The Han Stele

The Han Stele

# The Han Stele

Li Shangyin

The Son of Heaven of Yuanhe, divine and martial in bearing—

What men were they, Xuanyuan and Xihe!

He vowed to wipe away the shame of successive emperors,

Sitting in the Dharma Palace, receiving the tribute of the four barbarians.

In Huaiyi, a bandit had reigned for fifty years—

A she-wolf gave birth to a chu, the chu gave birth to a bear.

He did not rely on mountains and rivers, but held the flatlands,

With long spears and sharp lances, he could wave the sun aside.

The Emperor obtained a sage minister, the minister named Du—

The bandits hacked at him but could not kill him; the spirits upheld him.

At his waist he bore the seal of the minister, serving as commander-in-chief,

With gloomy winds and somber skies, the Heavenly King's banner flew.

Su, Wu, Gu, and Tong served as his claws and fangs,

The Vice Director of the Ministry of Rites followed with brush in hand.

The Army Marshal was wise and brave—

His hundred and forty thousand troops were like tigers and wild beasts.

They entered Cai, bound the bandit, and presented him at the Imperial Ancestral Temple—

His merit was beyond dispute, his grace beyond measure.

The Emperor said: "Your merit, Du, is the foremost.

Your staff officer, Yu, should compose the text."

Yu bowed, touched his head to the ground, and danced—

"Engraving in metal and stone, this your servant can do."

Since ancient times, the world has called such works the Great Brush—

This matter does not fall under any official's jurisdiction.

Since ancient times, when it comes to duty, one does not yield.

When he had spoken, the Son of Heaven nodded his head again and again.

The Duke retired, fasted, and sat in his small studio—

How freely the great brush flowed, soaked in ink!

He altered the characters of the Yao Canon and the Shun Canon,

He revised the poems of the Qingmiao and the Shengmin.

The text was complete, written on paper in a style that broke convention—

At dawn, he bowed twice and spread it upon the red steps of the palace.

His memorial read: "Your servant Yu, presumptuously and with death-deserving boldness, presents this:

I sing of the sacred merit and write it upon a stele."

The stele was three zhang high, its characters large as a dou—

It was borne by a sacred turtle and coiled with dragons.

The lines were strange and the words weighty—few could understand them.

Someone slandered him before the Son of Heaven, claiming it was partial.

With a hundred-chi rope they pulled the stele down,

And ground it away with coarse sand and great stones.

But the Duke's literary work is like primal qi—

It had already entered the livers and spleens of men.

The Tang pan and the Kong ding have their inscriptions—

Though the vessels are no longer here, their words remain.

Alas! The sacred Emperor and the sacred Minister—

Together they shone with resplendent, pure brilliance.

If the Duke's literary work is not shown to posterity,

How can we strive to match the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors?

I wish to copy it ten thousand times and recite it ten thousand times,

Until foam flows from my mouth and my right hand grows calloused.

Let it be transmitted through seventy-three generations,

To serve as the foundation for the fengshan rites, the jade cases, and the Bright Hall.