The Wisdom of Confucius with Critical and Biographical Sketches · Confucius
BOOK III
_The Odes of P[']ei_ AN OFFICER BEWAILS THE NEGLECT WITH WHICH HE IS TREATED It floats about, that boat of cypress wood, Now here, now there, as by the current borne. Nor rest nor sleep comes in my troubled mood; I suffer as when painful wound has torn The shrinking body. Thus I dwell forlorn, And aimless muse, my thoughts of sorrow full. I might with wine refresh my spirit worn; I might go forth, and, sauntering try to cool The fever of my heart; but grief holds sullen rule. My mind resembles not a mirror plate, Reflecting all the impressions it receives. The good I love, the bad regard with hate; I only cherish whom my heart believes. Colleagues I have, but yet my spirit grieves, That on their honor I cannot depend. I speak, but my complaint no influence leaves Upon their hearts; with mine no feelings blend; With me in anger they, and fierce disdain contend. My mind is fixed, and cannot, like a stone, Be turned at will indifferently about; And what I think, to that, and that alone, I utterance give, alike within, without; Nor can like mat be rolled and carried out. With dignity in presence of them all, My conduct marked, my goodness who shall scout? My foes I boldly challenge, great and small, If there be aught in me they can in question call.
How full of trouble is my anxious heart! With hate the blatant herd of creatures mean Ceaseless pursue. Of their attacks the smart Keeps my mind in distress. Their venomed spleen Aye vents itself; and with insulting mien They vex my soul; and no one on my side A word will speak. Silent, alone, unseen, I think of my sad case; then opening wide My eyes, as if from sleep, I beat my breast, sore-tried. Thy disc, O sun, should ever be complete, While thine, O changing moon, doth wax and wane. But now our sun hath waned, weak and effete, And moons are ever full. My heart with pain Is firmly bound, and held in sorrow's chain, As to the body cleaves an unwashed dress. Silent I think of my sad case; in vain I try to find relief from my distress. Would I had wings to fly where ills no longer press! Away the startled pheasant flies, With lazy movement of his wings. Borne was my heart's lord from my eyes;-- What pain the separation brings! The pheasant, though no more in view, His cry, below, above, forth sends. Alas! my princely lord, 'tis you-- Your absence, that my bosom rends. At sun and moon I sit and gaze, In converse with my troubled heart. Far, far from me my husband stays! When will he come to heal its smart? Ye princely men who with him mate, Say, mark ye not his virtuous way. His rule is--covet nought, none hate;-- How can his steps from goodness stray?
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.