With sounds of happiness the deer
    The salsola crop in the fields. 
  What noble guests surround me here! 
    Each lute for them its music yields. 
  Sound, sound the lutes, or great or small. 
    The joy harmonious to prolong;—­

  And with my spirits rich crown all
    The cups to cheer the festive throng. 
  Let each retire with gladdened heart,
  In his own sphere to play his part.

A Festal Ode Complimenting an Officer

  On dashed my four steeds, without halt, without stay,
  Though toilsome and winding from Chow was the way. 
  I wished to return—­but the monarch’s command
  Forbade that his business be done with slack hand;
    And my heart was with sadness oppressed.

  On dashed my four steeds; I ne’er slackened the reins. 
  They snorted and panted—­all white, with black manes. 
  I wished to return, but our sovereign’s command
  Forbade that his business be done with slack hand;—­
    And I dared not to pause or to rest.

  Unresting the Filial doves speed in their flight,
  Ascending, then sweeping swift down from the height,
  Now grouped on the oaks.  The king’s high command
  Forbade that his business be done with slack hand;—­
    And my father I left, sore distressed.

  Unresting the Filial doves speed in their flight,
  Now fanning the air and anon they alight
  On the medlars thick grouped.  But our monarch’s command
  Forbade that his business be done with slack hand;—­
    Of my mother I thought with sad breast.

  My four steeds I harnessed, all white and black-maned,
  Which straight on their way, fleet and emulous strained. 
  I wished to return; and now venture in song
  The wish to express, and announce how I long
    For my mother my care to attest.

[NOTE.—­Both Maou and Choo agree that this ode was composed in honor of the officer who narrates the story in it, although they say it was not written by the officer himself, but was put into his mouth, as it were, to express the sympathy of his entertainer with him, and the appreciation of his devotion to duty.]

The Value of Friendship

  The woodmen’s blows responsive ring,
    As on the trees they fall;
  And when the birds their sweet notes sing,
    They to each other call. 
  From the dark valley comes a bird,
    And seeks the lofty tree.
  Ying goes its voice, and thus it cries,
    “Companion, come to me.” 
  The bird, although a creature small,
    Upon its mate depends;
  And shall we men, who rank o’er all,
    Not seek to have our friends? 
  All spirits love the friendly man,
    And hearken to his prayer. 
  What harmony and peace they can
    Bestow, his lot shall share.