A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems Part 9

But in men's lives when their bright youth is spent Joy and love never come back again."

CHAPTER II

SATIRE ON PAYING CALLS IN AUGUST

By Ch'eng Hsiao (_circa_ A.D. 250)

When I was young, throughout the hot season There were no carriages driving about the roads.

People shut their doors and lay down in the cool: Or if they went out, it was not to pay calls.

Nowadays--ill-bred, ignorant fellows, When they feel the heat, make for a friend's house.

The unfortunate host, when he hears someone coming Scowls and frowns, but can think of no escape.

"There's nothing for it but to rise and go to the door,"

And in his comfortable seat he groans and sighs.

The conversation does not end quickly: Prattling and babbling, what a lot he says!

Only when one is almost dead with fatigue He asks at last if one isn't finding him tiring.

(One's arm is almost in half with continual fanning: The sweat is pouring down one's neck in streams.) Do not say that this is a small matter: I consider the practice a blot on our social life.

I therefore caution all wise men That August visitors should not be admitted.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER

By Wei Wen-ti, son of Ts'ao Ts'ao, who founded the dynasty of Wei, and died in A.D. 220. (The poem has been wrongly attributed to Han Wen-ti, died 157 B.C.)

I look up and see / his curtains and bed: I look down and examine / his table and mat.

The things are there / just as before.

But the man they belonged to / is not there.

His spirit suddenly / has taken flight And left me behind / far away.

To whom shall I look / on whom rely?

My tears flow / in an endless stream.

"Yu, yu" / cry the wandering deer As they carry fodder / to their young in the wood.

Flap, flap / fly the birds As they carry their little ones / back to the nest.

I alone / am desolate Dreading the days / of our long parting: My grieving heart's / settled pain No one else / can understand.

There is a saying / among people "Sorrow makes us / grow old."

Alas, alas / for my white hairs!

All too early / they have come!

Long wailing, / long sighing My thoughts are fixed on my sage parent.

They say the good / live long: Then why was he / not spared?

THE CAMPAIGN AGAINST WU

TWO POEMS

By Wei Wen-ti (A.D. 188-227)

(1)

My charioteer hastens to yoke my carriage, For I must go on a journey far away.

"Where are you going on your journey far away?"

To the land of Wu where my enemies are.

But I must ride many thousand miles, Beyond the Eastern Road that leads to Wu.

Between the rivers bitter winds blow, Swiftly flow the waters of Huai and Ssu.

I want to take a skiff and cross these rivers, But alas for me, where shall I find a boat?

To sit idle is not my desire: Gladly enough would I go to my country's aid.

(2)

(_He abandons the campaign_)

In the North-west there is a floating cloud Stretched on high, like a chariot's canvas-awning.

Alas that I was born in these times, To be blown along like a cloud puffed by the wind!

It has blown me away far to the South-east, On and on till I came to Wu-hui.

Wu-hui is not my country: Why should I go on staying and staying here?

I will give it up and never speak of it again,-- This being abroad and always living in dread.

THE RUINS OF LO-YANG

By Ts'ao Chih (A.D. 192-233), third son of Ts'ao Ts'ao. He was a great favourite with his father till he made a mistake in a campaign. In this poem he returns to look at the ruins of Lo-yang, where he used to live.

It had been sacked by Tung Cho.

I climb to the ridge of Pei Mang Mountain And look down on the city of Lo-yang.

In Lo-yang how still it is!

Palaces and houses all burnt to ashes.

Walls and fences all broken and gaping, Thorns and brambles shooting up to the sky.

I do not see the old old-men: I only see the new young men.

I turn aside, for the straight road is lost: The fields are overgrown and will never be ploughed again.

I have been away such a long time That I do not know which street is which.

How sad and ugly the empty moors are!

A thousand miles without the smoke of a chimney.

I think of the house I lived in all those years: I am heart-tied and cannot speak.

The above poem vaguely recalls a famous Anglo-Saxon fragment which I will make intelligible by semi-translation:

"Wondrous was the wall-stone, Weirdly[19] broken; Burgh-steads bursten, Giants' work tumbleth, Roofs are wrenched, Towers totter, Bereft of rune-gates.

Smoke is on the plaster, Scarred the shower-burghs, Shorn and shattered, By eld under-eaten.

Earth's grip haveth Wealders[20] and workmen."

[19] By Fate.

[20] Rulers.