Innumerable poems record “Reflections on Visiting a Ruin,” or on “The Site of an Old City,” etc. The details are ingeniously varied, but the sentiments are in each case identical. Another feature is the excessive use of historical allusions. This is usually not apparent in rhymed translations, which evade such references by the substitution of generalities. Poetry became the medium not for the expression of a poet’s emotions, but for the display of his classical attainments. The great Li Po is no exception to this rule. Often where his translators would make us suppose he is expressing a fancy of his own, he is in reality skilfully utilizing some poem by T’ao Ch’ien or Hsieh Ti’ao. It is for his versification that he is admired, and with justice. He represents a reaction against the formal prosody of his immediate predecessors. It was in the irregular song-metres of hisku-shihthat he excelled. In such poems as the “Ssech’uan Road,” with its wild profusion of long and short lines, its cataract of exotic verbiage, he aimed at something nearer akin to music than to poetry. Tu Fu, his contemporary, occasionally abandoned the cult of “abstract form.” Both poetslived through the most tragic period of Chinese history. In 755 the Emperor’s Turkic favourite, An Lu-shan, revolted against his master. A civil war followed, in which China lost thirty million men. The dynasty was permanently enfeebled and the Empire greatly curtailed by foreign incursions. So ended the “Golden Age” of Ming Huang. Tu Fu, stirred by the horror of massacres and conscriptions, wrote a series of poems in the old style, which Po Chü-i singles out for praise. One of them, “The Press-gang,” is familiar in Giles’s translation. Li Po, meanwhile, was writing complimentary poems on the Emperor’s “Tour in the West”—a journey which was in reality a precipitate flight from his enemies.

Sung.—In regard to content the Sung poets show even less originality than their predecessors. Their whole energy was devoted towards inventing formal restrictions. The “tz’ŭ” developed, a species of song in lines of irregular length, written in strophes, each of which must conform to a strict pattern of tones and rhymes. The content of the “tz’ŭ” is generally wholly conventional. Very few have been translated; and it is obvious that they are unsuitable for translation, since their whole merit lies in metrical dexterity. Examples by the poetess Li I-an will be found in the second edition of Judith Gautier’s “Livre de Jade.” The poetry of Su Tung-p’o, the foremost writer of the period, is in its matter almost wholly a patchwork of earlier poems. It is for the musical qualities of his verse that he is valued by his countrymen. He hardly wrote a poem which does not contain a phrase (sometimes a whole line) borrowed from Po Chü-i, for whom in his critical writings he expresses boundless admiration.

A word must be said of the Fu (descriptive prose-poems) of this time. They resemble thevers libresof modern France, using rhyme occasionally (like Georges Duhamel) as a means of “sonner, rouler, quand il faut faire donner les cuivres et la batterie.” Of this nature is the magnificent “Autumn Dirge” (Giles, “Chinese Lit.,” p. 215) by Ou-yang Hsiu, whose lyric poetry is of small interest. The subsequent periods need not much concern us. In the eighteenth century the garrulous Yüan Mei wrote his “Anecdotes of Poetry-making”—a book which, while one of the most charming in the language, probably contains more bad poetry (chiefly that of his friends) than any in the world. His own poems are modelled on Po Chü-i and Su Tung-p’o.

This introduction is intended for the general reader. I have therefore stated my views simply and categorically, and without entering into controversies which are of interest only to a few specialists.

As an account of the development of Chinese poetry these notes are necessarily incomplete, but it is hoped that they answer some of those questions which a reader would be most likely to ask.

It is commonly asserted that poetry, when literally translated, ceases to be poetry. This is often true, and I have for that reason not attempted to translate many poems which in the original have pleased me quite as much as those I have selected. But I present the ones I have chosen in the belief that they still retain the essential characteristics of poetry.

I have aimed at literal translation, not paraphrase. It may be perfectly legitimate for a poet to borrow foreign themes or material, but this should not be called translation.

Above all, considering imagery to be the soul of poetry, I have avoided either adding images of my own or suppressing those of the original.

Any literal translation of Chinese poetry is bound to be to some extent rhythmical, for the rhythm of the original obtrudes itself. Translating literally, without thinking about the metre of the version, one finds that about two lines out of three have a very definite swing similar to that of the Chinese lines. The remaining lines are just too short or too long, a circumstance very irritating to the reader, whose ear expects the rhythm to continue. I have therefore tried to produce regular rhythmic effects similar to those of the original. Each character in the Chinese is represented by a stress in the English; but between the stresses unstressed syllables are of course interposed. In a few instances where the English insisted on being shorter thanthe Chinese, I have preferred to vary the metre of my version, rather than pad out the line with unnecessary verbiage.

I have not used rhyme because it is impossible to produce in English rhyme-effects at all similar to those of the original, where the same rhyme sometimes runs through a whole poem. Also, because the restrictions of rhyme necessarily injure either the vigour of one’s language or the literalness of one’s version. I do not, at any rate, know of any example to the contrary. What is generally known as “blank verse” is the worst medium for translating Chinese poetry, because the essence of blank verse is that it varies the position of its pauses, whereas in Chinese the stop always comes at the end of the couplet.

1. H. A. Giles, “Chinese Poetry in English Verse.” 1896. 212 pp. Combines rhyme and literalness with wonderful dexterity.

2. Hervey St. Denys, “Poésies des Thang.” 1862. 301 pp. The choice of poems would have been very different if the author had selected from the whole range of T’ang poetry, instead of contenting himself, except in the case of Li Po and Tu Fu, with making extracts from two late anthologies. This book, the work of a great scholar, is reliable—except in its information about Chinese prosody.

3. Judith Gautier, “Le Livre de Jade.” 1867 and 1908. It has been difficult to compare these renderings with the original, for proper names are throughout distorted or interchanged. For example, part of a poem by Po Chü-iaboutYang T’ai-chēn is here given as a complete poem and ascribed to “Yan-Ta-Tchen” as author. The poet Han Yü figures as Heu-Yu; T’ao Han as Sao Nan, etc. Such mistakes are evidently due to faulty decipherment of someone else’s writing. Nevertheless, the book is far more readable than that of St. Denys, and shows a wider acquaintance with Chinese poetry on the part of whoever chose the poems. Most of the credit for this selection must certainly be given to Ting Tun-ling, theliteratuswhom Théophile Gautier befriended. But the credit for the beauty of these often erroneous renderings must go to Mademoiselle Gautier herself.

4. Anna von Bernhardi, in “Mitteil d. Seminar f. Orient. Sprachen,” 1912, 1915, and 1916. Two articles on T’ao Ch’ien and one on Li Po. All valuable, though not free from mistakes.

5. Zottoli, “Cursus Litteraturae Sinicae.” 1886. Chinese text with Latin translation. Vol. V deals with poetry. None of the poems is earlier than T’ang. The Latin is seldom intelligible without reference to the Chinese. Translators have obviously used Zottoli as a text. Out of eighteen Sung poems in Giles’s book, sixteen will be found in Zottoli.

6. A. Pfizmaier, two articles (1886 and 1887) on Po Chü-i in “Denkschr. d. Kais. Ak. in Wien.” So full of mistakes as to be ofvery little value, except in so far as they served to call the attention of the European reader to this poet.

7. L. Woitsch, “Aus den Gedichten Po Chü-i’s.” 1908. 76 pp. A prose rendering with Chinese text of about forty poems, not very well selected. The translations, though inaccurate, are a great advance on Pfizmaier.

8. E. von Zachs, “Lexicographische Beiträge.” Vols. ii and iv. Re-translation of two poems previously mistranslated by Pfizmaier.

9. S. Imbault-Huart, “La Poésie Chinoise du 14 au 19 siècle.” 1886. 93 pp.

10. S. Imbault-Huart, “Un Poète Chinois du 18 Siècle.” (Yüan Mei.) Journ. of China Branch, Royal As. Soc., N.S., vol. xix, part 2, 42 pp.

11. S. Imbault-Huart, “Poésies Modernes.” 1892. 46 pp.

12. A. Forke, “Blüthen Chinesischer Dichtung.” 1899. Rhymed versions of Li Po and pre-T’ang poems.

A fuller bibliography will be found in Cordier’s “Bibliotheca Sinica.”

By Ch’ü Yüan (332-295B.C.), author of the famous poem “Li Sao,” or “Falling into Trouble.” Finding that he could not influence the conduct of his prince, he drowned himself in the river Mi-lo. The modern Dragon Boat Festival is supposed to be in his honour.

“We grasp our battle-spears: we don our breast-plates of hide.The axles of our chariots touch: our short swords meet.Standards obscure the sun: the foe roll up like clouds.Arrows fall thick: the warriors press forward.They menace our ranks: they break our line.The left-hand trace-horse is dead: the one on the right is smitten.The fallen horses block our wheels: they impede the yoke-horses!”They grasp their jade drum-sticks: they beat the sounding drums.Heaven decrees their fall: the dread Powers are angry.The warriors are all dead: they lie on the moor-field.They issued but shall not enter: they went but shall not return.The plains are flat and wide: the way home is long.Their swords lie beside them: their black bows, in their hand.Though their limbs were torn, their hearts could not be repressed.They were more than brave: they were inspired with the spirit of “Wu.”[2]Steadfast to the end, they could not be daunted.Their bodies were stricken, but their souls have taken Immortality—Captains among the ghosts, heroes among the dead.

They grasp their jade drum-sticks: they beat the sounding drums.Heaven decrees their fall: the dread Powers are angry.

The warriors are all dead: they lie on the moor-field.They issued but shall not enter: they went but shall not return.The plains are flat and wide: the way home is long.

Their swords lie beside them: their black bows, in their hand.Though their limbs were torn, their hearts could not be repressed.They were more than brave: they were inspired with the spirit of “Wu.”[2]Steadfast to the end, they could not be daunted.Their bodies were stricken, but their souls have taken Immortality—Captains among the ghosts, heroes among the dead.

[2]I.e., military genius.

A “fu,” or prose-poem, by Sung Yü (fourth centuryB.C.), nephew of Ch’ü Yüan.

Hsiang, king of Ch’u, was feasting in the Orchid-tower Palace, with Sung Yü and Ching Ch’ai to wait upon him. A gust of wind blew in and the king bared his breast to meet it, saying: “How pleasant a thing is this wind which I share with the common people.” Sung Yü answered: “This is the Great King’s wind. The common people cannot share it.” The king said: “Wind is a spirit of Heaven and Earth. It comes wide spread and does not choose between noble and base or between high and low. How can you say ‘This is the king’s wind’?” Sung answered: “I have heard it taught that in the crooked lemon-tree birds make their nests and to empty spaces winds fly. But the wind-spirit that comes to different things is not the same.” The king said: “Where is the wind born?” andSung answered: “The wind is born in the ground. It rises in the extremities of the green p’ing-flower. It pours into the river-valleys and rages at the mouth of the pass. It follows the rolling flanks of Mount T’ai and dances beneath the pine-trees and cypresses. In gusty bouts it whirls. It rushes in fiery anger. It rumbles low with a noise like thunder, tearing down rocks and trees, smiting forests and grasses.

“But at last abating, it spreads abroad, seeks empty places and crosses the threshold of rooms. And so growing gentler and clearer, it changes and is dispersed and dies.

“It is this cool clear Man-Wind that, freeing itself, falls and rises till it climbs the high walls of the Castle and enters the gardens of the Inner Palace. It bends the flowers and leaves with its breath. It wanders among the osmanthus and pepper-trees. It lingers over the fretted face of the pond, to steal the soul of the hibiscus. It touches the willow leaves and scatters the fragrant herbs. Then it pauses in the courtyard and turning to the North goes up to the Jade Hall, shakes the hanging curtains and lightly passes into the inner room.

“And so it becomes the Great King’s wind.

“Now such a wind is fresh and sweet to breathe and its gentle murmuring cures the diseases of men, blows away the stupor of wine, sharpens sight and hearing and refreshes the body. This is what is called the Great King’s wind.”

The king said: “You have well described it. Now tell me of the common people’s wind.” Sung said: “The common people’s wind rises from narrow lanes and streets, carrying clouds of dust. Rushing to empty spaces it attacks the gateway, scatters the dust-heap, sends the cinders flying, pokes among foul and rotting things, till at last it entersthe tiled windows and reaches the rooms of the cottage. Now this wind is heavy and turgid, oppressing man’s heart. It brings fever to his body, ulcers to his lips and dimness to his eyes. It shakes him with coughing; it kills him before his time.

“Such is the Woman-wind of the common people.”

The following is a sample of Sung Yü’s prose:

By Sung Yü (third centuryB.C.)

One day when the Chamberlain, master Tēng-t’u, was in attendance at the Palace he warned the King against Sung Yü, saying: “Yü is a man of handsome features and calm bearing and his tongue is prompt with subtle sentences. Moreover, his character is licentious. I would submit that your Majesty is ill-advised in allowing him to follow you into the Queen’s apartments.” The King repeated Tēng-t’u’s words to Sung Yü. Yü replied: “My beauty of face and calmness of bearing were given me by Heaven. Subtlety of speech I learnt from my teachers. As for my character, I deny that it is licentious.” The King said: “Can you substantiate your statement that you are not licentious? If you cannot, you must leave the Court.” Sung Yü said: “Of all the women in the world, the most beautiful are the women of the land of Ch’u. And in all the land of Ch’u there are none like the women of my own village. And in my village there are none that can be compared with the girl next door.

“The girl next door would be too tall if an inch were added to her height, and too short if an inch were taken away. Another grain of powder would make her too pale; another touch of rouge would make her too red. Her eyebrows are like the plumage of the kingfisher, her flesh is like snow. Her waist is like a roll of new silk, her teeth are like little shells. A single one of her smiles would perturb the whole city of Yang and derange the suburb of Hsia-ts’ai.[3]For three years this lady has been climbing the garden wall and peeping at me, yet I have never succumbed.

“How different is the behaviour of master Tēng-t’u! His wife has a wooly head and misshapen ears; projecting teeth irregularly set; a crook in her back and a halt in her gait. Moreover, she has running sores in front and behind.

“Yet Tēng-t’u fell in love with her and caused her to bear him five children.

“I would have your Majesty consider which of us is the debauchee.”

Sung Yü was not dismissed from court.

[3]Fashionable quarters in the capital of Ch’u state.

Anon. (first centuryB.C.)

To be an orphan,To be fated to be an orphan.How bitter is this lot!When my father and mother were aliveI used to ride in a carriageWith four fine horses.But when they both died,My brother and sister-in-lawSent me out to be a merchant.In the south I travelled to the “Nine Rivers”And in the east as far as Ch’i and Lu.At the end of the year when I came homeI dared not tell them what I had suffered—Of the lice and vermin in my head,Of the dust in my face and eyes.My brother told me to get ready the dinner.My sister-in-law told me to see after the horses.I was always going up into the hallAnd running down again to the parlour.My tears fell like rain.In the morning they sent me to draw water,I didn’t get back till night-fall.My hands were all soreAnd I had no shoes.I walked the cold earthTreading on thorns and brambles.As I stopped to pull out the thorns,How bitter my heart was!My tears fell and fellAnd I went on sobbing and sobbing.In winter I have no great-coat;Nor in summer, thin clothes.It is no pleasure to be alive.I had rather quickly leave the earthAnd go beneath the Yellow Springs.[4]The April winds blowAnd the grass is growing green.In the third month—silkworms and mulberries,In the sixth month—the melon-harvest.I went out with the melon-cartAnd just as I was coming homeThe melon-cart turned over.The people who came to help me were few,But the people who ate the melons were many,All they left me was the stalks—To take home as fast as I could.My brother and sister-in-law were harsh,They asked me all sorts of awful questions.Why does everyone in the village hate me?I want to write a letter and send itTo my mother and father under the earth,And tell them I can’t go on any longerLiving with my brother and sister-in-law.

To be an orphan,To be fated to be an orphan.How bitter is this lot!When my father and mother were aliveI used to ride in a carriageWith four fine horses.

But when they both died,My brother and sister-in-lawSent me out to be a merchant.In the south I travelled to the “Nine Rivers”And in the east as far as Ch’i and Lu.At the end of the year when I came homeI dared not tell them what I had suffered—Of the lice and vermin in my head,Of the dust in my face and eyes.My brother told me to get ready the dinner.My sister-in-law told me to see after the horses.I was always going up into the hallAnd running down again to the parlour.My tears fell like rain.

In the morning they sent me to draw water,I didn’t get back till night-fall.My hands were all soreAnd I had no shoes.I walked the cold earthTreading on thorns and brambles.As I stopped to pull out the thorns,How bitter my heart was!My tears fell and fellAnd I went on sobbing and sobbing.In winter I have no great-coat;Nor in summer, thin clothes.It is no pleasure to be alive.I had rather quickly leave the earthAnd go beneath the Yellow Springs.[4]The April winds blowAnd the grass is growing green.In the third month—silkworms and mulberries,In the sixth month—the melon-harvest.I went out with the melon-cartAnd just as I was coming homeThe melon-cart turned over.The people who came to help me were few,But the people who ate the melons were many,All they left me was the stalks—To take home as fast as I could.My brother and sister-in-law were harsh,They asked me all sorts of awful questions.Why does everyone in the village hate me?I want to write a letter and send itTo my mother and father under the earth,And tell them I can’t go on any longerLiving with my brother and sister-in-law.

[4]Hades.

She had been ill for years and years;She sent for me to say something.She couldn’t say what she wantedBecause of the tears that kept coming of themselves.“I have burdened you with orphan children,With orphan children two or three.Don’t let our children go hungry or cold;If they do wrong, don’t slap or beat them.When you take out the baby, rock it in your arms.Don’t forget to do that.”Last she said,“When I carried them in my arms they had no clothesAnd now their jackets have no linings.”[She dies.I shut the doors and barred the windowsAnd left the motherless children.When I got to the market and met my friends, I wept.I sat down and could not go with them.I asked them to buy some cakes for my children.In the presence of my friends I sobbed and cried.I tried not to grieve, but sorrow would not cease.I felt in my pocket and gave my friends some money.When I got home I found my childrenCalling to be taken into their mother’s arms.I walked up and down in the empty roomThis way and that a long while.Then I went away from it and said to myself“I will forget and never speak of her again.”

I shut the doors and barred the windowsAnd left the motherless children.When I got to the market and met my friends, I wept.I sat down and could not go with them.I asked them to buy some cakes for my children.In the presence of my friends I sobbed and cried.I tried not to grieve, but sorrow would not cease.I felt in my pocket and gave my friends some money.When I got home I found my childrenCalling to be taken into their mother’s arms.I walked up and down in the empty roomThis way and that a long while.Then I went away from it and said to myself“I will forget and never speak of her again.”

Anon. (first centuryB.C.)

In the eastern quarter dawn breaks, the stars flicker pale.The morning cock at Ju-nan mounts the wall and crows.The songs are over, the clock[5]run down, but still the feast is set.The moon grows dim and the stars are few; morning has come to the world.At a thousand gates and ten thousand doors the fish-shaped keys turn;Round the Palace and up by the Castle, the crows and magpies are flying.

[5]A water-clock.

Anon. (first centuryB.C.)

We go to the Golden Palace:We set out the jade cups.We summon the honoured guestsTo enter at the Golden Gate.They enter at the Golden GateAnd go to the Golden Hall.In the Eastern Kitchen the meat is sliced and ready—Roast beef and boiled pork and mutton.The Master of the Feast hands round the wine.The harp-players sound their clear chords.The cups are pushed aside and we face each other at chess:The rival pawns are marshalled rank against rank.The fire glows and the smoke puffs and curls;From the incense-burner rises a delicate fragrance.The clear wine has made our cheeks red;Round the table joy and peace prevail.May those who shared in this day’s delightThrough countless autumns enjoy like felicity.

The cups are pushed aside and we face each other at chess:The rival pawns are marshalled rank against rank.The fire glows and the smoke puffs and curls;From the incense-burner rises a delicate fragrance.The clear wine has made our cheeks red;Round the table joy and peace prevail.May those who shared in this day’s delightThrough countless autumns enjoy like felicity.

At fifteen I went with the army,At fourscore I came home.On the way I met a man from the village,I asked him who there was at home.“That over there is your house,All covered over with trees and bushes.”Rabbits had run in at the dog-hole,Pheasants flew down from the beams of the roof.In the courtyard was growing some wild grain;And by the well, some wild mallows.I’ll boil the grain and make porridge,I’ll pluck the mallows and make soup.Soup and porridge are both cooked,But there is no one to eat them with.I went out and looked towards the east,While tears fell and wetted my clothes.

In a narrow road where there was not room to passMy carriage met the carriage of a young man.And while his axle was touching my axleIn the narrow road I asked him where he lived.“The place where I live is easy enough to find,Easy to find and difficult to forget.The gates of my house are built of yellow gold,The hall of my house is paved with white jade,On the hall table flagons of wine are set,I have summoned to serve me dancers of Han-tan.[6]In the midst of the courtyard grows a cassia-tree,—And candles on its branches flaring away in the night.”

[6]Capital of the kingdom of Chao, where the people were famous for their beauty.

Anon. (circa124B.C.)

They fought south of the Castle,They died north of the wall.They died in the moors and were not buried.Their flesh was the food of crows.“Tell the crows we are not afraid;We have died in the moors and cannot be buried.Crows, how can our bodies escape you?”The waters flowed deepAnd the rushes in the pool were dark.The riders fought and were slain:Their horses wander neighing.By the bridge there was a house.[7]Was it south, was it north?The harvest was never gathered.How can we give you your offerings?You served your Prince faithfully,Though all in vain.I think of you, faithful soldiers;Your service shall not be forgotten.For in the morning you went out to battleAnd at night you did not return.

[7]There is no trace of it left. This passage describes the havoc of war. The harvest has not been gathered: therefore corn-offerings cannot be made to the spirits of the dead.

Anon. (first centuryB.C.).A poor man determines to go out into the world and make his fortune. His wife tries to detain him.

Anon. (first centuryB.C.).

A poor man determines to go out into the world and make his fortune. His wife tries to detain him.

I went out at the eastern gate:I never thought to return.But I came back to the gate with my heart full of sorrow.There was not a peck of rice in the bin:There was not a coat hanging on the pegs.So I took my sword and went towards the gate.My wife and child clutched at my coat and wept:“Some people want to be rich and grand:I only want to share my porridge with you.Above, we have the blue waves of the sky:Below, the yellow face of this little child.”“Dear wife, I cannot stay.Soon it will be too late.When one is growing oldOne cannot put things off.”

I went out at the eastern gate:I never thought to return.But I came back to the gate with my heart full of sorrow.

There was not a peck of rice in the bin:There was not a coat hanging on the pegs.So I took my sword and went towards the gate.My wife and child clutched at my coat and wept:“Some people want to be rich and grand:I only want to share my porridge with you.Above, we have the blue waves of the sky:Below, the yellow face of this little child.”“Dear wife, I cannot stay.Soon it will be too late.When one is growing oldOne cannot put things off.”

Anon. (first centuryB.C.)

She went up the mountain to pluck wild herbs;She came down the mountain and met her former husband.She knelt down and asked her former husband“What do you find your new wife like?”“My new wife, although her talk is clever,Cannot charm me as my old wife could.In beauty of face there is not much to choose.But in usefulness they are not at all alike.My new wife comes in from the road to meet me;My old wife always came down from her tower.My new wife is clever at embroidering silk;My old wife was good at plain sewing.Of silk embroidery one can do an inch a day;Of plain sewing, more than five feet.Putting her silks by the side of your sewing,I see that the new will not compare with the old.”

My love is livingTo the south of the Great Sea.What shall I send to greet him?Two pearls and a comb of tortoise-shell:I’ll send them to him packed in a box of jade.They tell me he is not true:They tell me he dashed my box to the ground,Dashed it to the ground and burnt itAnd scattered its ashes to the wind.From this day to the ends of timeI must never think of him,Never again think of him.The cocks are crowing,And the dogs are barking—My brother and his wife will soon know.[8]The autumn wind is blowing;The morning wind is sighing.In a moment the sun will rise in the eastAnd thenittoo will know.

[8]I.e., about her engagement being broken off.

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