Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
Chinese Songs
By Richard Henry Stoddard (1825–1903)I sat, and watched the falling shades of eve.
As faint as smoke, spread through the lonely wood.
Troubling the pallid pin-flowers on its bank;
With faded, fallen leaves, the hoar-frost fell.
Except the wild goose flying to the South.
Of distant villagers beating out their rice.
The long year through, not once has brightened mine,
And struck the strings of my melodious lute.
I followed to the foot of yonder bridge;
I bore my grief, but could not say, “Farewell!”
Our couch, remember, even in spring is cold.
The staircase that you built has crumbled down,
And dust has soiled the windows, and white curtains.
The shadow of the moon upon the sea,—
The cloud that floats above the lofty hills.
And she, the sea-moon, in her monthly round;—
They know the man a thousand leagues away.
Have faded, since we parted; but the plum—
Who would have thought before we met again
The plum-tree would have blossomed, o’er and o’er?
Our hearts unfold in vain, no spring is ours.
My thoughts are busied so with your return
The willow at the door droops to the ground,
And no one sweeps away its fallen leaves.
My husband’s flute hangs idly in the hall;
He sings no more the songs of Keang-nan.
My silver dress, that on my pillow lies,
Is dyed with tears, and tears have spoiled the flowers
Broidered in gold upon my satin robe.
Crossing the swollen stream. I sing old songs;
My heart-strings seem to break upon the lute;
I faint with love and grief; grief ends my song.
Your wife, whose love is firmer than the hills,
Whose thoughts are filled with you. She weaves this song
To win the gracious ear of Majesty.
O Son of Heaven! let him return, and soon!
1.
You cannot hear the weaving shuttles fly,
You only hear the young girl sigh and moan.
The young girl thinks of nothing, yet she moans.
The Emperor is levying troops again;
The book has twelve long chapters, and in each
I saw enrolled my honored father’s name.
Thou hast no grandson, father; no, not one.
Thou hast no elder brother, O Moulan!
What shall I do? I will arise, and go,
And buy a horse and saddle. I will go,
And serve and fight in my dear father’s stead.”
A saddle and a horse-cloth at the western,
And at the southern a long horseman’s whip.
When morning comes she smiles and says, “Farewell,
Father and mother.” She will pass the night
Beside the Yellow River. She hears no more
Father or mother calling for their child;
The hollow murmur of the Yellow River
Is all she hears. Another morning comes;
She starts again, and bids the stream farewell.
She journeys on, and when the evening comes
She reaches the Black River.” She hears no more
Father or mother sighing for their child;
She hears the savage horsemen of Yen Shen.
“We marched and fought our way ten thousand miles.
Swift as a bird I cleared the gulfs and hills.
The north-wind brought the night bell to my ear;
The moonlight fell upon my iron mail.
When we return; he sits upon his throne.
He gives this man a badge of honor, that
An hundred or a thousand silver ounces.
‘And what shall he give me?’ And I reply:
‘Nor wealth, nor office; only lend Moulan—
She asks no more—a camel, fleet of foot,
To lead her to her honored father’s roof.’”
Moulan’s return, they haste to meet their child;
Soon as the younger sisters see them go,
They leave the chamber in their best attire;
Soon as the brave young brother hears the news,
He straightway whets a knife to kill a sheep.
And clothes me in my woman’s garb again:
My younger sisters, standing by the door,
Are twining golden flowers in their hair.”
Her fellow-soldiers, who were much amazed;—
For twelve long years she marched and fought with them,
And yet they guessed not Moulan was a girl.
Was ceasing, and the first thin curl of smoke
Rose from the village; not a withered leaf
Waved in the frozen forest, and no bird
Sang there, but flocks were lighting on the plain:
In vain they pecked for food, the barren plain
Bore naught but rotten grass; frost hid the roots;
So back they hastened to their empty nests.
To fondle his grandchildren, hears the shout,
“A Mandarin is passing!” Staff in hand
He gazes, leaning on his matted door.
West of his house we see great stacks of straw,
And in the east the golden beams of day;
His thick warm garments, and his ruddy face,
Are signs of plenty, and, I shrewdly guess,
That somewhere in his house could still be found
One measure more of rice, stowed in the bin.
On the blue river’s brink the peony
Burns red, and where doves coo the lute is heard,
And hoarse black crows caw to the eastern wind.
Screened from the light and heat, the idler sits,
Brooding above his chess-board all day long
Nor marks, so deep his dream, how fast the sun
Descends at evening to its western house.
Or at the window loll to catch the breeze
Freighted with fragrance from the cinnamon.
Like dying petals, and the icicle
Hangs like a gem; all crowd around the fire:
Rich men now drink their wine with merry hearts,
And sing old songs, nor heed the blast without.
We lead our herds at ease;
Having no master to goad us,
We spend the time as we please.
We cut our reeds, and play;
Or sit in the long grass patching
Our cloaks for a rainy day.
And make them stout and long,—
Tuning our merry voices
To sing the herdsman’s song.
And laugh in his face with glee:
“Your legs are mighty travellers!
What can the matter be?
The cow is sure and strong.”
Thus, by the springs in the coppice,
We sing the herdsman’s song.
The timid swallow flies;
And the lake unrolled in the distance
Like a silver carpet lies!
Like the breath of flowers is sweet;
The very dust is balmy
Under the horses’ feet!
Where the beautiful sunlight falls;
The mountains crossed by bridges
Come down to the city walls.
Buried in bloomy trees;
But under the veils of the willows
Are glimpses of cottages.
Is it the breath of June?
’T is the jasper flute in the pear-tree,
Playing a silent tune!
That now has ta’en its flight
Has made the sunshine brighter,
And filled our hearts with light.
And troops of butterflies
Are hovering o’er the peach-trees,
Like blossoms of the skies.
But to the boughs still cling,
Are hanging every garden
With tapestries of spring.
Have met by scores to dine
Beneath the willow branches,
And drain the cups of wine!
And clothed in robes of snow;
But buds of tender purple
On all the branches blow.
As winds go sweeping by,
Redden the waves a moment,
And then, like torches, die!
I see a beauteous girl;
She has a thousand garments
Of satin and of pearl!
It is the maiden Spring,
For hark! among the branches
I hear the cuckoo sing!
In its river island sing;
I see the modest maiden,
A consort for a king!
Are green and white below,
Along the running waters
Swaying to and fro.
His passion is so strong:
And day and night he murmurs,
“How long, alas! how long!”
He tosses in his woe;
His thoughts are like the Hang plants,
Swaying to and fro!
In a palace garden sing;
Again I see the maiden,
The consort of the king.
For see! the maiden comes,
And hark! the bells are ringing,
And hark! the noise of drums!