THE SHE KING; OR, THE BOOK OF ANCIENT POETRY

154 THE BOOK OF POETKY. [?AKT I.
XI.
The Koh sang ; allusive and narrative. A WIFE MOURNS THE DEATH
OF HER HUSBAND, REFUSING TO BE COMFORTED, AND WILL CHERISH
HIS MEJIOKY TILL HER OWN DEATH.
1 The dolichos over the thorn tree grows ;
Its shoots o'er the waste the convolvulus throws :
Thus finds its proper aid each plant.
He whom I loved, my husband, from me gone,
I sadly mourn my lot, and dwell alone,
Doomed thus my heart's support to want.
2 The dolichos twines round the jujube tree ;
The tombs with convolvulus covered we see:—
Each plant thrives in its proper place.
He whom I loved, the husband of my heart,
Is here no more, and I remain apart,
Nor can my life's strength now embrace.
3 Bright in our room was the pillow of horn,
And coverlet broidered the couch to adorn,
When first in one was blent our fate.
The husband of my heart, whom I admired,
Is here no more, and I must live retired,
And for each morning lonely wait.
4 Each day a day of the long summer light,
Each night as long as the dark winter night;—
Shall I in solitude here pine.
A hundred years will seem their course to run
Ere of this mortal life the time is done,
And him within the tomb I join.
5 Each night as long as the dark winter night,
Each day a day of the long summer light ;•—
To me no comfort e'er will come.
My life will seem to last a hundred years,
Till in my death its welcome close appears,
And to his chamber I go home.
BK X. XII.] THE BOOK OF POETRY.
Another version. By W. T. Mercer.
1 The dolichos grows and covers the thorn,
O'er the waste is the dragon-plant creeping.
The man of my heart is away, and I mourn. —
What home have I, lonely and weeping ? .
2 Covering the jujubes the dolichos grows,
The graves many dragon-plants cover ;
But where is the man on whose breast I'd repose ?
No home have I, having no lover !
3 Fair to see was the pillow of horn,
And fair the bed-chamber's adorning ;
But the man of my heart is not here, and I mourn
All alone, and wait for the morning.
4 While the long days of summer pass over my head,
And long winter nights leave their traces,
I'm alone ! Till a hundred of years shall have fled,
And then I shall meet his embraces.
155
5 Through the longwinter nights I am burdened with fears,
Through the long summer days I am lonely ;
But when Time shall have counted its hundred of years
I then shall be his — and his Only !
The Ts'ae ling; metaphorical.
DEREBS.
XII.
AGAINST GIVING EAR TO SLAN-
When told to Show-yang's top to go,
The ling plants there to take,
The speaker false at once you'd know,
Nor heed the words he spake.
And so, when men their stories feign,
To credit them be slow.
Put them aside, put them aside;
Belief should slowly grow.
'Tis thus the stories told by men
Subside, nor farther go.