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All grace and beauty he displays, High forehead and eyes bright.
And dancing choice! His arrows all The target hit aright.
Straight through they go, and every one Lights on the self-same spot.
Rebellion he could well withstand, And yet we mourn his lot!
BOOK IX
THE ODES OF WEI
~On the Misgovernment of the State~
A fruit, small as the garden peach, May still be used for food.
A State, though poor as ours, might thrive, If but its rule were good.
Our rule is bad, our State is sad, With mournful heart I grieve.
All can from instrument and voice My mood of mind perceive.
Who know me not, with scornful thought, Deem me a scholar proud.
"Those men are right," they fiercely say, "What mean your words so loud?"
Deep in my heart my sorrows lie, And none the cause may know.
How should they know who never try To learn whence comes our woe?
The garden jujube, although small, May still be used for food.
A State, though poor as ours, might thrive, If but its rule were good.
Our rule is bad, our State is sad, With mournful heart I grieve.
Methinks I'll wander through the land, My misery to relieve.
Who know me not, with scornful thought, Deem that wild views I hold.
"Those men are right," they fiercely say, "What mean your words so bold?"
Deep in my heart my sorrows lie, And none the cause may know.
How can they know, who never try To learn whence comes our woe?
~The Mean Husband~
Thin cloth of dolichos supplies the shoes, In which some have to brave the frost and cold.
A bride, when poor, her tender hands must use, Her dress to make, and the sharp needle hold.
This man is wealthy, yet he makes his bride Collars and waistbands for his robes provide.
Conscious of wealth, he moves with easy mien; Politely on the left he takes his place; The ivory pin is at his girdle seen:-- His dress and gait show gentlemanly grace.
Why do we brand him in our satire here?
'Tis this---his n.i.g.g.ard soul provokes the sneer.
~A Young Soldier on Service~
To the top of that tree-clad hill I go, And towards my father I gaze, Till with my mind's eye his form I espy, And my mind's ear hears how he says:-- "Alas for my son on service abroad!
He rests not from morning till eve.
May he careful be and come back to me!
While he is away, how I grieve!"
To the top of that barren hill I climb, And towards my mother I gaze, Till with my mind's eye her form I espy, And my mind's ear hears how she says:-- "Alas for my child on service abroad!
He never in sleep shuts an eye.
May he careful be, and come back to me!
In the wild may his body not lie!"
Up the lofty ridge I, toiling, ascend, And towards my brother I gaze, Till with my mind's eye his form I espy, And my mind's ear hears how he says:-- "Alas! my young brother, serving abroad, All day with his comrades must roam.
May he careful be, and come back to me, And die not away from his home."
BOOK X
THE ODES OF TANG
~The King Goes to War~
The wild geese fly the bushy oaks around, With clamor loud. _Suh-suh_ their wings resound, As for their feet poor resting-place is found.
The King's affairs admit of no delay.
Our millet still unsown, we haste away.
No food is left our parents to supply; When we are gone, on whom can they rely?
O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar, When shall our homes receive us from the war?
The wild geese on the bushy jujube-trees Attempt to settle and are ill at ease;-- _Suh-suh_ their wings go flapping in the breeze.
The King's affairs admit of no delay; Our millet still unsown, we haste away.
How shall our parents their requirements get?
How in our absence shall their wants be met?
O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar, When shall our homes receive us from the war?
The bushy mulberry-trees the geese in rows Seek eager and to rest around them close-- With rustling loud, as disappointment grows.
The King's affairs admit of no delay; To plant our rice and maize we cannot stay.
How shall our parents find their wonted food?
When we are gone, who will to them be good?
O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar, When shall our homes receive us from the war?
~Lament of a Bereaved Person~
