Song of the Stone Drums (Han Yu)

Song of the Stone Drums (Han Yu)

Zhang Sheng held in his hands the rubbings of the Stone Drums and urged me to try composing a Song of the Stone Drums. That Shaoling is no more and the Banished Immortal has died—with my meager talent, what can I do about the Stone Drums? The bonds of Zhou grew slack and the four seas seethed; King Xuan rose in wrath and waved the heavenly spear. He threw open the Bright Hall to receive the congratulations of court, and the swords and pendants of the feudal lords rang and clashed with one another. He hunted at Qiyang, displaying his heroic might; for ten thousand leagues, birds and beasts were ensnared and netted. He carved his merits and engraved his achievements to proclaim them to ten thousand generations, hewing rocks into drums, tearing down towering peaks. The talents of his attending ministers were all of the first rank; they were selected and the inscriptions composed, left upon the mountain slope. Rained upon, sun-scorched, and burned by wildfires in the wilderness, spirits and demons guarded them, causing much trouble and loud expostulations. Where did you obtain these paper rubbings, complete down to the finest hair, without a single error or deviation? The phrasing is solemn and the meaning dense, difficult to comprehend; the script resembles neither the clerical nor the tadpole style. Can the passage of years be free from missing strokes? Like a sharp sword severing living crocodiles and dragons. Phoenixes soaring and simurghs alighting, descending amid the host of immortals; coral and jade trees intertwining their branches. Golden ropes and iron chains, their knobs robust and strong; ancient tripods leaping from the water, dragons darting like shuttles. Pedantic scholars compiling the Songs did not include them; the two "Ya" sections are cramped and narrow, lacking ample room. Confucius traveled west but never reached Qin; he plucked the stars but left behind Xihe and Ehuang. Alas, I who love antiquity was born too late; facing this, my tears stream down in torrents. I recall when I was first summoned to serve as a court scholar, the year was first changed to the reign name Yuanhe. An old friend who served in the army in Youfu measured and planned for me, excavating the mortises. I washed my hair and bathed, then reported to the Chancellor of the Imperial University—how many such supreme treasures could there be in existence? Wrapped in felt and bundled in mats they could be brought at once; ten drums could be carried by merely a few camels. To present them at the Imperial Ancestral Temple would be like the Ding of Gao—their brilliance and value would surpass it by more than a hundredfold. If the sacred grace would permit them to remain at the Imperial Academy, the students could study and discuss them, polishing one another's learning. When scriptures were viewed at the Hongdu Gate, the crowds still choked the road; I sat and watched the whole nation come rushing in. Scraping away moss and lichen to reveal their ridges and corners, they were placed securely and evenly, without tilting. With the deep eaves of a great roof to cover and protect them, they would endure for ages to come without harm. But the high ministers at court are old in office—how could they be moved to gratitude, merely remaining evasive and compliant? Shepherds strike fire upon them and cattle rub their horns against them; who again would lay a hand upon them to caress and polish them? Day by day they erode and month by month they are worn away, left to be buried and lost; for six years I have gazed westward, chanting in vain. Even Wang Xizhi's fashionable calligraphy, prized for its charm and grace—a few sheets of it could still be traded for white geese. Eight dynasties after Zhou, the wars of contention ceased, yet no one gathered and cared for them—what was to be done? Now in this age of peace, when there have been no affairs, the handle of governance rests with Confucius and Mencius, honoring the Confucian arts. How could I bring this matter before the court? I wish I had an eloquent tongue like a hanging river. The Song of the Stone Drums ends here—alas, my intent has come to naught.