A loyal minister to the feudal Prince of Ch'u, towards the close of the Chou dynasty. His master having, through disregard of his counsel, been captured by the Ch'in State, Ch'u Yuan sank into disfavour with his sons, and retired to the hills, where he wrote his famous 'Li Sao', of which the following is one of the songs. He eventually drowned himself in the river Mi-Lo, and in spite of the search made for his body, it was never found. The Dragon-boat Festival, held on the fifth day of the fifth moon, was founded in his honour.

The Land of Exile

Methinks there's a genius Roams in the mountains, Girdled with ivy And robed in wisteria, Lips ever smiling, Of n.o.ble demeanour, Driving the yellow pard, Tiger-attended, Couched in a chariot With banners of ca.s.sia, Cloaked with the orchid, And crowned with azaleas; Culling the perfume Of sweet flowers, he leaves In the heart a dream-blossom, Memory haunting.

But dark is the forest Where now is my dwelling, Never the light of day Reaches its shadow.

Thither a perilous Pathway meanders.

Lonely I stand On the lonelier hill-top, Cloudland beneath me And cloudland around me.

Softly the wind bloweth, Softly the rain falls, Joy like a mist blots The thoughts of my home out; There none would honour me, Fallen from honours.

I gather the larkspur Over the hillside, Blown mid the chaos Of boulder and bellbine; Hating the tyrant Who made me an outcast, Who of his leisure Now spares me no moment: Drinking the mountain spring, Shading at noon-day Under the cypress My limbs from the sun glare.

What though he summon me Back to his palace, I cannot fall To the level of princes.

Now rolls the thunder deep, Down the cloud valley, And the gibbons around me Howl in the long night.

The gale through the moaning trees Fitfully rushes.

Lonely and sleepless I think of my thankless Master, and vainly would Cradle my sorrow.

w.a.n.g Seng-ju

Sixth Century, A.D.

Tears

High o'er the hill the moon barque steers.

The lantern lights depart.

Dead springs are stirring in my heart; And there are tears. . . .

But that which makes my grief more deep Is that you know not when I weep.

Ch'en Tzu Ang

A.D. 656-698

Famous for writing that kind of impromptu descriptive verse which the Chinese call "Ying". In temperament he was less Chinese than most of his contemporaries. His pa.s.sionate disposition finally brought him into trouble with the magistrate of his district, who had him cast into prison, where he died at the age of forty-two.

Whatever his outward demeanour may have been, his poetry gives us no indication of it, being full of delicate mysticism, almost impossible to reproduce in the English language.

For this reason I have chosen one of his simpler poems as a specimen.

The Last Revel

From silver lamps a thin blue smoke is streaming, And golden vases 'mid the feast are gleaming; Now sound the lutes in unison, Within the gates our lives are one.

We'll think not of the parting ways As long as dawn delays.

When in tall trees the dying moonbeams quiver: When floods of fire efface the Silver River, Then comes the hour when I must seek Lo-Yang beyond the furthest peak.

But the warm twilight round us twain Will never rise again.