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 swellDo 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 embroideryAt the first call of Spring the fair young bride,On whom as yet Sorrow has laid no scar,Climbs the Kingfisher's Tower. SuddenlyShe 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 doorI would liefer follow the condorOr the seagull, soaring from ken,Than bury my godhead yonderIn 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 burnsThe tiny torch of dusk. What startled eyesUplifted from the restless stream first metThe full round glory of the moon! Yon orbThat pales upon the flood of broad Kiang,When did she first through twilight mists unveilHer wonders to the world?Men come and go;New generations hunger at the heelsOf those that yield possession. Still the moonFulfils her phases. While the tides of timeEat out the rocks of empire, and the starsOf human destiny adown the voidGo glittering to their doom, she changeless sweepsThrough 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 cloudThreading the vasty vault of heaven recallsMy heart unto her loneliness. I sailBetween two banks, where heavy boughs enlace,Whose verdurous luxuriance wakes once moreMy many griefs. None know me as I am,Steering to strange adventure. None may tellIf, steeped in the same moonlight, lies afarSome dim pavilion where my lady dreamsOf me. Ah, happy moon! low lingering moon!That with soft touch now brightens into jadeLintel and door, and when she lifts the blindFloats through the darkened chamber of her sleep;While leagues away my love-winged messagesGo flocking home; and though they mingle not,Our thoughts seek one another. In the liltOf winds I hear her whisper: "Oh that IMight melt into the moonbeams, and with themLeap through the void, and shed myself with themUpon my lover." Slow the night creeps on.Sleep harbours in the little room. She dreams —Dreams of a fall o' flowers. Alas! young SpringLies on the threshold of maternity,And still he comes not. Still the flowing streamSweeps on, but the swift torrents of green hoursAre licked into the brazen skies betweenTheir widening banks. The great deliberate moonNow leans toward the last resort of night,Gloom of the western waves. She dips her rim,She sinks, she founders in the mist; and stillThe stream flows on, and to the insatiate seaHurries her white-wave flocks innumerableIn never-ending tale. On such a nightHow many tireless travellers may attainThe happy goal of their desire! So dreamsMy lady till the moon goes down, and lo!A rush of troubled waters floods her soul,While black forebodings rise from deeps unknownAnd 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-mingHas for a thousand autumns borne the nameOf the Celestial Weaver. Like that starShe shines above the waters, wonderingAt her pale loveliness. Unnumbered wavesHave broidered with green moss the marble foldsAbout her feet. Toiling eternallyThey knock the stone, like tireless shuttles pliedUpon a sounding loom.Her pearly locksResemble snow-coils on the mountain top;Her eyebrows arch — the crescent moon. A smileLies in the opened lily of her face;And, since she breathes not, being stone, the birdsLight on her shoulders, flutter without fearAt her still breast. Immovable she standsBefore the shining mirror of her charmsAnd, gazing on their beauty, lets the yearsSlip into centuries past her. . . .
Po Chu-i
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 thoughtsI harboured, and in consequence have made a long poemwhich I intend to present to the court.
By night, beside the river, underneathThe flower-like maple leaves that bloom aloneIn autumn's silent revels of decay,We said farewell. The host, dismounting, spedThe 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 fellBeneath the cold bright moon the cold adieuOf fading friends — when suddenly beyondThe cradled waters stole the lullabyOf some faint lute; then host forgot to go,Guest lingered on: all, wondering at the spell,Besought the dim enchantress to revealHer presence; but the music died and gaveNo answer, dying. Then a boat shot forthTo 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 twiceShe faltered in her task; then tenderly,As for an old sad tale of hopeless years,With drooping head and fingers deft she pouredHer soul forth into melodies. Now slowThe 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 longPatter of pearls and seed-pearls on a dishOf marble; liquid now as from the bushWarbles the mango bird; meanderingNow as the streamlet seawards; voiceless nowAs the wild torrent in the strangling armsOf her ice-lover, lying motionless,Lulled in a passion far too deep for sound.Then as the water from the broken vaseGushes, or on the mailed horseman fallsThe anvil din of steel, as on the silkThe slash of rending, so upon the stringsHer plectrum fell. . . .Then silence over us.No sound broke the charmed air. The autumn moonSwam silver o'er the tide, as with a sighThe stranger stirred to go."I passed," said she,"My childhood in the capital; my homeWas near the hills. A girl of twelve, I learntThe magic of the lute, the passionateBlending of lute and voice that drew the soulsOf the great masters to acknowledgment;And lovely women, envious of my face,Bowed at the shrine in secret. The young lordsVied for a look's approval. One brief songBrought many costly bales. Gold ornamentsAnd silver pins were smashed and trodden down,And blood-red silken skirts were stained with wineIn oft-times echoing applause. And soI laughed my life away from year to yearWhile the spring breezes and the autumn moonCaressed my careless head. Then on a dayMy brother sought the battles in Kansuh;My mother died: nights passed and mornings came,And with them waned my beauty. Now no moreMy doors were thronged; few were the cavaliersThat lingered by my side; so I becameA trader's wife, the chattel of a slaveWhose lord was gold, who, parting, little reckedOf separation and the unhonoured bride.Since the tenth moon was full my husband wentTo where the tea-fields ripen. I remained,To wander in my little lonely boatOver the cold bright wave o' nights, and dreamOf the dead days, the haze of happy days,And see them set again in dreams and tears."
. . . . .
Already the sweet sorrows of her luteHad moved my soul to pity; now these wordsPierced me the heart. "O lady fair," I cried,"We are the vagrants of the world, and needNo ceremony to be friends. Last yearI left the Imperial City, banished farTo this plague-stricken spot, where desolationBroods on from year to heavy year, nor luteNor love's guitar is heard. By marshy bankGirt with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboosI 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 methinksThe gods were parents to thy music. SitAnd sing to us again, while I engraveThy story on my tablets!" Gratefully(For long she had been standing) the lute girlSat down and passed into another song,Sad and so soft, a dream, unlike the songOf now ago. Then all her hearers weptIn sorrow unrestrained; and I the more,Weeping until the pale chrysanthemumsUpon 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 ladyYang 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 annalstranslated into French by the Jesuit Father Joseph de Mailla in 1778.The Emperor is fleeing with a small, ill-disciplined forcebefore 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 timeA slave of beauty, ardently desiredThe 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 powerTo charm into pure gold the leaden hour;And through the paint and powder of the courtAll 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 waveWhose 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 bowerShe lingers through the soft spring nights —Nights too short, though wearing lateTill the mimosa days are born.Never more affairs of StateWake them in the early morn.Wine-stained moments on the wing,Moonlit hours go luting by,She who leads the flight of SpringLeads the midnight revelry.Flawless beauties, thousands three,Deck the Imperial harem,*Yet the monarch's eyes may seeOnly one, and one supreme.Goddess in a golden hall,Fairest maids around her gleam,Wine-fumes of the festivalDaily waft her into dream.Smiles she, and her sires are lords,Noble rank her brothers win:Ah, the ominous awardsShowered upon her kith and kin!For throughout the land there runsThought 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 breezeDraws the dreaming world to love.Song and dance and hands that swayThe passion of a thousand lyresEver 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 envelopingThe 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 cloudOnwards, and then an halt. The legions waitA 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 attainMount Omi's heights afar;And the bright gleam of their standard growsFaint as the last pale star.
Dark the Ssuch`uan waters loom,Dark the Ssuch`uan hills,And day and night the monarch's lifeAn endless sorrow fills.
The brightness of the foreign moonSaddens his lonely heart;And a sound of a bell in the evening rainDoth rend his soul apart.
Return
The days go by, and once again,Among the shadows of his pain,He lingers at the well-known placeThat holds the memory of her face.
But from the clouds of earth that lieBeneath the foot of tall Ma-weiNo 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 steedAs 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 treesShower 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,** nowNo longer young to him, the firefly flitsThrough 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 flowOf 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 compelThe spirits of the dead. So to relieveThe sorrows of his king, the man of TaoReceives an urgent summons. Borne aloftUpon 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 belowThe yellow springs; but nowhere in great spaceCan he find aught of her. At length he hearsAn old-world tale: an Island of the Blest* —So runs the legend — in mid-ocean liesIn realms of blue vacuity, too faintTo be described; there gaily coloured towersRise up like rainbow clouds, and many gentleAnd beautiful Immortals pass their daysIn peace. Among them there is one whose nameSounds upon lips as Eternal. By the bloomOf her white skin and flower-like face he knowsThat this is she. Knocking at the jade doorAt the western gate of the golden house, he bidsA fair maid breathe his name to one more fairThan all. She, hearing of this embassySent by the Son of Heaven, starts from her dreamsAmong the tapestry curtains. GatheringHer robes around her, letting the pillow fall,She, risen in haste, begins to deck herselfWith pearls and gems. Her cloud-like hair, dishevelled,Betrays the nearness of her sleep. And with the droopOf her flowery plumes in disarray, she floatsLight through the hall. The sleeves of her divineRaiment the breezes fill. As once againTo the Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket airShe seems to dance, her face is fixed and calm,Though many tear-drops on an almond boughFall, and recall the rains of spring. SubduedHer wild emotions and restrained her grief,She tenders thanks unto his Majesty,Saying how since they parted she has missedHis form and voice; how, though their love had reachedToo soon its earthly limit, yet amongThe blest a multitude of mellow noonsRemain ungathered. Turning now, she leansToward the land of the living, and in vainWould find the Imperial city, lost in the dustAnd haze. Then raising from their lacquered gloomOld keepsakes, tokens of undying love,A golden hair-pin, an enamel brooch,She bids him bear them to her lord. One-halfThe 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 thisGold and enamel; then, in heaven or earth,Below, we twain may meet once more." At partingShe 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 ImmortalityAt 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 boughsAre interwoven. Heaven and earth shall fall,Long lasting as they are. But this great wrongShall 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 gatheringInto a winding garden at the baseOf stormless waters; pines, deep blue, enlaceThe lessening slopes, and broken moonlight gleamsAcross 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 sereneHer 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 farWhose 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 withoutHas tottered into ruin, yet remainThe straggling fragments of some seven courts,The wreck of seven fortunes: roof and eavesStill hang together. From this chamber coolThe dense blue smoke arose. Nor heat nor coldNow dwells therein. A tall pavilion standsEmpty beside the empty rooms that faceThe pine-browed southern hills. Long purple vinesFrame the verandahs.Mount the sunken stepOf the red, joyous threshold, and shake downThe peach and cherry branches. Yonder groupOf scarlet peonies hath ringed aboutA lordly fellow with ten witnessesOf his official rank. The taint of meatLingers around the kitchen, and a traceOf vanished hoards the treasury retains.
. . . . .
Who can lay hold upon my words? Give heedAnd commune with thyself! How poor and meanIs the last state of wretchedness, when coldAnd famine thunder at the gates, and noneBut pale endurance on the threshold standsWith helpless hands and hollow eyes, the dumbBeholder of calamity. O thouThat would protect the land a thousand years,Behold they are not that herein once bloomedAnd 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 beOne 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 moonFades from the dawn's pursuit.The stirrup-fires beneath the terrace flare;Over the star-domed court a low, sad airRoams from a hidden lute.
This endless heat doth urge me to extremes;Yet cool of autumn waits till the wild goose screamsIn the track of whirling skies.My hand is laid upon the cup once more,And of the red-gold vintage I imploreThe 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 greetSpring'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 prideIn the sight of the flowers are laid aside.Bright, oh! bright are a thousand shades,Crimson splashes and slender bladesWith 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 wendsAlone 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 himWho 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 feelsAs, 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 storesOf 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 fadeInto 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, raiseHis eyes, upon the full-orbed moon to gaze —The old moon-palace that in ocean standsMid clouds of thistle-down and jewelled strands.
Springtide
The lonely convent on the hillDraws merchants faring from the west;Almost upon the waters stillThe quiet clouds lean down and rest.
In green pavilions of warm treesThe 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 gleamsHis fetlocks deep in pliant grass.
Beside the eastern lake there callsNo laughing throng, no lover goes;But in the long embankment wallsThe willow shade invites repose.
The Ancient Wind
The peach blooms open on the eastern wall —I breathe their fragrance, laughing in the glowOf golden noontide. Suddenly there comesThe revelation of the ancient wind,Flooding my soul with glory; till I feelOne with the brightness of the first far dawn,One with the many-coloured spring; and allThe secrets of the scented hearts of flowersAre whispered through me; till I cry aloud.Alas! how grey and scentless is the bloomOf mortal life! This — this alone I fear,That from yon twinkling mirror of delightThe unreal flowers may fade; that with the breathOf the fiery flying Dragon they will fallPetal 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 windsShall 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 hillsEncompass it; where in the dismal duskMoan the last sighs of sunset. Shrubs are gone,Withered the grass; all chill as the white rimeOf 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 deadOften upon the darkness of the nightGo wailing by."O sorrow! O ye Ch`ins!Ye Hans! ye dynasties for ever flown!Ye empires of the dust! for I have heardHow, when the Ch`is and Weis embattled roseAlong the frontier, when the Chings and HansGathered their multitudes, a myriad leaguesOf utter weariness they trod. By dayGrazing their jaded steeds, by night they fordThe hostile stream. The endless earth below,The boundless sky above, they know no dayOf their return. Their breasts are ever baredTo the pitiless steel and all the wounds of warUnspeakable.Methinks I see them now,Dust-mantled in the bitter wind, a hostOf Tartar warriors in ambuscade.Our leader scorns the foe. He would give battleUpon the threshold of the camp. The streamBesets a grim array where order reigns,Though many hearts may beat, where disciplineIs all, and life of no account.The spearNow works its iron will, the startled sandBlinding the combatants together lockedIn the death-grip; while hill and vale and streamGlow with the flash and crash of arms. Then coldThe shades of night o'erwhelm them; to the kneeIn snow, beards stiff with ice. The carrion birdHath sought its nest. The war-horse in its strengthIs broken. Clothes avail not. Hands are dead,Flesh to the frost succumbs. Nature herselfDoth aid the Tartar with a deadly blastFollowing the wild onslaught. Wagons blockThe way. Our men, beset with flank attacks,Surrender with their officers. Their chiefIs slain. The river to its topmost banksSwollen with death; the dykes of the Great WallBrimming with blood. Nation and rank are lostIn that vast-heaped corruption.Faintly now,And fainter beats the drum; for strength is shorn,And arrows spent, and bow-strings snapped, and swordsShattered. The legions fall on one anotherIn the last surge of life and death. To yieldIs to become a slave; to fight is butTo mingle with the desert sands.. . . . . . . No soundOf bird now flutters from the hushed hillside;All, all is still, save for the wind that wailsAnd whistles through the long night where the ghostsHither and thither in the gloom go by,And spirits from the nether world ariseUnder the ominous clouds. The sunlight palesAthwart the trampled grass; the fading moonStill twinkles on the frost-flakes scattered round.
Ssu-K`ung T`u
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 principlesAthwart the night's void,Where cloud masses darken,And the wind blows ceaseless around,Beyond the range of conceptionsLet 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, roamingThe wild dark valley through,Culls from the shining watersLilies and lotus blue.With leaves the peach-trees are laden,The wind sighs through the haze,And the willows wave their shadowsDown the oriole-haunted ways.As, passion-tranced, I follow,I hear the old refrainOf Spring's eternal story,That was old and is young again.
The Colour of Life
Would that we might for ever stayThe 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 streamThat 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 afraidOf 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 flutterThe silken skirts hath blown,As the wind-drawn note of the bamboo fluteWhose 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 seesA 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 spheresWhose orbits round a thousand years:Behold the Key that fits my theme.
Ou-Yang Hsiu of Lu-ling
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 soundFrom the south-west. I listened, wondering,As on it crept: at first a gentle sigh,Like as a spirit passing; then it swelledInto the roaring of great waves that smiteThe broken vanguard of the cliff: the rageOf storm-black tigers in the startled nightAmong the jackals of the wind and rain.It burst upon the hanging bell, and setThe silver pendants chattering. It seemedA muffled march of soldiers hurriedlySped to the night attack with muffled mouths,When no command is heard, only the trampOf men and horses onward. "Boy," said I,"What sound is that? Go forth and see." My boy,Returning, answered, "Lord! the moon and allHer stars shine fair; the silver river spansThe 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 coldPitiless autumn of the wrack and mist,Autumn, the season of the cloudless sky,Autumn, of biting blasts, the time of blightAnd desolation; following the chillStir of disaster, with a shout it leapsUpon us. All the gorgeous pageantryOf green is changed. All the proud foliageOf the crested forests is shorn, and shrivels downBeneath the blade of ice. For this is Autumn,Nature's chief executioner. It takesThe darkness for a symbol. It assumesThe temper of proven steel. Its symbol isA sharpened sword. The avenging fiend, it ridesUpon an atmosphere of death. As Spring,Mother of many-coloured birth, doth rearThe young light-hearted world, so Autumn drainsThe 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 fallIn their due season. Sorrow cannot keepThe plants from fading. Stay! there yet is man —Man, the divinest of all things, whose heartHath known the shipwreck of a thousand hopes,Who bears a hundred wrinkled tragediesUpon the parchment of his brow, whose soulStrange cares have lined and interlined, untilBeneath the burden of life his inmost selfBows down. And swifter still he seeks decayWhen groping for the unattainableOr grieving over continents unknown.Then come the snows of time. Are they not due?Is man of adamant he should outlastThe giants of the grove? Yet after allWho is it that saps his strength save man alone?Tell me, O boy, by what imagined rightMan doth accuse his Autumn blast?" My boySlumbered and answered not. The cricket gaveThe 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 keepThe purple cerements of sleep,Thy dim beloved formPassed from the sunshine warm,From the corrupting earth, that sought to holdIts 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 eglantineWeaves 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 starGlow in thy gloom, and naught is heard but the farChanting of woodman and shepherd from the hill,Naught but the startled bird is seenSoaring away in the moonland sheen,Or the hulk of the scampering beast that fearsTheir plaintive lays as, to and fro,The pallid singers go.Such is thy loneliness. A thousand years,Haply ten thousand, hence the fox shall makeHis fastness in thy tomb, the weasel takeHer young to thy dim sanctuary. Such is the lotFor ever of the great and wise,Whose tombs around us rise;Man honours where the grave remembers not.Ah! that a song could bringPeace 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.)