From out the South the genial breezes move,
They shake the branches of the bramble-tree;
Unless the sons fair men and honest prove,
The virtuous mother will dishonor’d be.

The frigid fount with violence and spray
By Shiyoun’s town upcasts its watery store;
Though full seven sons she give to life and day
The mother’s heart is but disturb’d the more.

When sings the redbreast it is bliss to hear
The dulcet notes the little songster breeds;
But ah, more blissful to a mother’s ear
The fair report of seven good children’s deeds.

2.

Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood! 
How its bamboos with living green are gay;
Survey the great, illustrious and good—­
How sculptur’d, polish’d and refin’d are they! 
What elegance and majesty they bear! 
What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;
View them but once, and whilst thou breath’st the air
Thou’lt ne’er forget the great, the good and wise.

Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood! 
How its bamboos uptower in green array;
The bonnets of the great, the wise and good
At either ear an agate gem display;
Bright as a star the crownlet of their hair—­
What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;
Survey them once, and whilst thou breath’st the air
Thou’lt ne’er forget the great, the good and wise.

Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood! 
Like to the green bamboos upon it’s shore
Are the illustrious, the great and good—­
More pure than gold, more soft than stannine ore;
The round imperial agate’s not more sheen;
Ever magnanimous and constant found,
On glory’s car they sit with placid mien,
And smile benign where jocund sports abound.

THE MOUNTAIN-CHASE.

From the Mandchou or Chinese Tartar.  (An extract from the “Description of Moukden” by the Emperor Kian Loung.)

Autumn has fled and winter left our bounds;
Now for the chase amongst the mountain grounds,
Our troops their implements and arms prepare. 
Like colour’d rainbow see our banners glare;
While paler far and like the waning bow,
Rustle the standards in the winds that blow;
Piercing the mists, above our heads that lower,
Aloft behold our stately Toron {21} tower,
Flapping the skies with its embroider’d rim. 
Away we journey, hale in mind and limb;
Our cars of state are creaking in the rear,
Whilst in the front the active guides appear.

And now our children mount their colts of speed,
Their sculptur’d cars full little here they need;
From the right side they take the arrow keen,
Ne’er to its quiver to return, I ween;
The bow, the left side’s fitting ornament;
The bow, the tough and pliant bow is bent;
It yields a sound, like thunder from afar,
While flies the arrow, like a streaming star.