m home-sickness. Such a one was the poet who wrote
the following lines:--

Away to the east lie fair forests of trees,
From the flowers on the west comes a scent-laden breeze,
Yet my eyes daily turn to my far-away home,
Beyond the broad river, its waves and its foam.

And such, too, is the note of innumerable songs in exile, written for
the most part by officials stationed in distant parts of the empire;
sometimes by exiles in a harsher sense, namely, those persons who have
been banished to the frontier for disaffection, maladministration
of government, and like offences. A bright particular gem in Chinese
literature, referring to love of home, was the work of a young poet who
received an appointment as magistrate, but threw it up after a tenure of
only eighty-three days, declaring that he could not "crook the hinges of
his back for five pecks of rice a day," that being the regulation pay
of his office. It was written to celebrate his own return, and runs as
follows:--

"Homewards I bend my steps. My fields, my gardens, are choked with
weeds: should I not go? My soul has led a bondsman's life: why should I
remain to pine? But I will waste no grief upon the past: I will devote
my energies to the future. I have not wandered far astray. I feel that I
am on the right track once again.

"Lightly, lightly, speeds my boat along, my garments fluttering to the
gentle breeze. I inquire my route as I go. I grudge the slowness of the
dawning day. From afar I descry by old home, and joyfully press onwards
in my haste. The servants rush forth to meet me: my children cluster at
the gate. The place is a wilderness; but there is the old pine-tree and
my chrysanthemums. I take the little ones by the hand, and pass in. Wine
is brought in full bottles, and I pour out in brimming cups. I gaze
out at my favourite branches. I loll against the window in my new-found
freedom. I look at the sweet children on my knee.

"And now I take my pleasure in my garden. There is a gate, but it is
rarely opened. I lean on my staff as I wander about or sit down to
rest. I raise my head and contemplate the lovely scene. Clouds rise,
unwilling, from the bottom of the hills: the weary bird seeks its nest
again. Shadows vanish, but still I linger round my lonely pine. Home
once more! I'll have no friendships to distract me hence. The times
are out of joint for me; and what have I to seek from men? In the pure
enjoyment of the family cir