all for gain, and little recked of separation from me. Last month he went off to buy tea, and I remained behind, to wander in my lonely boat on moon-lit nights over the cold wave, thinking of the happy days gone by, my reddened eyes telling of tearful dreams.'
" The sweet melody of the lute had already moved my soul to pity, and now these words pierced me to the heart again. ' O lady,' I cried, ' we are companions in misfortune, and need no ceremony to be friends. Last year I quitted the Imperial city, and fever - stricken reached this spot, where in its desolation, from year's end to year's end, no flute or guitar is heard. I live by the marshy river-bank, surrounded by yellow reeds and stunted bamboos. Day and night no sounds reach my ears save the blood-stained note of the nightjar, the gibbon's mournful wail. Hill songs I have, and village pipes with their harsh discordant twang. But now that I listen to thy lute's discourse, methinks 'tis the music of the gods. Prithee sit down awhile and sing to us yet again, while I commit thy story to writing.'
" Grateful to me (for she had been standing long), the lute-girl sat down and quickly broke forth into another song, sad and soft, unlike the song of just now. Then all her hearers melted into tears unrestrained ; and none flowed more freely than mine, until my bosom was wet with weeping."
Perhaps the best known of all the works of Po Chii-i is a narrative poem of some length entitled "The Everlast- ing Wrong." It refers to the ignominious downfall of the Emperor known as Ming Huang (A.D. 685-762), who him- self deserves a passing notice. At his accession to the throne in 712, he was called upon to face an attempt
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