A single rabbit on the mat, Or baked, or roast:--how small the feast! But the good host his spirits takes, And fills the cup of every guest. A single rabbit on the mat, Roasted or broiled:--how poor the meal! But the guests from the spirit vase Fill their host's cup, and drink his weal. A single rabbit on the mat, Roasted or baked:--no feast we think! But from the spirit vase they take, Both host and guests, and joyous drink. ON THE MISERY OF SOLDIERS Yellow now is all the grass; All the days in marching pass. On the move is every man; Hard work, far and near, they plan. Black is every plant become; Every man is torn from home. Kept on foot, our state is sad;-- As if we no feelings had! Not rhinoceroses we! Tigers do we care to be? Fields like these so desolate Are to us a hateful fate. Long-tailed foxes pleased may hide 'Mong the grass, where they abide. We, in box carts slowly borne, On the great roads plod and mourn. _PART III.--GREATER ODES OF THE KINGDOM_ BOOK I _Decade of King Wan_ CELEBRATING KING WAN The royal Wan now rests on high, Enshrined in brightness of the sky. Chow as a state had long been known, And Heaven's decree at last was shown. Its lords had borne a glorious name; God kinged them when the season came. King Wan ruled well when earth he trod; Now moves his spirit near to God. A strong-willed, earnest king was Wan, And still his fame rolls widening on. The gifts that God bestowed on Chow Belong to Wan's descendants now. Heaven blesses still with gifts divine The hundred scions of his line; And all the officers of Chow From age to age more lustrous grow. More lustrous still from age to age, All reverent plans their zeal engage; And brilliant statesmen owe their birth To this much-favored spot of earth. They spring like products of the land-- The men by whom the realm doth stand. Such aid their numerous bands supply, That Wan rests tranquilly on high. Deep were Wan's thoughts, sustained his ways; His reverence lit its trembling rays. Resistless came great Heaven's decree; The sons of Shang must bend the knee;-- The sons of Shang, each one a king, In numbers beyond numbering. Yet as God spoke, so must it be:-- The sons of Shang all bent the knee. Now each to Chow his homage pays-- So dark and changing are Heaven's ways. When we pour our libations here, The officers of Shang appear, Quick and alert to give their aid:-- Such is the service by them paid, While still they do not cast aside The cap and broidered axe--their pride. Ye servants of our line of kings, Remember him from whom it springs.