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七言古诗
韩愈
谒衡岳庙遂宿岳寺题门楼
五岳祭秩皆三公，四环镇嵩当中。
火维地荒足妖怪， 天假神柄专其雄。
喷云泄雾藏半腹， 虽有绝顶谁能穷？
我来逢秋雨节， 阴气晦昧无清风。
潜心默祷若有应，岂非直能感通？
须臾静扫众峰出，
仰见突兀撑青空。
紫盖连延接天柱， 石廪腾掷堆祝融。
森然魄动下马拜， 松柏一迳趋灵宫。
纷墙丹柱动光彩， 鬼物图画填青红。
升阶伛偻荐脯酒， 欲以菲薄明其衷。
庙内老人识神意， 睢盱侦伺能鞠躬。
手持杯珓导我掷， 云此最吉余难同。
窜逐蛮荒幸不死， 衣食才足甘长终。
侯王将相望久绝， 神纵欲福难为功。
夜投佛寺上高阁， 星月掩映云曈昽。
猿鸣钟动不知曙， 杲杲寒日生于东。
Seven-character-quatrain
Han Yu
STOPPING AT A TMPL ON HNG MOUNTAIN I
INSCRIB THIS POM IN TH GAT-TOWR
The five Holy Mountains have the rank of the Three
Dukes.
The other four make a ring, with the Song Mountain midmost.
To this one, in the fire-ruled south, where evil signs are
rife,
Heaven gave divine power, ordaining it a peer.
All the clouds and hazes are hidden in its girdle;
And its forehead is beholden only by a few.
...I came here in autumn, during the rainy season,
When the sky was overcast and the clear wind gone.
I quieted my mind and prayed, hoping for an answer;
For assuredly righteous thinking reaches to high heaven.
And soon all the mountain-peaks were showing me their faces;
I looked up at a pinnacle that held the clean blue sky:
The wide Purple-Canopy joined the Celestial Column;
The Stone Granary leapt, while the Fire God stood still.
Moved by this token, I dismounted to offer thanks.
A long path of pine and cypress led to the temple.
Its white walls and purple pillars shone, and the vivid
colour
Of gods and devils filled the place with patterns of red and
blue.
I climbed the steps and, bending down to sacrifice, besought
That my pure heart might be welcome, in spite of my humble
offering.
The old priest professed to know the judgment of the God:
He was polite and reverent, making many bows.
He handed me divinity-cups, he showed me how to use them
And told me that my fortune was the very best of all.
Though exiled to a barbarous land, mine is a happy life.
Plain food and plain clothes are all I ever wanted.
To be prince, duke, premier, general, was never my desire;
And if the God would bless me, what better could he grant than this
? --
At night I lie down to sleep in the top of a high tower;
While moon and stars glimmer through the darkness of the
clouds....
Apes call, a bell sounds. And ready for dawn
I see arise, far in the east the cold bright sun.
七言古诗
韩愈
石鼓歌
张生手持石鼓文，劝我识作石鼓歌。
少陵无人谪仙死， 才薄将奈石鼓何？
周纲淩迟四海沸， 宣王愤起挥天戈；
大开明堂受朝贺， 诸侯剑佩鸣相磨。
搜于岐阳骋雄俊， 万里禽兽皆遮罗。
镌功勒成告万世， 凿石作鼓隳嵯峨。
从臣才艺咸第一， 拣选撰刻留山阿。
雨淋日炙野火燎， 鬼物守护烦撝呵。
公从何处得纸本？ 毫发尽备无差讹。
辞严义密读难晓， 字体不类隶与蝌。
年深岂免有缺画？ 快剑砍断生蛟鼍。
鸾翔凤翥众仙下， 珊瑚碧树交枝柯。
金绳铁索锁钮壮， 古鼎跃水龙腾梭。
陋儒编诗不收入， 二雅褊迫无委蛇。
孔子西行不到秦， 掎摭星宿遗羲娥。
嗟予好古生苦晚， 对此涕泪双滂沱。
忆昔初蒙博士徵， 其年始改称元和。
故人从军在右辅， 为我度量掘臼科。
濯冠沐浴告祭酒， 如此至宝存岂多？
毡包席裹可立致， 十鼓祇载数骆驼。
荐诸太庙比郜鼎， 光价岂止百倍过。
圣恩若许留太学， 诸生讲解得切磋。
观经鸿都尚填咽， 坐见举国来奔波。
剜苔剔藓露节角， 安置妥帖平不颇。
大厦深檐与盖覆， 经历久远期无佗。
中朝大官老于事， 讵肯感激徒媕婀？
牧童敲火牛砺角， 谁复著手为摩挲？
日销月铄就埋没， 六年西顾空吟哦。
羲之俗书趁姿媚， 数纸尚可博白鹅。
继周八代争战罢， 无人收拾理则那。
今太平日无事， 柄任儒术崇丘轲。
安能以此上论列？愿借辩口如悬河。
石鼓之歌止于此，
呜呼吾意其蹉跎。
Seven-character-ancient-verse
Han Yu
A POM ON TH STON DRUMS
Chang handed me this tracing, from the stone drums,
Beseeching me to write a poem on the stone drums.
Du Fu has gone. Li Bai is dead.
What can my poor talent do for the stone drums?
...When the Zhou power waned and China was bubbling,
mperor Xuan, up in wrath, waved his holy spear:
And opened his Great Audience, receiving all the tributes
Of kings and lords who came to him with a tune of clanging
weapons.
They held a hunt in Qiyang and proved their marksmanship:
Fallen birds and animals were strewn three thousand miles.
And the exploit was recorded, to inform new generations....
Cut out of jutting cliffs, these drums made of stone-
On which poets and artisans, all of the first order,
Had indited and chiselled-were set in the deep mountains
To be washed by rain, baked by sun, burned by wildfire,
yed by evil spirits; and protected by the gods.
...Where can he have found the tracing on this paper? --
True to the original, not altered by a hair,
The meaning deep, the phrases cryptic, difficult to read.
And the style of the characters neither square nor tadpole.
Time has not yet vanquished the beauty of these letters --
Looking like sharp daggers that pierce live crocodiles,
Like phoenix-mates dancing, like angels hovering down,
Like trees of jade and coral with interlocking branches,
Like golden cord and iron chain tied together tight,
Like incense-tripods flung in the sea, like dragons mounting
heaven.
Historians, gathering ancient poems, forgot to gather these,
To make the two Books of Musical Song more colourful and
striking;
Confucius journeyed in the west, but not to the Qin Kingdom,
He chose our planet and our stars but missed the sun and moon
I who am fond of antiquity, was born too late
And, thinking of these wonderful things, cannot hold back my
tears....
I remember, when I was awarded my highest degree,
During the first year of Yuanho,
How a friend of mine, then at the western camp,
Offered to assist me in removing these old relics.
I bathed and changed, then made my plea to the college
president
And urged on him the rareness of these most precious things.
They could be wrapped in rugs, be packed and sent in boxes
And carried on only a few camels: ten stone drums
To grace the Imperial Temple like the Incense-Pot of Gao --
Or their lustre and their value would increase a hundredfold,
If the monarch would present them to the university,
Where students could study them and doubtless decipher them,
And multitudes, attracted to the capital of culture
Prom all corners of the mpire, would be quick to gather.
We could scour the moss, pick out the dirt, restore the original
surface,
And lodge them in a fitting and secure place for ever,
Covered by a massive building with wide eaves
Where nothing more might happen to them as it had before.
...But government officials grow fixed in their ways
And never will initiate beyond old precedent;
So herd- boys strike the drums for fire, cows polish horns on
them,
With no one to handle them reverentially.
Still ageing and decaying, soon they may be effaced.
Six years I have sighed for them, chanting toward the
west....
The familiar script of Wang Xizhi, beautiful though it was,
Could be had, several pages, just for a few white geese,
But now, eight dynasties after the Zhou, and all the wars
over,
Why should there be nobody caring for these drums?
The mpire is at peace, the government free.
Poets again are honoured and Confucians and Mencians....
Oh, how may this petition be carried to the throne?
It needs indeed an eloquent flow, like a cataract-
But, alas, my voice has broken, in my song of the stone
drums,
To a sound of supplication choked with its own tears.
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