d!

Ye locusts, winged tribes,
Together cluster strong;
Well your descendants may
In swarms forever throng!

LAMENTING THE ABSENCE OF A CHERISHED FRIEND

Though small my basket, all my toil
Filled it with mouse-ears but in part.
I set it on the path, and sighed
For the dear master of my heart.

My steeds, o'er-tasked, their progress stayed,
When midway up that rocky height.
Give me a cup from that gilt vase--
When shall this longing end in sight?

To mount that lofty ridge I drove,
Until my steeds all changed their hue.
A cup from that rhinoceros's horn
May help my longing to subdue.

Striving to reach that flat-topped hill,
My steeds, worn out, relaxed their strain;
My driver also sank oppressed:--
I'll never see my lord again!

CELEBRATING THE GOODNESS OF THE DESCENDANTS OF KING WAN

As the feet of the _lin_, which avoid each living thing,
So our prince's noble sons no harm to men will bring.
They are the _lin_!

As the front of the _lin_, never forward thrust in wrath,
So our prince's noble grandsons of love tread the path.
They are the _lin_!

As the horn of the _lin_, flesh-tipped, no wound to give,
So our prince's noble kindred kindly with all live.
They are the _lin_!

[NOTE.--The "lin" is the female of "K[']e"--a fabulous animal--the
symbol of all goodness and benevolence; having the body of a deer,
the tail of an ox, the hoofs of a horse, one horn, the scales of a
fish, etc. Its feet do not tread on any living thing--not even on
live grass; it does not butt with its forehead; and the end of its
horn is covered with flesh--to show that, while able for war, it
wills to have peace. The "lin" was supposed to appear inaugurating
a golden age, but the poet finds a better auspice of that in the
character of Wan's family and kindred.]

THE VIRTUOUS MANNERS OF THE YOUNG WOMEN

High and compressed, the Southern trees
No shelter from the sun afford.
The girls free ramble by the Han,
But will not hear enticing word.
Like the broad Han are they,
Through which one cannot dive;
And like the Keang's long stream,
Wherewith no raft can strive.

Many the fagots bound and piled;
The thorns I'd hew still more to make.