the moonlit scene, he hears the sound of a zither, which must be touched by fairy fingers; for though no words are sung, the music interprets itself.
Sad heart, sad heart, thou waitest long,
For love's deep fountain thirsting.
Must winter linger in my soul,
Tho' April's buds are bursting ?
The forest deep, at love's behest,
His heart of oak hath riven,
This lodge to rear, where I might greet
My hero, fortune-driven.
But heartless fortune, mocking me,
My knight far hence hath banished ;
And sends, instead, this cowl-drawn monk,
From whom love's hope hath vanished.
This throbbing zither I have U'en
To speed my heart's fond message ;
To call from heaven the Wonang bird,
Love's sign and joy's sure presage.
But fate, mid-heaven, hath caged the bird
That, only, love's note utters;
And in its stead a magpie foul
Into my bosom flutters.
Piqued at this equivocal praise, Cho-ung draws out his flute, his constant companion, and answers his unseen critic in notes that plainly mean :
Ten years, among the halls of learning, I have shunned
The shrine of love, life's synonym ; and dreamt, vain youth,
That having conquered nature's secrets I could wrest
From life its crowning jewel, love. 'T was not to be.
To-night I hear a voice from some far sphere that bids
The lamp of love to burn, forsooth, but pours no oil
Into its chalice. Woe is me; full well I know
There is no bridge that spans the gulf from earth to heaven.
E'en though I deem her queen in yon fair moon enthroned,
The nearest of her kin, can I breathe soft enough
Into this flute to make earth silence hold that she
May hear ; or shrill so loud to pierce the firmament
And force the ear of night ?
