Beauty's Fatal Snare[23]

[20]The Tien Mountains; in many books of geography erroneously described as Tien-Shan Mountains.

[21]According to Chinese mythology, the top of the Tien Mountains touch heaven and are the abode of the genii.

[22]May the Star of Happiness accompany you to the end of the journey.

BY LI HAN-LIN

T'ang Dynasty

The ravens roost upon the towers of Su,While revels reign within the Court of Wu;The rustic Si-Shi with her peerless face,Her slender form, her witching smile and grace.Inflamed by wine, she now begins to singThe songs of Wu to please the fatuous king;And in the dance of Tsu she subtly blendsAll rhythmic movements to her sensuous ends.Si-Shi o'er Wu her spell has surely cast,The King of Yüeh has snared his foe at last;With wine, and song, and dance, the hours fly by:The water-clock[24]has dripped till almost dry.Behind the hills appears the flush of dawn,Beyond the river sinks the moon forlorn;And now the sun climbs up the towers of Su;What of the revellers in the Halls of Wu!

The ravens roost upon the towers of Su,While revels reign within the Court of Wu;The rustic Si-Shi with her peerless face,Her slender form, her witching smile and grace.

Inflamed by wine, she now begins to singThe songs of Wu to please the fatuous king;And in the dance of Tsu she subtly blendsAll rhythmic movements to her sensuous ends.

Si-Shi o'er Wu her spell has surely cast,The King of Yüeh has snared his foe at last;With wine, and song, and dance, the hours fly by:The water-clock[24]has dripped till almost dry.

Behind the hills appears the flush of dawn,Beyond the river sinks the moon forlorn;And now the sun climbs up the towers of Su;What of the revellers in the Halls of Wu!

[23]The Prince of Yüeh wishing to ruin his rival, the Prince of Wu, presented to him a very beautiful girl, named Si-Shi, who had been taught all feminine accomplishments. Fu-Ch'a, the Prince of Wu, fell into the snare, and besotted by dissolute pleasures, became an easy victim to the Prince of Yüeh who annexed the State of Wu to his own dominions. After his defeat Fu-Ch'a committed suicide.

[24]Time was measured by the clepsydra, and the expression indicates that the night was far spent and dawn near.

BY MENG HAO-RAN

T'ang Dynasty(a.d.618-905)

The daylight fades behind the Western Mountains,And in the east is seen the rising moon,Which faintly mirrored in the garden fountainsForetells that night and dreams are coming soon.With window open—hair unloosed and flowing,[25]I lie in restful ease upon my bed;The evening breeze across the lilies blowingWith fragrant coolness falls upon my head.And in the solemn stillness—all-prevailing,The fall of dewdrops from the tall bamboos—Which grow in graceful rows along the railing—Sounds through the silence soft as dove's faint coos.On such an eve as this I would be singing,And playing plaintive tunes upon the lute,And thus to mind old friends and pleasures bringing;But none are here to join with harp and flute!So in a pleasant stillness I lie dreamingOf bygone days and trusty friends of old,Among whom Sin-tze's[26]happy face is beaming;I would my thoughts could now to him be told.

The daylight fades behind the Western Mountains,And in the east is seen the rising moon,Which faintly mirrored in the garden fountainsForetells that night and dreams are coming soon.

With window open—hair unloosed and flowing,[25]I lie in restful ease upon my bed;The evening breeze across the lilies blowingWith fragrant coolness falls upon my head.

And in the solemn stillness—all-prevailing,The fall of dewdrops from the tall bamboos—Which grow in graceful rows along the railing—Sounds through the silence soft as dove's faint coos.

On such an eve as this I would be singing,And playing plaintive tunes upon the lute,And thus to mind old friends and pleasures bringing;But none are here to join with harp and flute!

So in a pleasant stillness I lie dreamingOf bygone days and trusty friends of old,Among whom Sin-tze's[26]happy face is beaming;I would my thoughts could now to him be told.

[25]In ancient times the hair was worn long and knotted on the top of the head.

[26]The name of a genial companion of earlier days.

BY TSING-NIEN

Tsing Dynasty

The sun is sinking in the sky,It scarcely reaches a flagstaff high;And now the pretty flower-girl daresCome out to sell her fragile wares.Her voice rings out a message sweet,As on she trips with lightsome feet,To buy her musk and jessamine,Her violets and white eglantine.And the fresh perfumes of her flowers,After last night's refreshing showers,Borne on the gentle breeze soon findAn entrance through my lattice blind.The windows of the rich and greatAre opened wide, and heads, ornateWith glossy hair and jewels bright,Are thrust forth in the evening lightOf the setting sun, whose shadow fallsOn the straight lines of brick-built walls,By which men marked the time of day[28]Ere clocks and watches came their way.And many flowers of beauteous hue,Still sparkling with the morning dew,Are bought by ladies rich and fair,To deck their deep black lustrous hair.

[27]A modern poem composed by a successful student at a Government Examination.

[28]Formerly the time of day was roughly ascertained by such means.

BY EO YANG SIU

Song Dynasty

Posted to a distant mountain region,The old Lang-Kwan,[29]grown grey in honest work,Oft wandered through the valleys rough and drearyIn search of treasures which might therein lurk.One day, growing in a sheltered corner,He found a red-flowered pear-tree in full bloom,And before it stood transfixed with wonder,As when a dazzling brightness shines through gloom.Wondering how so fair a plant could flourishAway from genial clime and native earth,Circled by a thousand mist-clad mountains,And far from fragrant trees of kindred birth.High its beauty-laden branches risingAbove the gaudy brambles trailing there,Standing lonely in its perfect grandeur,With none, alas! to view the picture rare.Save the vernal breeze which strips its blossomsAnd blows them open, year by year, again;Or the feathered tribes of mountain rangesIn search of shelter from the mist or rain.Showing it has braved the storms for ages,Its roots are curved and knotted with the fight;Yet the Lang-Kwan is the first of mankindTo look with pleasure on so fair a sight.Drinking in the wealth of dewy fragrance,He walked around the tree for many hours,But held by reverential love and wonder,He durst not raise a hand to pluck the flowers.To himself the old man murmured gently,I wish I could remove the tree from hereTo grace the garden of the King's demesne,And find a royal consort for its peer.Such a task, alas! would be much harderThan the long and toilsome journey of Chang-K`an,[30]When he brought the beautiful pomegranateFrom Western regions to the Land of Han.

Posted to a distant mountain region,The old Lang-Kwan,[29]grown grey in honest work,Oft wandered through the valleys rough and drearyIn search of treasures which might therein lurk.

One day, growing in a sheltered corner,He found a red-flowered pear-tree in full bloom,And before it stood transfixed with wonder,As when a dazzling brightness shines through gloom.

Wondering how so fair a plant could flourishAway from genial clime and native earth,Circled by a thousand mist-clad mountains,And far from fragrant trees of kindred birth.

High its beauty-laden branches risingAbove the gaudy brambles trailing there,Standing lonely in its perfect grandeur,With none, alas! to view the picture rare.

Save the vernal breeze which strips its blossomsAnd blows them open, year by year, again;Or the feathered tribes of mountain rangesIn search of shelter from the mist or rain.

Showing it has braved the storms for ages,Its roots are curved and knotted with the fight;Yet the Lang-Kwan is the first of mankindTo look with pleasure on so fair a sight.

Drinking in the wealth of dewy fragrance,He walked around the tree for many hours,But held by reverential love and wonder,He durst not raise a hand to pluck the flowers.

To himself the old man murmured gently,I wish I could remove the tree from hereTo grace the garden of the King's demesne,And find a royal consort for its peer.

Such a task, alas! would be much harderThan the long and toilsome journey of Chang-K`an,[30]When he brought the beautiful pomegranateFrom Western regions to the Land of Han.

[29]A District Magistrate in ancient times.

[30]Chang-K`an, or Chang-K`ien, a Minister of the Emperor Wu of the Han Dynasty. In this poem it is said that he brought the pomegranate to China, but other writers say the grape-vine.

BY HAN-CHONG

(Ancient)

As Southern birds avoid a Northern snare,My kin avoid alliances with thine;And though my love for thee would greatly dare,I know our clans the marriage would decline.I would have followed thee, but evil talkBesmirched our names and sent us far apart;But why the world its love of slander balk?'Tis evil fate that has despoiled my heart!I wept for thee and mourned for three long years,As mourns the phoenix when her consort's dead;And then death came and ended grief and tears;For after thee no other could I wed.And now you stand before my grave and grieve,My wraith's permitted for a moment's space,The confines of the Spirit land to leaveAnd visit earth to see thee face to face.And, oh believe, though quick we part once more,And in the body cannot meet and love,Our souls are one till life and time are o'er,And we united in the realms above.

As Southern birds avoid a Northern snare,My kin avoid alliances with thine;And though my love for thee would greatly dare,I know our clans the marriage would decline.

I would have followed thee, but evil talkBesmirched our names and sent us far apart;But why the world its love of slander balk?'Tis evil fate that has despoiled my heart!

I wept for thee and mourned for three long years,As mourns the phoenix when her consort's dead;And then death came and ended grief and tears;For after thee no other could I wed.

And now you stand before my grave and grieve,My wraith's permitted for a moment's space,The confines of the Spirit land to leaveAnd visit earth to see thee face to face.

And, oh believe, though quick we part once more,And in the body cannot meet and love,Our souls are one till life and time are o'er,And we united in the realms above.

[31]Tze-Yuh, daughter of Fu-Chai, Prince of the Wu State, and Han-Chong loved each other and wished to marry, but political feuds prevented their union. Thereupon Han-Chong travelled abroad, and Tze-Yuh, after three years of fruitless mourning, died of grief. When Han-Chong returned and visited Tze-Yuh's grave to mourn there, he had a vision of her beautiful face, which inspired him to compose this song.

BY TAO TSIEN

T'sin Dynasty

For thirty years I read, and mused, and wrote,Or idly angled from my fishing-boat;Or wandered through the woods, or climbed the hills,Listening to songsters and to murmuring rills;Or sauntering in my garden talked with flowers,As friend with friend, for many happy hours;Or working in my fields ablaze with golden grain,And herbs and fruits which keep life clean and sane.Far from the busy mart and huckstering crowd,Striving for gold or place with brawlings loud,—From youth to middle age I've passed my daysMidst flowers and fields hearing what Nature says.And now, alas! I'm on this boat and boundFor far King-chow, with rank and office crowned;To village home and friends I've bid farewell,And of life's peace, I fear, I've tolled the knell.From off the shore a pleasant breeze now blows,And on and on the placid river flows;While the pale shining of the Queen of NightFloods the great universe with silvery light.I cannot sleep, the future weights my mind,The calls of office—cares of every kindOppress me with a sense of coming woes—A forlorn hope against unnumbered foes!I fain would tune my harp and ballads sing,Some comfort to my sinking heart to bring;But such poor solace even is denied—My hands are nerveless and my tongue is tied.How can I leave my former happy lifeTo mingle in ambition's worldly strife!What care I for the spoils of rank and power,The petty triumphs of the passing hour!My office I'll resign and homeward turnTo till my farm beside the rippling burn,Where I in happy freedom may once moreThe Muses and the Book of Nature pore.There in my rustic lodge in leisure time,I'll cherish every thought and scene sublime,And following still the teachers of my youthA name I'll build upon eternal truth.

For thirty years I read, and mused, and wrote,Or idly angled from my fishing-boat;Or wandered through the woods, or climbed the hills,Listening to songsters and to murmuring rills;

Or sauntering in my garden talked with flowers,As friend with friend, for many happy hours;Or working in my fields ablaze with golden grain,And herbs and fruits which keep life clean and sane.

Far from the busy mart and huckstering crowd,Striving for gold or place with brawlings loud,—From youth to middle age I've passed my daysMidst flowers and fields hearing what Nature says.

And now, alas! I'm on this boat and boundFor far King-chow, with rank and office crowned;To village home and friends I've bid farewell,And of life's peace, I fear, I've tolled the knell.

From off the shore a pleasant breeze now blows,And on and on the placid river flows;While the pale shining of the Queen of NightFloods the great universe with silvery light.

I cannot sleep, the future weights my mind,The calls of office—cares of every kindOppress me with a sense of coming woes—A forlorn hope against unnumbered foes!

I fain would tune my harp and ballads sing,Some comfort to my sinking heart to bring;But such poor solace even is denied—My hands are nerveless and my tongue is tied.

How can I leave my former happy lifeTo mingle in ambition's worldly strife!What care I for the spoils of rank and power,The petty triumphs of the passing hour!

My office I'll resign and homeward turnTo till my farm beside the rippling burn,Where I in happy freedom may once moreThe Muses and the Book of Nature pore.

There in my rustic lodge in leisure time,I'll cherish every thought and scene sublime,And following still the teachers of my youthA name I'll build upon eternal truth.

BY WEI YING-WUH

T'ang Dynasty

In a far-off fragrant gardenGrows a tree of beauty rare,Whose reflection on the brookletMakes a vision fair.But when now I see this vision,Heart and mind are wrung with grief,Mourning hours of blissful meeting—Every hour too brief.Rich as ever is the foliage,Opal clouds the shimmering boughs,And the dewy leaves still glistenWhile the sun allows.But, alas, Her presence lacking,What are all such things to me!She will never more be pluckingBlossoms from this tree.Here beside the brook are tracesOf her light and gladsome feet;But again we two shall neverIn this garden meet.

In a far-off fragrant gardenGrows a tree of beauty rare,Whose reflection on the brookletMakes a vision fair.

But when now I see this vision,Heart and mind are wrung with grief,Mourning hours of blissful meeting—Every hour too brief.

Rich as ever is the foliage,Opal clouds the shimmering boughs,And the dewy leaves still glistenWhile the sun allows.

But, alas, Her presence lacking,What are all such things to me!She will never more be pluckingBlossoms from this tree.

Here beside the brook are tracesOf her light and gladsome feet;But again we two shall neverIn this garden meet.

BY LUH FANG-WENG

Three days it snowed on Chang-an[32]plain,With drifts the Pass[33]was stacked;The iron cows[34]could not be moved,The dew-pans[35]froze and cracked.A traveller of handsome mien,And clad in white foxskin,With curled moustache and strong of limb,Came to the Pao-chan[36]inn.At night he supped and drank full wellUntil he soundly slept;But in the early dawn he wokeAnd on his strong horse leapt.Then riding through the drifts of snowHe reached the South Range bare,And hunted for a tiger fierceWhich long had 'scaped the snare.And when the crafty beast was met,An arrow from his bowTransfixed its bounding body huge,And reddened deep the snow.With dying strength it beat the air,And uttered piercing yells,Which shook the hills and forest trees,And echoed through the dells.The carcase then he draggèd backAlong a crowded course;The bones a pillow frame supplied,The skin adorned his horse.But when confusion fills the land,And peace is under ban,Why don't such men of might come forthTo help the King of Han!

Three days it snowed on Chang-an[32]plain,With drifts the Pass[33]was stacked;The iron cows[34]could not be moved,The dew-pans[35]froze and cracked.

A traveller of handsome mien,And clad in white foxskin,With curled moustache and strong of limb,Came to the Pao-chan[36]inn.

At night he supped and drank full wellUntil he soundly slept;But in the early dawn he wokeAnd on his strong horse leapt.

Then riding through the drifts of snowHe reached the South Range bare,And hunted for a tiger fierceWhich long had 'scaped the snare.

And when the crafty beast was met,An arrow from his bowTransfixed its bounding body huge,And reddened deep the snow.

With dying strength it beat the air,And uttered piercing yells,Which shook the hills and forest trees,And echoed through the dells.

The carcase then he draggèd backAlong a crowded course;The bones a pillow frame supplied,The skin adorned his horse.

But when confusion fills the land,And peace is under ban,Why don't such men of might come forthTo help the King of Han!

[32]Now Si-ngan, the provincial capital of Shen-si, but in the Han Dynasty the capital of China.

[33]A very important mountain pass near Si-ngan.

[34]Vessels used in the conservancy of the Yellow River.

[35]Pans to hold dew, which was collected to provide the Emperor Wu of the Han Dynasty with bathing-and drinking-water and thus promote longevity.

[36]'The Precious Hairpin,' merely the sign of the inn.

BY CHANG WEN-CHANG

T'ang Dynasty(618-905b.c.)

The temple courts with grasses rank abound,And birds throng in the forest trees around;But pilgrims few, though tablets still remain,Come to the shrine while revolutions reign.The mice climb through the curtains—full of holes,And thick dust overspreads the broidered stoles;The temple pool in gloomy blackness liesTo which the sleeping dragon[37]sometimes hies.

The temple courts with grasses rank abound,And birds throng in the forest trees around;But pilgrims few, though tablets still remain,Come to the shrine while revolutions reign.

The mice climb through the curtains—full of holes,And thick dust overspreads the broidered stoles;The temple pool in gloomy blackness liesTo which the sleeping dragon[37]sometimes hies.

[37]The meaning of this expression is not clear; it has a political signification.

BY SU-WU[38]

Han Dynasty, or earlier

My dear wife, you and I have been as one,No doubt has marred the faith, which love has won,Our chief desire throughout the married stateHas been of love and joy to give and take.But now, alas! the joy of Spring departs,And sorrow's shafts must enter both our hearts;I cannot sleep; I must arise and seeThe time; ah me, how quick the hours do flee!Awake, my dearest, for the stars have set,The grief of parting must be bravely met;And yet the dreary marches weight my mind,—As through defiles and desert plains they wind.And then, at last, the awful battle-field,Where I must fight and naught to foemen yield;But, oh! the bitter, paralysing pain—To think that we may never meet again!I must let fall the long restrainèd tearsAs, clasping hands, you calm my anxious fears;If not, my heart will break with sighs repressedTo hear your love so tenderly confessed.But courage, we will think of Young Love's day,And all the pleasures which therein did stay;And this shall cheer me on the toilsome road,And help you here to bear your weary load.Then with what joy we shall renew our life,When I return safe from the dreadful strife;But if, alas! the Fates should death decree,My spirit shall for ever live with thee.

My dear wife, you and I have been as one,No doubt has marred the faith, which love has won,Our chief desire throughout the married stateHas been of love and joy to give and take.

But now, alas! the joy of Spring departs,And sorrow's shafts must enter both our hearts;I cannot sleep; I must arise and seeThe time; ah me, how quick the hours do flee!

Awake, my dearest, for the stars have set,The grief of parting must be bravely met;And yet the dreary marches weight my mind,—As through defiles and desert plains they wind.

And then, at last, the awful battle-field,Where I must fight and naught to foemen yield;But, oh! the bitter, paralysing pain—To think that we may never meet again!

I must let fall the long restrainèd tearsAs, clasping hands, you calm my anxious fears;If not, my heart will break with sighs repressedTo hear your love so tenderly confessed.

But courage, we will think of Young Love's day,And all the pleasures which therein did stay;And this shall cheer me on the toilsome road,And help you here to bear your weary load.

Then with what joy we shall renew our life,When I return safe from the dreadful strife;But if, alas! the Fates should death decree,My spirit shall for ever live with thee.

[38]Chinese commentators regard this poem as Su's farewell to his own wife, written when he was sent on an expedition to the land of the Hsiung-nu, where he was captured and kept in captivity for many years.

BY TU FU

T'ang Dynasty

The setting sun beneath the red-lined clouds,Which mass around the foot-hills in the west,Still floods the valley with a rose-hued light,And lures the chirping birds to seek their rest.The wayworn traveller pauses near the gate,From which he sallied forth so long ago;Unconscious then of what Fate held in store—The years of separation, loss, and woe.The neighbours press around the garden fence,And gaze with mouth agape, or quietly sigh;While wife and children awestruck, rigid stand,And then tears flow and to his arms they fly.'For years on revolution's waves I've tossed,While wife and bairns mourned me in hopeless plight;And now to-night, as in a dream, I sitWith all my loved ones 'neath the lamp's bright light.'

The setting sun beneath the red-lined clouds,Which mass around the foot-hills in the west,Still floods the valley with a rose-hued light,And lures the chirping birds to seek their rest.

The wayworn traveller pauses near the gate,From which he sallied forth so long ago;Unconscious then of what Fate held in store—The years of separation, loss, and woe.

The neighbours press around the garden fence,And gaze with mouth agape, or quietly sigh;While wife and children awestruck, rigid stand,And then tears flow and to his arms they fly.

'For years on revolution's waves I've tossed,While wife and bairns mourned me in hopeless plight;And now to-night, as in a dream, I sitWith all my loved ones 'neath the lamp's bright light.'

BY LI-SHANG-YIN

T'ang Dynasty

On these pleasant hills residing,Far from worldly din and strife,Leisurely with nature living,Here I pass a happy life.Gently wave the bamboo copses,Fanned by evening breezes light;While the flowers and moon-beams mingleIn the ghostly hours of night.Through ravines the waters gurgle,Stemmed by scattered rock and stone;Round the bends the footpath wanders—By the mosses overgrown.Here with friends and habits simple,And a cup of generous wine,Fingering lute and old songs singing—For no other heaven I pine.

On these pleasant hills residing,Far from worldly din and strife,Leisurely with nature living,Here I pass a happy life.

Gently wave the bamboo copses,Fanned by evening breezes light;While the flowers and moon-beams mingleIn the ghostly hours of night.

Through ravines the waters gurgle,Stemmed by scattered rock and stone;Round the bends the footpath wanders—By the mosses overgrown.

Here with friends and habits simple,And a cup of generous wine,Fingering lute and old songs singing—For no other heaven I pine.

BY SU-SHIH

In my boat I sat alone,And the hours were fast in flight,When the sound of music brokeThe stillness of the night.Sighing winds through fir-trees swept,Falling cascades murmured low,As the master touched his lute—So lovingly and slow.Clutching fast my lapelled coat,Rapture swayed me without bounds,As with every nerve intent,I listened to the sounds.Yet again I longed to hearAncient chimes on jadestone bell,Drawn forth by the Master's handFrom lute he loved so well.Since the days of Chen and Wei,[39]When confusion filled the land,Music rare of ancient styleHas found but scant demand.Times and instruments alike,For a thousand years and more,Silent and forgotten lay,And few the loss deplore!One alone—the priceless lute—Change and storm and wreck survives,Watching nations rise and wane,As god of mortal lives.Music old is now decried,Light songs and ditties sought,Strains insipid, jerky turns,Light and crispy wrought.Instruments of wood remain,Void of human feelings sweet,Which the soul of ancient songNever more may greet.Peaceful is the river now,Moon-beams play upon the scene,From the ceaseless din of lifeNight provides a pleasant screen.In the silence of this hour,Will you, Master, yet once more,Wen-wang's[40]melodies revive,As in the days of yore?

In my boat I sat alone,And the hours were fast in flight,When the sound of music brokeThe stillness of the night.

Sighing winds through fir-trees swept,Falling cascades murmured low,As the master touched his lute—So lovingly and slow.

Clutching fast my lapelled coat,Rapture swayed me without bounds,As with every nerve intent,I listened to the sounds.

Yet again I longed to hearAncient chimes on jadestone bell,Drawn forth by the Master's handFrom lute he loved so well.

Since the days of Chen and Wei,[39]When confusion filled the land,Music rare of ancient styleHas found but scant demand.

Times and instruments alike,For a thousand years and more,Silent and forgotten lay,And few the loss deplore!

One alone—the priceless lute—Change and storm and wreck survives,Watching nations rise and wane,As god of mortal lives.

Music old is now decried,Light songs and ditties sought,Strains insipid, jerky turns,Light and crispy wrought.

Instruments of wood remain,Void of human feelings sweet,Which the soul of ancient songNever more may greet.

Peaceful is the river now,Moon-beams play upon the scene,From the ceaseless din of lifeNight provides a pleasant screen.

In the silence of this hour,Will you, Master, yet once more,Wen-wang's[40]melodies revive,As in the days of yore?

[39]The Wei and Ch'en Dynasties.

[40]Duke Chang, the virtual founder of the Chow Dynasty; Wen Wang being his posthumous title. His son, Prince Wu, was the first ruler of the Chow Dynasty.

This is only one section of a long poem by Tao Tsien.

The sun went down and cloudless came the night,A gentle zephyr breathed through moonlit skies;And bevies of fair women thronged the Court,The beauty of the starlight in their eyes.With wine and singing swiftly flew the hoursUntil the herald of the dawn appeared;But when the music and the rapture ceased,Deep sighs were heard and weird forebodings feared.Such beauty even in the Halls of T'sinAs on this fateful night was seldom seen,—A lustrous moon in fleecy clouds it shines!A splendid flower amidst the foliage green!How fair the groups of revellers—fair the scene!But pleasures such as these must pass away!How keen the raptures of those fleeting hours!What of the burdens of the coming day?

The sun went down and cloudless came the night,A gentle zephyr breathed through moonlit skies;And bevies of fair women thronged the Court,The beauty of the starlight in their eyes.

With wine and singing swiftly flew the hoursUntil the herald of the dawn appeared;But when the music and the rapture ceased,Deep sighs were heard and weird forebodings feared.

Such beauty even in the Halls of T'sinAs on this fateful night was seldom seen,—A lustrous moon in fleecy clouds it shines!A splendid flower amidst the foliage green!

How fair the groups of revellers—fair the scene!But pleasures such as these must pass away!How keen the raptures of those fleeting hours!What of the burdens of the coming day?

[41]This poem probably refers to the revelries of the Court at the end of the T'sin Dynasty 300-200b.c., before it was overthrown by the founder of the Han Dynasty.

BY BAY SIE T'IAO

T'ang Dynasty

A flowering grass I riseFrom the side of a far-spread lake,Whose waters lave and fertilize,And all my thirsty tissues slake.The dews of Spring with gentle powerEvolve my glossy emerald leaves;The colours of my fragrant flowerThe rime of early Autumn weaves.And yet in trembling fear I grow,Lest root and stem should be uptornBy sudden storm or rushing flow,And leave me helpless and forlorn.So here contented will I lie,Although a plant of humble birth;Nor try to soar to realms on highAbove the confines of the earth.For never yet has living soulBy strength or wisdom changed his fate;All things are under heaven's control,Who allocates to each his state.

A flowering grass I riseFrom the side of a far-spread lake,Whose waters lave and fertilize,And all my thirsty tissues slake.

The dews of Spring with gentle powerEvolve my glossy emerald leaves;The colours of my fragrant flowerThe rime of early Autumn weaves.

And yet in trembling fear I grow,Lest root and stem should be uptornBy sudden storm or rushing flow,And leave me helpless and forlorn.

So here contented will I lie,Although a plant of humble birth;Nor try to soar to realms on highAbove the confines of the earth.

For never yet has living soulBy strength or wisdom changed his fate;All things are under heaven's control,Who allocates to each his state.

BY TAO TSIEN

My youth was spent amidst the simple charmsOf country scenes—secure from worldly din,And then, alas! I fell into the netOf public life, and struggled long therein.The captive bird laments its forest home;The fish in tanks think of the sea's broad strands;And I oft longed, amidst official cares,To till a settler's plot in sunny lands.And now I have my plot of fifteen 'mow',[42]With house thereon of rustic build and thatch;The elm and willow cast a grateful shade,While plum-and peach-trees fill the entrance patch.Away from busy towns and dusty marts,The dog barks in the silent country lane;While chickens cluck among the mulberry-trees,And life is healthy and the mind is sane.Here in my house—with room for friend or two,On my own farm—won from the barren plain,Escaped from cares of office and routine,I live a free and natural life again.

My youth was spent amidst the simple charmsOf country scenes—secure from worldly din,And then, alas! I fell into the netOf public life, and struggled long therein.

The captive bird laments its forest home;The fish in tanks think of the sea's broad strands;And I oft longed, amidst official cares,To till a settler's plot in sunny lands.

And now I have my plot of fifteen 'mow',[42]With house thereon of rustic build and thatch;The elm and willow cast a grateful shade,While plum-and peach-trees fill the entrance patch.

Away from busy towns and dusty marts,The dog barks in the silent country lane;While chickens cluck among the mulberry-trees,And life is healthy and the mind is sane.

Here in my house—with room for friend or two,On my own farm—won from the barren plain,Escaped from cares of office and routine,I live a free and natural life again.

[42]A Chinese acre, a measure of land equal to about one-fifth of an English acre.

Poet unknown: Han Dynasty, or earlier

Our years on earth are brief,But few a hundred win;A thousand years of griefAre packed therein.The day quick takes its flight,The dark is sad and long;Then let us cheer the nightWith feast and song.The niggard thinks it wiseTo save and live by rule;But sages may ariseTo call him fool!

Our years on earth are brief,But few a hundred win;A thousand years of griefAre packed therein.

The day quick takes its flight,The dark is sad and long;Then let us cheer the nightWith feast and song.

The niggard thinks it wiseTo save and live by rule;But sages may ariseTo call him fool!

BY TU-FU

T'ang Dynasty

Chariots rumbling; horses neighing;Soldiers shouting martial cries;Drums are sounding; trumpets braying;Seas of glittering spears arise.On each warrior's back are hangingDeadly arrows, mighty bows;Pipes are blowing, gongs are clanging,On they march in serried rows.Age-bowed parents, sons and daughtersCrowd beside in motley bands;Here one stumbles, there one faltersThrough the clouds of blinding sands.Wives and mothers sometimes clingingTo their loved ones in the ranks,Or in grief their bodies flingingOn the dusty crowded flanks.Mothers', wives', and children's weepingRises sad above the din,—Through the clouds to Heaven creeping—Justice begging for their kin.'To what region are they going?'Asks a stranger passing by;'To the Yellow River, flowingThrough the desert bare and dry!'Forced conscription daily snappingTies which bind us to our clan;Forced conscription slowly sappingAll the manhood of the Han.'And the old man went on speakingTo the stranger from afar:''Tis the Emperor, glory seeking,Drives them 'neath his baleful star.'Guarding river; guarding passesOn the frontier, wild and drear;Fighting foes in savage masses—Scant of mercy, void of fear.'Proclamations, without pity,Rain upon us day by day,Till from village, town, and cityAll our men are called away.'Called away to swell the flowingOf the streams of human blood,Where the bitter north wind blowingPetrifies the ghastly flood.'Guarding passes through the mountains,Guarding rivers in the plain;While in sleep, in youth's clear fountain,Scenes of home come back again.'But, alas! the dream is leadedWith the morn's recurring grief,Only few return—grey-headed—To their homes, for days too brief.'For the Emperor, still unheedingStarving homes and lands untilled,On his fatuous course proceeding,Swears his camps shall be refilled.'Hence new levies are demanded,And the war goes on apace,Emperor and foemen bandedIn the slaughter of the race.'All the region is denudedOf its men and hardy boys,Only women left, deludedOf life's promise and its joys.'Yet the prefects clamour loudlyThat the taxes must be paid,—Ride about and hector proudly!How can gold from stones be made?'Levy after levy driven,Treated more like dogs than men,Over mountains, tempest riven,Through the salty desert fen.'There by Hun and Tartar harried—Ever fighting, night or day;Wounded, left to die, or carriedFar from kith and kin away.'Better bring forth daughters onlyThan male children doomed to death,Slaughtered in the desert lonely,Frozen by the north wind's breath.'Where their bodies, left unburied,Strew the plain from west to east,While above in legions serriedVultures hasten to the feast.'Brave men's bones on desert bleaching,Far away from home and love,Spirits of the dead beseechingJustice from the heaven above.'

Chariots rumbling; horses neighing;Soldiers shouting martial cries;Drums are sounding; trumpets braying;Seas of glittering spears arise.

On each warrior's back are hangingDeadly arrows, mighty bows;Pipes are blowing, gongs are clanging,On they march in serried rows.

Age-bowed parents, sons and daughtersCrowd beside in motley bands;Here one stumbles, there one faltersThrough the clouds of blinding sands.

Wives and mothers sometimes clingingTo their loved ones in the ranks,Or in grief their bodies flingingOn the dusty crowded flanks.

Mothers', wives', and children's weepingRises sad above the din,—Through the clouds to Heaven creeping—Justice begging for their kin.

'To what region are they going?'Asks a stranger passing by;'To the Yellow River, flowingThrough the desert bare and dry!

'Forced conscription daily snappingTies which bind us to our clan;Forced conscription slowly sappingAll the manhood of the Han.'

And the old man went on speakingTo the stranger from afar:''Tis the Emperor, glory seeking,Drives them 'neath his baleful star.

'Guarding river; guarding passesOn the frontier, wild and drear;Fighting foes in savage masses—Scant of mercy, void of fear.

'Proclamations, without pity,Rain upon us day by day,Till from village, town, and cityAll our men are called away.

'Called away to swell the flowingOf the streams of human blood,Where the bitter north wind blowingPetrifies the ghastly flood.

'Guarding passes through the mountains,Guarding rivers in the plain;While in sleep, in youth's clear fountain,Scenes of home come back again.

'But, alas! the dream is leadedWith the morn's recurring grief,Only few return—grey-headed—To their homes, for days too brief.

'For the Emperor, still unheedingStarving homes and lands untilled,On his fatuous course proceeding,Swears his camps shall be refilled.

'Hence new levies are demanded,And the war goes on apace,Emperor and foemen bandedIn the slaughter of the race.

'All the region is denudedOf its men and hardy boys,Only women left, deludedOf life's promise and its joys.

'Yet the prefects clamour loudlyThat the taxes must be paid,—Ride about and hector proudly!How can gold from stones be made?

'Levy after levy driven,Treated more like dogs than men,Over mountains, tempest riven,Through the salty desert fen.

'There by Hun and Tartar harried—Ever fighting, night or day;Wounded, left to die, or carriedFar from kith and kin away.

'Better bring forth daughters onlyThan male children doomed to death,Slaughtered in the desert lonely,Frozen by the north wind's breath.

'Where their bodies, left unburied,Strew the plain from west to east,While above in legions serriedVultures hasten to the feast.

'Brave men's bones on desert bleaching,Far away from home and love,Spirits of the dead beseechingJustice from the heaven above.'

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