[1]a.d.742-56.
[1]a.d.742-56.
[2]In Kiang-su, near Ch‘ang-chou.
[2]In Kiang-su, near Ch‘ang-chou.
[3]Seep. 58, “170 Chinese Poems,†Alfred A. Knopf, 1919.
[3]Seep. 58, “170 Chinese Poems,†Alfred A. Knopf, 1919.
[4]The “Sword-gateâ€: commanding the pass which leads into Szechuan from the north.
[4]The “Sword-gateâ€: commanding the pass which leads into Szechuan from the north.
[5]See “Book or Rites,†xxxii, 3. On returning from his father’s burial a son must not enter the house; he should live in an “out-house,†mourning for his father’s absence.
[5]See “Book or Rites,†xxxii, 3. On returning from his father’s burial a son must not enter the house; he should live in an “out-house,†mourning for his father’s absence.
[6]a.d.785-805.
[6]a.d.785-805.
[7]A writer.
[7]A writer.
In old days those who went to fightIn three years had one year’s leave.But inthiswar the soldiers are never changed;They must go on fighting till they die on the battle-field.I thought of you, so weak and indolent,Hopelessly trying to learn to march and drill.That a young man should ever come home againSeemed about as likely as that the sky should fall.Since I got the news that you were coming back,Twice I have mounted to the high hall of your home.I found your brother mending your horse’s stall;I found your mother sewing your new clothes.I am half afraid; perhaps it is not true;Yet I never weary of watching for you on the road.Each day I go out at the City GateWith a flask of wine, lest you should come thirsty.Oh that I could shrink the surface of the World,So that suddenly I might find you standing at my side.
In old days those who went to fightIn three years had one year’s leave.But inthiswar the soldiers are never changed;They must go on fighting till they die on the battle-field.I thought of you, so weak and indolent,Hopelessly trying to learn to march and drill.That a young man should ever come home againSeemed about as likely as that the sky should fall.Since I got the news that you were coming back,Twice I have mounted to the high hall of your home.I found your brother mending your horse’s stall;I found your mother sewing your new clothes.I am half afraid; perhaps it is not true;Yet I never weary of watching for you on the road.Each day I go out at the City GateWith a flask of wine, lest you should come thirsty.Oh that I could shrink the surface of the World,So that suddenly I might find you standing at my side.
In the southern land many birds sing;Of towns and cities half are unwalled.The country markets are thronged by wild tribes;The mountain-villages bear river-names.Poisonous mists rise from the damp sands;Strange fires gleam through the night-rain.And none passes but the lonely fisher of pearls.Year by year on his way to the South Sea.
In the southern land many birds sing;Of towns and cities half are unwalled.The country markets are thronged by wild tribes;The mountain-villages bear river-names.Poisonous mists rise from the damp sands;Strange fires gleam through the night-rain.And none passes but the lonely fisher of pearls.Year by year on his way to the South Sea.
Master Ou-yang was reading his books[1]at night when he heard a strange sound coming from the north-west. He paused and listened intently, saying to himself: “How strange, how strange!†First there was a pattering and rustling; but suddenly this broke into a great churning and crashing, like the noise of waves that wake the traveller at night, when wind and rain suddenly come; and where they lash the ship, there is a jangling and clanging as of metal against metal.
Or again, like the sound of soldiers going to battle, who march swiftly with their gags[2]between their teeth, when the captain’s voice cannot be heard, but only the tramp of horses and men moving.
I called to my boy, bidding him go out and see what noise this could be. The boy said: “The moon and stars are shining; the Milky Way glitters in the sky. Nowhere is there any noise of men. The noise must be in the trees.â€
“I-hsi! alas!†I said, “this must be the sound of Autumn. Oh, why has Autumn come? For as to Autumn’s form, her colours are mournful and pale. Mists scatter and clouds withdraw. Her aspect is clean and bright. The sky is high and the sunlight clear as crystal. Her breath is shivering and raw, pricking men’s skin and bones; her thoughts are desolate, bringing emptiness and silence to the rivers and hills. And hence it is that her whisperings are sorrowful and cold, but her shouts are wild and angry. Pleasant grasses grew soft and green, vying inrankness. Fair trees knit their shade and gave delight. Autumn swept the grasses and their colour changed; she met the trees, and their boughs were stripped. And because Autumn’s being is compounded of sternness, therefore it was that they withered and perished, fell and decayed. For Autumn is an executioner,[3]and her hour is darkness. She is a warrior, and her element is metal. Therefore she is called ‘the doom-spirit of heaven and earth’;[4]for her thoughts are bent on stern destruction.
“In Spring, growth; in Autumn, fruit: that is Heaven’s plan. Therefore in music the noteshangis the symbol of the West andI-tsÄ“is the pitch-pipe of the seventh month. Forshangmeans ‘to strike’; when things grow old they are stricken by grief. AndImeans ‘to slay’; things that have passed their prime must needs be slain. Plants and trees have no feelings; when their time comes they are blown down. But man moves and lives and is of creatures most divine. A hundred griefs assail his heart, ten thousand tasks wear out his limbs, and each inward stirring shakes the atoms of his soul. And all the more, when he thinks of things that his strength cannot achieve or grieves at things his mind cannot understand, is it strange that cheeks that were steeped in red should grow withered as an old stick, and hair that was black as ebony should turn as spangled as a starry sky? How should ought else but what is fashioned of brass or stone strive to outlast the splendour of a tree? Who but man himself is the slayer of his youth? Why was I angered at Autumn’s voice?â€
The boy made no answer: he was sleeping with loweredhead. I could hear nothing but the insects chirping shrilly on every side as though they sought to join in my lamentation.
[1]The poem was written in 1052, when Ou-yang was finishing his “New History of the T‘ang Dynasty.â€
[1]The poem was written in 1052, when Ou-yang was finishing his “New History of the T‘ang Dynasty.â€
[2]Pieces of wood put in their mouths to prevent their talking.
[2]Pieces of wood put in their mouths to prevent their talking.
[3]Executions took place in autumn. SeeChou Li, Book xxxiv (Biot’s translation, tom. ii, p. 286).
[3]Executions took place in autumn. SeeChou Li, Book xxxiv (Biot’s translation, tom. ii, p. 286).
[4]“Book of Rites,†I. 656 (Couvreur’s edition).
[4]“Book of Rites,†I. 656 (Couvreur’s edition).
An essay on Po Chü-i, whose poems occupy most of this book, will be found in “170 Chinese Poems.†The fullest account of Li Po’s life (with translations) is given in a paper read by me to the China Society, and published in theAsiatic Review, July, 1919. Notices of Ch‘ü Yüan, Wang Wei, Yüan Chēn, Wang Chien and Ou-yang Hsiu will be found in Giles’s “Biographical Dictionary.†To Wang Chieh Po Chü-i addressed several poems.
Of the 68 pieces in this book, 55 are now translated for the first time. Of the eight poems by Li Po, all but Number 6 have been translated before, some of them by several hands.
Among the poems by Po Chü-i, three (Nos. 11, 12, and 44) have been translated by Woitsch[1]and one, (No. 43), very incorrectly, by Pfizmaier. Another (No. 21) was translated into rhymed verse by Prof. Giles in “Adversaria Sinica†(1914), p. 323. Ou-yang Hsiu’s “Autumn†was translated by Giles (with great freedom in many places) in his “Chinese Literature,†p. 215.
[1]Aus den Gedichten Po Chü-i’s. Peking, 1908.
[1]Aus den Gedichten Po Chü-i’s. Peking, 1908.
Transcriber’s Note: The following apparent misprints have been corrected for this electronic edition: