That long excess at Mao-ling had constant sickness brought:
And yet the princely Cho-Wen his dearest friend he thought.
Amidst the herded world of men a tavern must he keep.
O'er him as o'er his Hall of Harps the clouds of Sun-set creep.
The rosettes that their cheeks made fair the wind flowers yet retain:
The colors of their silken robes our modern creepers stain.
But ah! the burden of his song, "The Phoenix seeks his mate,"
No more is heard—and fading hence left Echo desolate.