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 him Who 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 feels As, 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 stores Of 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 fade Into 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, raise His eyes, upon the full-orbed moon to gaze — The old moon-palace that in ocean stands Mid clouds of thistle-down and jewelled strands.



Springtide



The lonely convent on the hill Draws merchants faring from the west; Almost upon the waters still The quiet clouds lean down and rest.

In green pavilions of warm trees The 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 gleams His fetlocks deep in pliant grass.

Beside the eastern lake there calls No laughing throng, no lover goes; But in the long embankment walls The willow shade invites repose.



The Ancient Wind



The peach blooms open on the eastern wall — I breathe their fragrance, laughing in the glow Of golden noontide. Suddenly there comes The revelation of the ancient wind, Flooding my soul with glory; till I feel One with the brightness of the first far dawn, One with the many-coloured spring; and all The secrets of the scented hearts of flowers Are whispered through me; till I cry aloud. Alas! how grey and scentless is the bloom Of mortal life! This — this alone I fear, That from yon twinkling mirror of delight The unreal flowers may fade; that with the breath Of the fiery flying Dragon they will fall Petal 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 winds Shall 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 hills Encompass it; where in the dismal dusk Moan the last sighs of sunset. Shrubs are gone, Withered the grass; all chill as the white rime Of 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 dead Often upon the darkness of the night Go wailing by." O sorrow! O ye Ch'ins! Ye Hans! ye dynasties for ever flown! Ye empires of the dust! for I have heard How, when the Ch'is and Weis embattled rose Along the frontier, when the Chings and Hans Gathered their multitudes, a myriad leagues Of utter weariness they trod. By day Grazing their jaded steeds, by night they ford The hostile stream. The endless earth below, The boundless sky above, they know no day Of their return. Their breasts are ever bared To the pitiless steel and all the wounds of war Unspeakable. Methinks I see them now, Dust-mantled in the bitter wind, a host Of Tartar warriors in ambuscade. Our leader scorns the foe. He would give battle Upon the threshold of the camp. The stream Besets a grim array where order reigns, Though many hearts may beat, where discipline Is all, and life of no account. The spear Now works its iron will, the startled sand Blinding the combatants together locked In the death-grip; while hill and vale and stream Glow with the flash and crash of arms. Then cold The shades of night o'erwhelm them; to the knee In snow, beards stiff with ice. The carrion bird Hath sought its nest. The war-horse in its strength Is broken. Clothes avail not. Hands are dead, Flesh to the frost succumbs. Nature herself Doth aid the Tartar with a deadly blast Following the wild onslaught. Wagons block The way. Our men, beset with flank attacks, Surrender with their officers. Their chief Is slain. The river to its topmost banks Swollen with death; the dykes of the Great Wall Brimming with blood. Nation and rank are lost In that vast-heaped corruption. Faintly now, And fainter beats the drum; for strength is shorn, And arrows spent, and bow-strings snapped, and swords Shattered. The legions fall on one another In the last surge of life and death. To yield Is to become a slave; to fight is but To mingle with the desert sands. . . . . . . . No sound Of bird now flutters from the hushed hillside; All, all is still, save for the wind that wails And whistles through the long night where the ghosts Hither and thither in the gloom go by, And spirits from the nether world arise Under the ominous clouds. The sunlight pales Athwart the trampled grass; the fading moon Still twinkles on the frost-flakes scattered round.



Ssu-K'ung T'u

A.D. 834-903



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 principles Athwart the night's void, Where cloud masses darken, And the wind blows ceaseless around, Beyond the range of conceptions Let 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, roaming The wild dark valley through, Culls from the shining waters Lilies and lotus blue. With leaves the peach-trees are laden, The wind sighs through the haze, And the willows wave their shadows Down the oriole-haunted ways. As, passion-tranced, I follow, I hear the old refrain Of Spring's eternal story, That was old and is young again.



The Colour of Life



Would that we might for ever stay The 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 stream That 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 afraid Of 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 flutter The silken skirts hath blown, As the wind-drawn note of the bamboo flute Whose 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 sees A 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 spheres Whose orbits round a thousand years: Behold the Key that fits my theme.



Ou-Yang Hsiu of Lu-ling

A.D. 1007-1072



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 sound From the south-west. I listened, wondering, As on it crept: at first a gentle sigh, Like as a spirit passing; then it swelled Into the roaring of great waves that smite The broken vanguard of the cliff: the rage Of storm-black tigers in the startled night Among the jackals of the wind and rain. It burst upon the hanging bell, and set The silver pendants chattering. It seemed A muffled march of soldiers hurriedly Sped to the night attack with muffled mouths, When no command is heard, only the tramp Of men and horses onward. "Boy," said I, "What sound is that? Go forth and see." My boy, Returning, answered, "Lord! the moon and all Her stars shine fair; the silver river spans The 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 cold Pitiless autumn of the wrack and mist, Autumn, the season of the cloudless sky, Autumn, of biting blasts, the time of blight And desolation; following the chill Stir of disaster, with a shout it leaps Upon us. All the gorgeous pageantry Of green is changed. All the proud foliage Of the crested forests is shorn, and shrivels down Beneath the blade of ice. For this is Autumn, Nature's chief executioner. It takes The darkness for a symbol. It assumes The temper of proven steel. Its symbol is A sharpened sword. The avenging fiend, it rides Upon an atmosphere of death. As Spring, Mother of many-coloured birth, doth rear The young light-hearted world, so Autumn drains The 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 fall In their due season. Sorrow cannot keep The plants from fading. Stay! there yet is man — Man, the divinest of all things, whose heart Hath known the shipwreck of a thousand hopes, Who bears a hundred wrinkled tragedies Upon the parchment of his brow, whose soul Strange cares have lined and interlined, until Beneath the burden of life his inmost self Bows down. And swifter still he seeks decay When groping for the unattainable Or grieving over continents unknown. Then come the snows of time. Are they not due? Is man of adamant he should outlast The giants of the grove? Yet after all Who is it that saps his strength save man alone? Tell me, O boy, by what imagined right Man doth accuse his Autumn blast?" My boy Slumbered and answered not. The cricket gave The 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 keep The purple cerements of sleep, Thy dim beloved form Passed from the sunshine warm, From the corrupting earth, that sought to hold Its 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 eglantine Weaves 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 star Glow in thy gloom, and naught is heard but the far Chanting of woodman and shepherd from the hill, Naught but the startled bird is seen Soaring away in the moonland sheen, Or the hulk of the scampering beast that fears Their plaintive lays as, to and fro, The pallid singers go. Such is thy loneliness. A thousand years, Haply ten thousand, hence the fox shall make His fastness in thy tomb, the weasel take Her young to thy dim sanctuary. Such is the lot For ever of the great and wise, Whose tombs around us rise; Man honours where the grave remembers not. Ah! that a song could bring Peace 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. Poeme 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.)

THE END