Part 8

The wind scarce flutters through the leaves, The young moon hath already gone, And kind and cool the dews descend: The lute-strings wake for night alone.

In shadow lapse the twinkling streams, The lilied marge their waves caress; And the sheer constellations sway O'er soundless gulfs of nothingness.

What cadence charms the poet's ear! What fire-fly fancies round him swarm! He dreads the lantern lights may fail Long ere his thoughts have taken form.

Now gallants tap their two-edged swords, And pride and passion swell amain; Like red stars flashing through the night The circling wine-cups brim again.

There steals the old sad air of Ou -- Each calls his latest song to mind; Then white sails taper down the stream, While lingering thoughts still look behind.

The Recruiting Sergeant

At sunset in the village of Che-Kao* I sought for shelter; on my heels there trod A grim recruiting sergeant, of the kind That seize their prey by night. A poor old man Saw -- scaled the wall, and vanished. Through the gate An old bent woman hobbled, and she marched A pace before him. Loudly in his wrath The grim recruiter stormed; and bitterly She answered: "Listen to the voice of her Who drags before you. Once I had three sons -- Three in the Emperor's camp. A letter came From one, and -- there was one; the others fell In the same battle -- he alone was left, Scarce able from the iron grasp of Death To tear his miserable life. Alas My two dead boys! for ever and for aye Death holds them. In our wretched hut remains The last of all the men -- a little child, Still at his mother's breast. She cannot flee, Since her few tatters scarce suffice to clothe Her shrunken limbs. My years are nearly done, My strength is well-nigh spent; yet I will go Readily to the camping-ground. Perchance I may be useful for some humble task, To cook the rice or stir the morning meal."

. . . . .

Night slipped away. The clamour and the cries Died down; but there was weeping and the sound Of stifled moans around me. At the break Of dawn I hurried on my road, and left None but an old and broken man behind.

-- * All words ending in `ao' are pronounced `ow', as in English `vow', `allow', etc. --

Chants of Autumn

Shorn by the frost with crystal blade, The dry leaves, scattered, fall at last; Among the valleys of Wu Chan Cold winds of death go wailing past. Tumultuous waves of the great river rise And seem to storm the skies, While snow-bright peak and prairie mist combine, And greyness softens the harsh mountain line.

Chrysanthemums unfurl to-day, To-morrow the last flowers are blown. I am the barque that chains delay: My homeward thoughts must sail alone. From house to house warm winter robes are spread, And through the pine-woods red Floats up the sound of the washerman's bat who plies His hurried task ere the brief noon wanes and dies.

Li Po

A.D. 702-762

The most famous name in Chinese literature. Born in the province of Ssuch`uan, Li Po obtained his doctor's degree at the age of twenty, and was already known as a brilliant, inspired poet before Ming Huang became his patron in the capital. A suite of rooms overlooking the beautiful gardens of T`eng-hsiang T`ing, where the Emperor retired after the routine of the day, was assigned to him. Here the poet improvised, whilst Ming Huang himself wrote down the verses that he afterwards set to music, and accompanied while the poet sang. But Li Po, with all his enthusiasm for his patron and the delights of the garden-life, was little of a courtier. When Ming Huang bade the masterful eunuch Kao Li-shih unlace the poet's boots, he gave him a relentless enemy whose malice pursued him, until at length he was glad to beg leave to retire from the court, where he was never at ease and to which he never returned. Troubadour-like, he wandered through the provinces, the guest of mandarin and local governor, the star of the drinking-taverns, the delight and embarrassment of all his hosts. At length a friend of former days, to whom he had attached himself, unhappily involved him in the famous rebellion of An Lu-shan. The poet was seized and thrown into prison. Yet prison doors were ill warders of his fame, and letters of recall followed closely upon pardon; but death overtook the exile before he could reach the capital, and at the age of sixty his wanderings came to an end.

Li Po was a poet with a sword by his side. He would have ruffled bravely with our Elizabethans, and for a Chinese is strangely warlike in sentiment. How he loves the bravo of Chao with his sabre from the Chinese Sheffield of Wu, "with the surface smooth as ice and dazzling as snow, with his saddle broidered with silver upon his white steed; who when he passes, swift as the wind, may be said to resemble a shooting star!" He compares the frontiersman, who has never so much as opened a book in all his life, yet knows how to follow in the chase, and is skilful, strong, and hardy, with the men of his own profession. "From these intrepid wanderers how different our literary men who grow grey over their books behind a curtained window."

It is harder to write of Li Po than of any other Chinese poet. Po Chu-i has his own distinctive feeling for romance, Tu Fu his minute literary craftsmanship, Ssu-K`ung T`u the delicate aroma of suggestive mysticism; but Li Po is many-sided, and has perhaps more of the world-spirit than all of them. We can imagine this bold, careless, impulsive artist, with his moments of great exaltation and alternate depression, a kind of Chinese Paul Verlaine, with his sensitive mind of a child, always recording impressions as they come. T`ai Chen the beautiful and the grim frontiersman are alike faithfully portrayed. He lives for the moment, and the moment is often wine-flushed like the rosy glow of dawn, or grey and wan as the twilight of a hopeless day.

To the City of Nan-king

Thou that hast seen six kingdoms pass away, Accept my song and these three cups I drain! There may be fairer gardens light the plain; Thine are the dim blue hills more fair than they.

Here Kings of Wu were crowned and overthrown, Where peaceful grass along the ruin wins; Here -- was it yesterday? -- the royal Tsins Called down the dreams of sunset into stone.

One end awaits for all that mortal be; Pride and despair shall find a common grave: The Yang-tse-kiang renders wave and wave To mingle with the abysms of the sea.

Memories with the Dusk Return

The yellow dusk winds round the city wall; The crows are drawn to nest, Silently down the west They hasten home, and from the branches call. A woman sits and weaves with fingers deft Her story of the flower-lit stream, Threading the jasper gauze in dream, Till like faint smoke it dies; and she, bereft, Recalls the parting words that died Under the casement some far eventide, And stays the disappointed loom, While from the little lonely room Into the lonely night she peers, And, like the rain, unheeded fall her tears.

An Emperor's Love

In all the clouds he sees her light robes trail, And roses seem beholden to her face; O'er scented balustrade the scented gale Blows warm from Spring, and dew-drops form apace. Her outline on the mountain he can trace, Now leans she from the tower in moonlight pale.

A flower-girt branch grows sweeter from the dew. A spirit of snow and rain unheeded calls. Who wakes to memory in these palace walls? Fei-yen!* -- but in the robes an Empress knew.

The most renowned of blossoms, most divine Of those whose conquering glances overthrow Cities and kingdoms, for his sake combine And win the ready smiles that ever flow From royal lips. What matter if the snow Blot out the garden? She shall still recline Upon the scented balustrade and glow With spring that thrills her warm blood into wine.