ODE OF SU-HWUI.
When thou receiv’dst the king’s command to quiet the frontier,
Together to the bridge we went, striving our hearts to cheer—
Hiding our grief. These words I gasped upon that mournful day:
“Forget not, love, my fond embrace, nor tarry long away!”
Ah! Is it true that since that time no message glads my sight?
Think you that now your lone wife’s heart even in bright spring delights?
Our pearly stairs and pleasant yard the foul weeds have o’ergrown;
Our nuptial room—and couch—and walls—are now with dust o’erstrown.
Whene’er I think of our farewell, my soul with fear grows cold;
My mind resolves what shape I’d take to see thee as of old.
Now as I watch the deep-sea moon, I long her form to be;
Again, the mountain cloud has filled my dull heart with envy.
For deep-sea moon shines year by year upon the land abroad;
And ye, O mountain clouds, may meet the form of my adored!
Aye, flying here and flying there, seek my beloved’s place,
And at ten thousand thousand miles—speed!—gaze on his fair face.
Alas! for me the road is long, steep mountain peaks now sever
Our loving souls. I can but weep—O! may’t not be forever!
The long reed’s leaves had yellow grown when we our farewell said;
Who then had thought the plum-tree’s bough so oft would turn to red?
The fairy flowers spreading their leaves have met the early spring—
Ah, genial months, what time for love!—But who can ease my sting?
The pendant willows strew the court, for thee I pull them down;
The falling flowers enrich the earth, none pick these from the ground
And scatter vernal growth, as once, before the ancestral tomb!
Taking the lute of Tsun I strive to chase away the gloom
By thrumming, as I muse of thee, songs of departed friends.
Sending my inmost thoughts away, they reach the northern ends—
Those northern bounds!—how far they seem, o’erpassed the hills and streams.
No news, no word from those confines to lighten e’en my dreams!
My dress, my pillow, once so white, are deeply stained with tears;
My broidered coat with gilded flowers, all spotted now appears.
The very geese and storks to me, when in their passage north,
Seemed by their cries, my distant love, to tear my heartstrings forth.
No more my lute—though thou wert strong, with passion was I wrung;
My grief was its utmost bent—my song was still unsung.
Ah! husband, lord, thy love I feel is stable as the hills;
’Tis joy to think each hour of this—a balm for countless ills!
I had but woven half my task—I gave it to his Grace:
O grant my husband quick release, I pine for his embrace!
THE TEA-PICKER’S BALLAD.
Among the best of Chinese ballads, if regard be had to the character of the sentiment and metaphors, is one on Picking Tea, which the girls and women sing as they collect the leaves.