| 英譯： |
Bereft of their love,
Huang and Yin, the royal ladies of old,
Ranged the banks of Hsiao and Hsiang, south of Tung-
ting.
They wandered by the fathomless waters of the deep.
All the world tells the tale of their misery.
Dark is the day, and dismal the clouds;
Demons howl in the fog and infernal spirits whistle in
the rain.
$(Ah, me!)$ What would it avail me if I dared to speak?
High heaven shines not, I fear, on the loyalty of my
heart.
Clouds gather clouds,—they would roar aloud in anger.
Even Yao and Shun ruling, the scepter would pass to
Yui.
A king, deprived of his minister, is a dragon turned
to a fish;
A minister usurps power, $(lo!)$ a mouse is become a tiger.
Yao was imprisoned, they say, and Shun died in the open field.
The Nine Hills of Perplexity stand in a row, one re-
sembling another—
How could they find the solitary mound of the Double-
pupiled One?
The king's daughters cried where the black clouds
lowered;
Their lord was gone like wind and wave never to return.
They wept and moaned, and gazed into the distance.
Gazed longingly toward the deep mountains of Tsang-wu.
The Mountains of Tsang-wu may crumble, the River
Hsiang go dry.
Their tears on the bamboo leaves will not fade forever.
|