Part 10

Already the drought is terrible beyond expression! The heated air is overpowering; it is a concentrated fierceness. I have not ceased to offer the pure sacrifices, I myself have gone from the border altars to the ancestral temples. To Heaven, To Earth, I have made the proper offerings, I have buried them in the ground. There is no spirit I have not honoured, Hou Chi could do no more. Shang Ti does not look favourably upon us. This waste and ruin of the Earth-- If my body alone might endure it!

Already the drought is terrible beyond expression! I cannot evade the responsibility of it. I am afraid--afraid; I feel in peril--I feel in peril, As when one hears the clap of thunder and the roll of thunder. Of the remnant of the black-haired people of Chou There will not be left so much as half a man. Ruler over the high, wide Heavens, Even I shall not be spared. Why should I not be terrified Since the ancestral sacrifices will be ended?

Already the drought is terrible beyond expression! The consequences of it cannot be prevented. Scorching--scorching! Blazing--blazing! No living place is left to me. The Great Decree of Fate is near its end. There is none to look up to; none whose counsel I might ask. The many great officials, the upright men of ancient days, Cannot advise me in regard to these consequences. My father, my mother, my remote ancestors, How can you endure this which has befallen me?

Already the drought is terrible beyond expression! Parched and scoured the hills, the streams. Drought, the Demon of Drought, has caused these ravages, Like a burning fire which consumes everything. My heart is shrivelled with the heat; Sorrow rises from the heart as smoke from fire. The many great officials, the upright men of ancient days, Do not listen to me. Ruler of the high, wide Heavens, Permit that I retire to obscurity.

Already the drought is terrible beyond expression! I strive, and force myself in vain. I dread that which will come. How--why--should I bear this madness of drought? I suffer not to know the reason for it. I offered the yearly sacrifices for full crops in good time. I neglected not one of the Spirits of the Four Quarters of the Earth. The Ruler of the high, wide Heavens Does not even consider me. I have worshipped and reverenced the bright gods, They should not be dissatisfied or angry with me.

Already the drought is terrible beyond expression! Everything is in confusion; all authority is gone; My officials are reduced to extremity. My Chief Minister is afflicted with a continuing illness. My Master of the Horse, my Commander of the Guards, My Steward, my attendants of the Right and of the Left, Not one among them has failed to try and help the people, Not one has given up because powerless. I raise my head and look at the Ruler of the wide, bright Heavens. I cry: 'Why must I suffer such grief!'

I look upwards. I gaze at the wide, bright Heavens, There are little stars twinkling, even those stars. My officers and the great men of my country, You have wrought sincerely and without gain. The Great Decree is near its end. Do not abandon what you have partly accomplished, Your prayers are not for me alone, But to guard the people and those who watch over them from calamity. I look upwards. I gaze at the wide, bright Heavens. When shall I receive the favour of rest?"

TO THE AIR: "THE FALLEN LEAVES AND THE PLAINTIVE CICADA"

BY THE EMPEROR WU OF HAN

There is no rustle of silken sleeves, Dust gathers in the Jade Courtyard. The empty houses are cold, still, without sound. The leaves fall and lie upon the bars of doorway after doorway. I long for the Most Beautiful One; how can I attain my desire? Pain bursts my heart. There is no peace.

WRITTEN IN EARLY AUTUMN AT THE POOL OF SPRINKLING WATER

BY CHAO TI OF HAN, THE "BRIGHT EMPEROR"

In Autumn, when the landscape is clear, to float over the wide, water ripples, To pick the water-chestnut and the lotus-flower with a quick, light hand! The fresh wind is cool, we start singing to the movement of the oars. The clouds are bright; they part before the light of dawn; the moon has sunk below the Silver River. Enjoying such pleasure for ten thousand years-- Could one consider it too much?

PROCLAIMING THE JOY OF CERTAIN HOURS

BY THE EMPEROR LING OF (LATER) HAN

Cool wind rising. Sun sparkling on the wide canal. Pink lotuses, bent down by day, spread open at night. There is too much pleasure; a day cannot contain it. Clear sounds of strings, smooth flowing notes of flageolets--we sing the "Jade Love-Bird" song. A thousand years? Ten thousand? Nothing could exceed such delight.

A SONG OF GRIEF

BY PAN CHIEH-YÜ

Glazed silk, newly cut, smooth, glittering, white, As white, as clear, even as frost and snow. Perfectly fashioned into a fan, Round, round, like the brilliant moon, Treasured in my Lord's sleeve, taken out, put in-- Wave it, shake it, and a little wind flies from it. How often I fear the Autumn Season's coming And the fierce, cold wind which scatters the blazing heat. Discarded, passed by, laid in a box alone; Such a little time, and the thing of love cast off.

A LETTER OF THANKS FOR PRECIOUS PEARLS BESTOWED BY ONE ABOVE

BY CHIANG TS'AI-P'IN

(THE "PLUM-BLOSSOM" CONCUBINE OF THE EMPEROR MING HUANG)

It is long--long--since my two eyebrows were painted like cassia-leaves. I have ended the adorning of myself. My tears soak my dress of coarse red silk. All day I sit in the Palace of the High Gate. I do not wash; I do not comb my hair. How can precious pearls soothe so desolate a grief.

DANCING

BY YANG KUEI-FEI

(THE "WHITE POPLAR" IMPERIAL CONCUBINE OF THE EMPEROR MING HUANG)

Wide sleeves sway. Scents, Sweet scents Incessantly coming.

It is red lilies, Lotus lilies, Floating up, And up, Out of Autumn mist.

Thin clouds Puffed, Fluttered, Blown on a rippling wind Through a mountain pass.

Young willow shoots Touching, Brushing, The water Of the garden pool.

SONGS OF THE COURTESANS

(WRITTEN DURING THE LIANG DYNASTY)

ONE OF THE "SONGS OF THE TEN REQUESTS"

BY TING LIU NIANG

My skirt is cut out of peacock silk, Red and green shine together, they are also opposed. It dazzles like the gold-chequered skin of the scaly dragon. Clearly so odd and lovely a thing must be admired. My Lord himself knows well the size. I beg thee, my Lover, give me a girdle.

AI AI THINKS OF THE MAN SHE LOVES

How often must I pass the moonlight nights alone? I gaze far--far--for the Seven Scents Chariot. My girdle drops because my waist is shrunken. The golden hairpins of my disordered head-dress are all askew.

SENT TO HER LOVER YÜAN AT HO NAN (SOUTH OF THE RIVER) BY CHANG PI LAN (JADE-GREEN ORCHID) FROM HU PEI (NORTH OF THE LAKE)

My Lover is like the tree-peony of Lo Yang. I, unworthy, like the common willows of Wu Ch'ang. Both places love the Spring wind. When shall we hold each other's hands again?

CH'IN, THE "FIRE-BIRD WITH PLUMAGE WHITE AS JADE," LONGS FOR HER LOVER

Incessant the buzzing of insects beyond the orchid curtain. The moon flings slanting shadows from the pepper-trees across the courtyard. Pity the girl of the flowery house, Who is not equal to the blossoms Of Lo Yang.

THE GREAT HO RIVER

BY THE MOTHER OF THE LORD OF SUNG

(FROM "THE BOOK OF ODES")

Who says the Ho is wide? Why one little reed can bridge it.

Who says that Sung is far? I stand on tiptoe and see it.

Who says the Ho is wide? Why the smallest boat cannot enter.

Who says that Sung is far? It takes not a morning to reach it.

WRITTEN PICTURES

AN EVENING MEETING

The night is the colour of Spring mists. The lamp-flower falls. And the flame bursts out brightly. In the midst of the disorder of the dressing-table Lies a black eye-stone. As she dances, A golden hairpin drops to the ground. She peeps over her fan, Arch, coquettish, welcoming his arrival. Then suddenly striking the strings of her table-lute, She sings-- But what is the rain of Sorceress Gorge Doing by the shore of the Western Sea?

LI HAI-KU, 19th Century

THE EMPEROR'S RETURN FROM A JOURNEY TO THE SOUTH

Like a saint, he comes, The Most Noble. In his lacquered state chariot He awes the hundred living things. He is clouded with the purple smoke of incense, A round umbrella Protects the Son of Heaven. Exquisite is the beauty Of the two-edged swords, Of the chariots, Of the star-embroidered shoes of the attendants. The Sun and Moon fans are borne before him, And he is preceded by sharp spears And the blowing brightness of innumerable flags. The Spring wind proclaims the Emperor's return, Binding the ten thousand districts together In a chorded harmony of Peace and Satisfaction, So that the white-haired old men and the multitudes rejoice, And I wish to add my ode In praise of perfect peace.

WÊN CHÊNG-MING, 16th Century

ON SEEING THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL CONCUBINE

Fine rain, Spring mud Slippery as bean curds. In a rose-red flash, she approaches-- Beautiful, sparkling like wine; Tottering as though overcome with wine. Her little feet slip on the sliding path; Who will support her? Clearly it is her picture We see here, In a rose-red silken dress, Her hair plaited like the folds Of the hundred clouds. It is Manshu.

CH'EN HUNG-SHOU, 19th Century

CALLIGRAPHY

The writing of Li Po-hai Is like the vermilion bird And the blue-green dragon. It drifts slowly as clouds drift; It has the wide swiftness of wind. Hidden within it lurk the dragon and the tiger.

The writing of Chia, the official, Is like the high hat of ceremonial. It flashes like flowers in the hair, And its music is the trailing of robes And the sweet tinkling of jade girdle-pendants. Because of his distinguished position, He never says anything not sanctioned by precedent.

LIANG T'UNG-SHU, 18th Century

THE PALACE BLOSSOMS

When the rain ceases, The white water flowers of Ch'ang Lo stroll together at sunset In the City by the River. The young girls are no longer confined In the gold pavilions, But may gaze at the green water Whirling under the bridge of many turnings.

TAI TA-MIEN, 18th Century

ONE GOES A JOURNEY

He is going to the Tung T'ing Lake, My friend whom I have loved so many years. The Spring wind startles the willows And they break into pale leaf. I go with my friend As far as the river-bank. He is gone-- And my mind is filled and overflowing With the things I did not say.

Again the white water flower Is ripe for plucking. The green, pointed swords of the iris Splinter the brown earth. To the South of the river Are many sweet-olive trees. I gather branches of them to give to my friend On his return.

LIU SHIH-AN, 18th Century

FROM THE STRAW HUT AMONG THE SEVEN PEAKS

I

From the high pavilion of the great rock, I look down at the green river. There is the sail of a returning boat. The birds are flying in pairs. The faint snuff colour of trees Closes the horizon. All about me Sharp peaks jag upward; But through my window, And beyond, Is the smooth, broad brightness Of the setting sun.

II

Clouds brush the rocky ledge. In the dark green shadow left by the sunken sun A jade fountain flies, And a little stream, Thin as the fine thread spun by sad women in prison chambers, Slides through the grasses And whirls suddenly upon itself Avoiding the sharp edges of the iris-leaves. Few people pass here. Only the hermits of the hills come in companies To gather the Imperial Fern.

LU KUN, 19th Century

ON THE CLASSIC OF THE HILLS AND SEA

In what place does the cinnabar-red tree of the alchemists seed? Upon the sun-slopes Of Mount Mi It pushes out its yellow flowers And rounds its crimson fruit. Eat it and you will live forever.

The frozen dew is like white jade; It shimmers with the curious light of gems.

Why do people regard these things? Because the Yellow Emperor considers them of importance.

Written by LI HAI-KU, 19th Century

Composed by T'AO CH'IEN

THE HERMIT

A cold rain blurs the edges of the river. Night enters Wu. In the level brightness of dawn I saw my friend start alone for the Ch'u Mountain. He gave me this message for his friends and relations at Lo Yang: My heart is a piece of ice in a jade cup.

Written by LI HAI-KU, 19th Century

Composed by WANG CH'ANG-LING

AFTER HOW MANY YEARS

SPRING

The willows near the roadside rest-house are soft with new-burst buds. I saunter along the river path, Listening to the occasional beating of the ferry drum. Clouds blow and separate, And between them I see the watch towers Of the distant city. They come in official coats To examine my books. Months go by; Years slide backwards and disappear. Musing, I shut my eyes And think of the road I have come, And of the Spring weeds Choking the fields of my house.

SUMMER

The rain has stopped. The clouds drive in a new direction. The sand is so dry and hard that my wooden shoes ring upon it As I walk. The flowers in the wind are very beautiful. A little stream quietly draws a line Through the sand. Every household is drunk with sacrificial wine, And every field is tall with millet And pale young wheat. I have not much business. It is a good day. I smile. I will write a poem On all this sudden brightness.

AUTUMN

Hoar-frost is falling, And the water of the river runs clear. The moon has not yet risen, But there are many stars. I hear the watch-dogs In the near-by village. On the opposite bank Autumn lamps are burning in the windows. I am sick, Sick with all the illnesses there are. I can bear this cold no longer, And a great pity for my whole past life Fills my mind. The boat has started at last. O be careful not to run foul Of the fishing-nets!

WINTER

I was lonely in the cold valleys Where I was stationed. But I am still lonely, And when no one is near I sigh. My gluttonous wife rails at me To guard her bamboo shoots. My son is ill and neglects to water The flowers. Oh yes, Old red rice can satisfy hunger, And poor people can buy muddy, unstrained wine On credit. But the pile of land-tax bills Is growing; I will go over and see my neighbour, Leaning on my staff.

LI HAI-KU, 19th Century

THE INN AT THE MOUNTAIN PASS

I return to the inn at the foot of the Climbing Bean Pass. The smooth skin of the water shines, And the clouds slip over the sky. This is the twilight of dawn and dusk. On the top of Hsi Lêng The hill priest sits in the evening And meditates. Two-- Two-- Those are the lights of fishing-boats Arriving at the door.

WANG CHING-TS'ÊNG, 19th Century

LI T'AI-PO MEDITATES

Li Po climbed the Flowery Mountain As far as the Peak of the Fallen Precipice. Gazing upward, he said: "From this little space my breath can reach the God Star." He sighed, regretting his irresolution, and thought: "Hsieh T'iao alarms people with his poetry. I can only scratch my head And beseech the Green Heaven To regard me."

HO PING-SHOU, 19th Century

PAIR OF SCROLLS

Shoals of fish assemble and scatter, Suddenly there is no trace of them.

The single butterfly comes-- Goes-- Comes-- Returning as though urged by love.

HO SHAO-CHI, 19th Century

TWO PANELS

By the scent of the burning pine-cones, I read the "Book of Changes."

Shaking the dew from the lotus-flowers, I write T'ang poetry.

LIANG T'UNG-SHU, 19th Century

THE RETURN

He is a solitary traveller Returning to his home in the West. Ah, but how difficult to find the way! He has journeyed three thousand _li_. He has attended an Imperial audience at the Twelve Towers. He sees the slanting willows by the road With their new leaves, But when he left his house His eyes were dazzled by the colours Of Autumn. What darkness fills them now! He is far from the Autumn-bright hills He remembers. The spread of the river before him is empty, It slides--slides.

LI HAI-KU, 19th Century

EVENING CALM

The sun has set. The sand sparkles. The sky is bright with afterglow. The small waves flicker, And the swirling water rustles the stones. In the white path of the moon, A small boat drifts, Seeking for the entrance To the stream of many turnings. Probably there is snow On the shady slopes of the hills.

KAO SHIH-CHI, 19th Century

FISHING PICTURE

The fishermen draw their nets From the great pool of the T'an River. They have hired a boat And come here to fish by the reflected light Of the sunken sun.

TA CHUNG-KUANG, 19th Century

SPRING. SUMMER. AUTUMN

The stream at the foot of the mountain Runs all day. Even far back in the hills, The grass is growing; Spring is late there. From all about comes the sound Of dogs barking And chickens cheeping. They are stripping the mulberry-trees, But who planted them?

What a wind! We start in our boat To gather the red water-chestnut. Leaning on my staff, I watch the sun sink Behind the Western village. I can see the apricot-trees Set on their raised stone platform, With an old fisherman standing Beside them. It makes me think Of the Peach-Blossom Fountain, And the houses Clustered about it.

Let us meet beside the spring And drink wine together. I will bring my table-lute; It is good To lean against The great pines. In the gardens to the South, The sun-flowers are wet with dew; They will pick them at dawn. And all night In the Western villages One hears the sound of yellow millet being pounded.

LI HAI-KU, 19th Century

NOTES

NOTES

SONGS OF THE MARCHES

_Note 1._ _It is the Fifth Month, But still the Heaven-high hills Shine with snow._

The Fifth Month corresponds to June. (See Introduction.) The Heaven-high hills are the T'ien Shan Mountains, which run across the Northern part of Central Asia and in places attain a height of 20,000 feet. (See map.)

_Note 2._ _Playing "The Snapped Willow."_

The name of an old song suggesting homesickness; it is translated in this volume. It was written during the Liang Dynasty (A.D. 502-557). References to it are very common in Chinese poetry.

_Note 3._ _So that they may be able in an instant to rush upon the Barbarians._

The Chinese regarded the tribes of Central Asia, known by the generic name of Hsiung Nu, as Barbarians, and often spoke of them as such. It was during the reign of Shih Huang Ti (221-206 B.C.) that these tribes first seriously threatened China, and it was to resist their incursions that the Great Wall was built. They were a nomadic people, moving from place to place in search of fresh pasture for their herds. They were famous for their horsemanship and always fought on horseback.

_Note 4._ _And the portrait of Ho P'iao Yao Hangs magnificently in the Lin Pavilion._

Ho P'iao Yao was a famous leader whose surname was Ho. He was given the pseudonym of P'iao Yao, meaning "to whirl with great speed to the extreme limit," because of his energy in fighting. His lust for war was so terrible that the soldiers under him always expected to be killed. After his death, the Emperor Wu of Han erected a tomb in his honour. It was covered with blocks of stone in order that it might resemble the Ch'i Lien Mountains, where Ho P'iao Yao's most successful battles had been fought.

The Lin Pavilion was a Hall where the portraits of distinguished men were hung.

_Note 5._ _The Heavenly soldiers arise_.

The Chinese soldiers were called the "Heavenly Soldiers" because they fought for the Emperor, who was the Son of Heaven.

_Note 6._ _Divides the tiger tally_.

A disk broken in half, worn as a proof of identity and authority. The General was given one half, the Emperor kept the other.

_Note 7._ _The Jade Pass has not yet been forced_.

In order to reach the Central Asian battle-fields, the soldiers were obliged to go out through the Jade Pass, or Barrier, which lay in the curious bottle-neck of land between the mountain ranges which occupy the centre of the continent. (See map.)

_Note 8._ _They seized the snow of the Inland Sea_.

The Inland, or Green Sea, is the Chinese name for the Kokonor Lake lying West of the Kansu border. (See map.)

_Note 9._ _They lay on the sand at the top of the Dragon Mound_.

The Dragon Mound is a high ridge of land on the Western border of Shensi, now comprising part of the Eastern boundary of Kansu. The native accounts say that the road encircles the mountains nine times, and that it takes seven days to make the ascent. "Its height is not known. From its summit, one can see five hundred _li_. To the East, lie the homes of men; to the West, wild wastes. The sound of a stone thrown over the precipice is heard for several _li_."

_Note 10._ _All this they bore that the Moon Clan._

Name of one of the Hsiung Nu tribes. It was this tribe, known to Europeans under name of Huns, who overran Europe in the Fifth Century.

THE PERILS OF THE SHU ROAD

_Note 11._

During the reign of the T'ang Emperor, Hsüan Tsung (A.D. 712-756), better known as Ming Huang, a rebellion broke out under An Lu-shan, an official who had for many years enjoyed the Emperor's supreme favour. Opinions among the advisers to the throne differed as to whether or not the Emperor had better fly from his capital and take refuge in the province of Szechwan, the ancient Shu. Li T'ai-po strongly disapproved of the step, but as he was no longer in office could only express his opinion under the guise of a poem. This poem, which the Chinese read in a metaphorical sense, describes the actual perils of the road leading across the Mountains of the Two-Edged Sword, the only thoroughfare into Szechwan. Li T'ai-po's counsel did not prevail, however, and the Emperor did actually flee, but not until after the poem was written.

_Note 12._ _No greater undertaking than this has been since Ts'an Ts'ung and Yü Fu ruled the land._

These were early Rulers. Ts'an Ts'ung was the first King of Shu, the modern Szechwan. He was supposed to be a descendant of the semi-legendary Yellow Emperor.

_Note 13._ _But the earth of the mountain fell and overwhelmed the Heroes so that they perished._

An historical allusion to five strong men sent by the King of Shu to obtain the daughters of the King of Ch'in.

_Note 14._ _Above, the soaring tips of the high mountains hold back the six dragons of the sun._

The sun is supposed to drive round the Heavens once every day in a chariot drawn by six dragons and driven by a charioteer named Hsi Ho.

_Note 15._ _The gibbons climb and climb._