<Header>
<Author: 白居易>
<Title: 琵琶行>
<Format: 七言古詩>
<Year: 1884>
<BookName: GEMS OF CHINESE LITERATURE>
<Translator: HERBERT A. GILES>
<TranslatedTitle: THE LUTE-GIRL'S LAMENT.>
<BookPage: 157-158>
<UsedPage: 2>
<Feature: 1, 3, 4>
<End Header>
<Poem>
潯陽江頭夜送客，楓葉荻花秋瑟瑟。
主人下馬客在船，舉酒欲飲無管絃。
醉不成歡慘將別，別時茫茫江浸月。
忽聞水上琵琶聲，主人忘歸客不發。
尋聲闇問彈者誰，琵琶聲停欲語遲。
移船相近邀相見，添酒回燈重開宴。
千呼萬喚始出來，猶抱琵琶半遮面。
轉軸撥絃三兩聲，未成曲調先有情。
絃絃掩抑聲聲思，似訴平生不得志。
低眉信手續續彈，說盡心中無限事。
輕攏慢撚抹復挑，初為霓裳後綠腰。
大絃嘈嘈如急雨，小絃切切如私語。
嘈嘈切切錯雜彈，大珠小珠落玉盤。
間關鶯語花底滑，幽咽泉流冰下難。
冰泉冷澀絃凝絕，凝絕不通聲暫歇。
別有幽愁闇恨生，此時無聲勝有聲。
銀瓶乍破水漿迸，鐵騎突出刀槍鳴。
曲終收撥當心畫，四絃一聲如裂帛。
東船西舫悄無言，唯見江心秋月白。
沉吟放撥插絃中，整頓衣裳起斂容。
自言本是京城女，家在蝦蟆陵下住。
十三學得琵琶成，名屬教坊第一部。
曲罷常教善才服，妝成每被秋娘妒。
五陵年少爭纏頭，一曲紅綃不知數。
鈿頭銀篦擊節碎，血色羅裙翻酒汙。
今年歡笑復明年，秋月春風等閒度。
弟走從軍阿姨死，暮去朝來顏色故。
門前冷落車馬稀，老大嫁作商人婦。
商人重利輕別離，前月浮梁買茶去。
去來江口守空船，繞船月明江水寒。
夜深忽夢少年事，夢啼妝淚紅闌幹。
我聞琵琶已歎息，又聞此語重唧唧。
同是天涯淪落人，相逢何必曾相識。
我從去年辭帝京，謫居臥病潯陽城。
潯陽地僻無音樂，終歲不聞絲竹聲。
住近湓江地低溼，黃蘆苦竹繞宅生。
其間旦暮聞何物，杜鵑啼血猿哀鳴。
春江花朝秋月夜，往往取酒還獨傾。
豈無山歌與村笛，嘔啞嘲哳難為聽。
今夜聞君琵琶語，如聽仙樂耳暫明。
莫辭更坐彈一曲，為君翻作琵琶行。
感我此言良久立，卻坐促絃絃轉急。
淒淒不似向前聲，滿座重聞皆掩泣。
座中泣下誰最多？江州司馬青衫濕。
<End Poem>
<Translation>
BY night, at the riverside, adieus were spoken: beneath
the maple's flower-like leaves, blooming amid autumnal
decay. Host had dismounted to speed the parting guest,
already on board his boat.    Then a stirrup-cup went
round, but no flute, no guitar, was heard. And so, ere
the heart was warmed with wine, came words of cold
farewell, beneath the bright moon glittering over the
bosom of the broad stream .  .  .  .  .  when suddenly,
across the water, a lute broke forth into sound. Host
forgot to go, guest lingered on, wondering whence the
music, and asking who the performer might be.       At
this, all was hushed, but no answer given.      A boat
approached, and the musician was invited to join the
party. Cups were refilled, lamps trimmed again, and
preparations for festivity renewed. At length, after
much pressing, she came forth, hiding her face behind
her lute; and twice of thrice sweeping the strings,
betrayed emotion ere her song was sung. Then every
note she struck swelled with pathos deep and strong,
as though telling the tale of a wrecked and hopeless
life, while with bent head and rapid finger she poured
forth her soul in melody. Now softly, now slowly, her
plectrum sped to and fro; now this air, now that;
loudly, with the crash of falling rain; softly, as the
murmur of whispered words; now loud and soft to-
gether, like the patter of pearls and pearlets dropping
upon a marble dish.  Or liquid, like the warbling of the
mango-bird in the bush ; trickling, like the streamlet on
its downward course.   And then like the torrent, stilled
by the grip of frost, so for a moment was the music
lulled, in a passion too deep for sound.     Then, as
bursts the water from the broken vase, as clash the
arms upon the mailed horseman, so fell the plectrum
once more upon the strings with a slash like the rent
of silk.
   Silence on all sides: not a sound stirred the air. The
autumn moon shone silver athwart the tide, as with a
sigh the musician thrust her plectrum beneath the
strings and quietly prepared to take leave. “My child-
hood,” said she, “was spent at the capital, in my home
near the hills. At thirteen, I learnt the guitar, and my
name was enrolled among the primas of the day.  The
maëstro himself acknowledged my skill: the most beau-
teous of women envied my lovely face.      The youths
of the neighbourhood vied with each other to do me
honour: a single song brought me I know not how
many costly bales. Golden ornaments and silver pins
were smashed, blood-red skirts of silk were stained with
wine, in oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed
on from year to year, while the spring breeze and
autumn moon swept over my careless head.
    “Then my brother went away to the wars: my
mother died. Nights passed and mornings came; and
with them my beauty began to fade. My doors were
no longer thronged: but few cavaliers remained. So I
took a husband, and became a trader's wife. He was
all for gain, and little recked of separation from me.
Last month he went off to buy tea, and I remained
behind, to wander in my lonely boat on moon-lit
nights over the cold wave, thinking of the happy
days gone by, my reddened eyes telling of tearful
dreams.”
   The sweet melody of the lute had already moved my
soul to pity, and now these words pierced me to the
heart again. “O lady,” I cried, “we are companions
in misfortune, and need no ceremony to be friends.
Last year I quitted the Imperial city, banished to this
fever-stricken spot, where in its desolation, from year's
end to year's end, no flute nor guitar is heard. I live
by the marshy river-bank, surrounded by yellow reeds
and stunted bamboos. Day and night no sounds reach
my ears save the blood-stained note of the cuckoo,
the gibbon's mournful wail. 'Hill songs I have, and
village pipes with their harsh discordant twang. But
now that I listen to thy lute's discourse, methinks ’tis
the music of the Gods.       Prithee sit down awhile
and sing to us yet again, while I commit thy story
to writing.”
   Grateful to me (for she had been standing long), the
lute-girl sat down and quickly broke forth into another
song, sad and soft, unlike the song of just now. Then
all her hearers melted into tears unrestrained; and none
flowed more freely than mine, until my bosom was wet
with weeping.
<End Translation>
<Formatted Translation>
BY night, at the riverside, adieus were spoken:
beneath the maple's flower-like leaves, blooming amid autumnal decay.
Host had dismounted to speed the parting guest, already on board his boat.
Then a stirrup-cup went round, but no flute, no guitar, was heard.
And so, ere the heart was warmed with wine,
came words of cold farewell, beneath the bright moon glittering over the bosom of the broad stream .  .  .  .  .  when suddenly, across the water, a lute broke forth into sound.
Host forgot to go, guest lingered on,
wondering whence the music, and asking who the performer might be.       
At this, all was hushed, but no answer given.
A boat approached, and the musician was invited to join the party.
Cups were refilled, lamps trimmed again, and preparations for festivity renewed.
At length, after much pressing, she came forth,
hiding her face behind her lute;
and twice of thrice sweeping the strings,
betrayed emotion ere her song was sung.
Then every note she struck swelled with pathos deep and strong,
as though telling the tale of a wrecked and hopeless life,
while with bent head and rapid finger 
she poured forth her soul in melody.
Now softly, now slowly,
her plectrum sped to and fro; now this air, now that;
loudly, with the crash of falling rain;
softly, as the murmur of whispered words;
now loud and soft to-gether,
like the patter of pearls and pearlets dropping upon a marble dish.
Or liquid, like the warbling of the mango-bird in the bush;
trickling, like the streamlet on its downward course.
And then like the torrent, stilled by the grip of frost,
so for a moment was the music lulled,
0
in a passion too deep for sound.     
Then, as bursts the water from the broken vase, as clash the
arms upon the mailed horseman, so fell the plectrum
0
once more upon the strings with a slash like the rent of silk.
Silence on all sides: not a sound stirred the air.
The autumn moon shone silver athwart the tide,
as with a sigh the musician thrust her plectrum beneath the
strings and quietly prepared to take leave.
“My child-hood,” said she, “was spent at the capital,
in my home near the hills.
At thirteen, I learnt the guitar,
and my name was enrolled among the primas of the day.
The maëstro himself acknowledged my skill:
the most beau-teous of women envied my lovely face.
The youths of the neighbourhood vied with each other to do me honour:
a single song brought me I know not how many costly bales.
Golden ornaments and silver pins were smashed,
blood-red skirts of silk were stained with wine,
in oft-times echoing applause. And so I laughed on from year to year,
while the spring breeze and autumn moon swept over my careless head.
“Then my brother went away to the wars: my mother died.
Nights passed and mornings came; and with them my beauty began to fade.
My doors were no longer thronged: but few cavaliers remained.
So I took a husband, and became a trader's wife.
He was all for gain, and little recked of separation from me.
Last month he went off to buy tea, and I remained behind,
to wander in my lonely boat on moon-lit nights over the cold wave,
thinking of the happy days gone by,
my reddened eyes telling of tearful dreams.”
The sweet melody of the lute had already moved my soul to pity,
and now these words pierced me to the heart again.
“O lady,” I cried, “we are companions in misfortune,
and need no ceremony to be friends.
Last year I quitted the Imperial city,
banished to this fever-stricken spot,
where in its desolation,
from year's end to year's end, no flute nor guitar is heard.
I live by the marshy river-bank, surrounded by yellow reeds and stunted bamboos.
Day and night no sounds reach
my ears save the blood-stained note of the cuckoo, the gibbon's mournful wail.
0
0
'Hill songs I have, and village pipes
with their harsh discordant twang.
But now that I listen to thy lute's discourse,
methinks ’tis the music of the Gods.
Prithee sit down awhile and sing to us yet again,
while I commit thy story to writing.”
Grateful to me (for she had been standing long), the lute-girl sat down
and quickly broke forth into another song, sad and soft,
unlike the song of just now.
Then all her hearers melted into tears unrestrained;
and none flowed more freely than mine,
until my bosom was wet with weeping.
<End Formatted Translation>