A Lute of Jade | Page 4

on, shining in the clear dawn of a golden past to which all poets and philosophers to come will turn with wistful eyes. These early ballads of the Chinese differ in feeling from almost all the ballad literature of the world. They are ballads of peace, while those of other nations are so often war-songs and the remembrances of brave deeds. Many of them are sung to a refrain.?More especially is this the case with those whose lines breathe sadness, where the refrain comes like a sigh at the end of a regret:
Cold from the spring the waters pass?Over the waving pampas grass,
All night long in dream I lie,?Ah me! ah me! to awake and sigh --?Sigh for the City of Chow.
Cold from its source the stream meanders?Darkly down through the oleanders,
All night long in dream I lie,?Ah me! ah me! to awake and sigh --?Sigh for the City of Chow.
In another place the refrain urges and importunes; it is time for flight:
Cold and keen the north wind blows,?Silent falls the shroud of snows.?You who gave me your heart,?Let us join hands and depart!
Is this a time for delay??Now, while we may,?Let us away.
Only the lonely fox is red,?Black but the crow-flight overhead.?You who gave me your heart --?The chariot creaks to depart.
Is this a time for delay??Now, while we may,?Let us away.
Perhaps these Odes may best be compared with the little craftless figures in an early age of pottery, when the fragrance of the soil?yet lingered about the rough clay. The maker of the song was a poet, and knew it not. The maker of the bowl was an artist, and knew it not. You will get no finish from either -- the lines are often blurred, the design but half fulfilled; and yet the effect is not inartistic. It has been well said that greatness is but another name for interpretation; and in so far as these nameless workmen of old interpreted themselves and the times in which they lived, they have attained enduring greatness.
Poetry before the T`angs
Following on the Odes, we have much written in the same style, more often than not by women, or songs possibly written to be sung by them, always in a minor key, fraught with sadness, yet full of quiet resignation and pathos.
It is necessary to mention in passing the celebrated Ch`u Yuan (fourth cent. B.C.), minister and kinsman of a petty kinglet under the Chou dynasty, whose `Li Sao', literally translated `Falling into Trouble', is partly autobiography and partly imagination. His death by drowning gave rise to the great Dragon-boat Festival, which was originally a solemn annual search for the body of the poet.
Soon a great national dynasty arrives whose Emperors are often patrons of literature and occasionally poets as well. The House of Han (200 B.C.-A.D. 200) has left its mark upon the Empire of China, whose people of to-day still call themselves "Sons of Han". There were Emperors beloved of literary men, Emperors beloved of the people, builders of long waterways and glittering palaces, and one great conqueror, the Emperor Wu Ti, of almost legendary fame. This was an age of preparation and development of new forces. Under the Hans, Buddhism first began to flourish. The effect is seen in the poetry of the time, especially towards the closing years of this dynasty. The minds of poets sought refuge in the ideal world from the illusions of the senses.
The third century A.D. saw the birth of what was probably?the first literary club ever known, the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove. This little coterie of friends was composed of seven famous men, who possessed many talents in common, being poets and musicians, alchemists, philosophers, and mostly hard drinkers as well. Their poetry, however, is scarcely memorable. Only one great name stands between them and the poets of the T`ang dynasty --?the name of T`ao Ch`ien (A.D. 365-427), whose exquisite allegory "The Peach Blossom Fountain" is quoted by Professor Giles?in his `Chinese Literature'. The philosophy of this ancient poet appears to have been that of Horace. `Carpe diem!'
"Ah, how short a time it is that we are here! Why then not set our hearts at rest, ceasing to trouble whether we remain or go? What boots it to wear out the soul with anxious thoughts? I want not wealth; I want not power: heaven is beyond my hopes. Then let me stroll through the bright hours as they pass, in my garden among my flowers, or I will mount the hill and sing my song, or weave my verse beside the limpid brook. Thus will I work out my allotted span, content with the appointments of Fate, my spirit free from care."* For him enjoyment and scarcely happiness is the thing.?And although many of his word-pictures are not lacking in