《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 15

Contemplation on the Changes

All phenomena have their origin, and every existence contains the complete laws of the universe. When one realizes that all things are inherent within oneself, they no longer view Heaven, Earth, and Humanity—the Three Powers that constitute the cosmos—as separate. The Dao of Heaven (natural law) differentiates from the fundamental "One" into substance and function, while humans govern worldly affairs through the cultivation of their heart-mind. The Dao of Heaven and human affairs are intrinsically connected—the key lies in how humans embody and practice this truth.

Contemplation on History

Alas, the rise and fall of the four dynasties—Xia, Shang, Zhou, and Qin—are now condensed within the thin pages of historical records. The vast lands of thirty thousand li, transferred through abdication or conquest, and the two millennia of alternating continuity and change—who today can inherit the achievements of Yao and Shun? The governance of Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou can hardly be replicated in later ages. As times change and human hearts shift, how could Confucius not shed tears while reading history?

Contemplation on Poetry

Loyalty to rulers is no longer as pure as in ancient times, and nothing expresses human sentiment more thoroughly than poetry. Without the Ya and Song (court hymns from the Book of Songs), how could the kingly way of transformation be manifested? Without the Airs of the States, how could the rise and fall of nations be discerned? None understood the essence of poetry better than Prince Ji Zha of Wu, and none refined verses as masterfully as Confucius. The 305 poems of the Book of Songs exhaustively depict all under Heaven—who among later generations dares to criticize them rashly?

Contemplation on the Spring and Autumn Annals

The Zhou king’s honorific title was but an empty name, while the fires of war never ceased across the land. States vied to destroy one another, and even alliances and tributes could not secure peace. The governance of Jin and Qi blazed like fire, yet the foundations laid by Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou grew cold as ice. Only Confucius, moved by the sight of a qilin, composed the Spring and Autumn Annals with a heart of pure sincerity—a legacy as enduring as cinnabar and azure in the annals of history.

Contemplation on the Three Sovereigns

The vast cosmos unfolds naturally through the Great Dao, beyond which there is nothing to speak of. The primordial differentiation of the Dao transcends ordinary principles, when the Pre-Heaven (cosmic origin) and Post-Heaven (phenomenal world) were yet undivided. The laws established by the Three Sovereigns (Fuxi, Shennong, and the Yellow Emperor) were so subtle their traces are hard to find, yet their effects endure imperceptibly through the ages. As for the merit of creation, surely none can claim precedence over the Three Sovereigns.

Contemplation on the Five Emperors

The Five Emperors advanced and retreated with ease, willingly abdicating the world—how composed and magnanimous were their words and deeds! Dignity naturally emanated from the drape of their robes, and reverence flowed amidst jade and silk ritual vessels. All things followed the supreme principle, and each person willingly achieved extraordinary deeds. How was such a state possible? Only because their virtuous influence shone as brightly as the midday sun.

Contemplation on the Three Kings

The vast Central Plains could never be settled by those of shallow virtue. The Xia and Shang dynasties could still promulgate orthodox calendars, while the campaigns of Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou were truly matters of necessity. As the Book of Changes’ Ge (Revolution) hexagram states: Only when justified like fire in a marsh can the Mandate of Heaven’s renewal be fulfilled.

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection represent Shao Yong's philosophical reflections on human nature and governance through historical events. The first poem observes: reforms that violate cosmic principles will fail—how could those truly embracing benevolence and righteousness stoop to being shortsighted mediocrities?

The Ode on the Five Hegemons depicts the Spring and Autumn period: the more people chased empty fame, the more they lost their foundations. Commoners struggled to survive amidst warfare as public justice yielded to private gain. Though ritual forms persisted (the "sacrificial lamb" refers to ancient offerings), auspicious signs like phoenixes vanished. Across centuries of the Eastern Zhou, only Confucius emerged as a true sage.

Ode on the Seven States condemns the Warring States chaos: kingdoms clung to scheming even at the brink of collapse, rejecting benewnce. Tian Dan's fire-ox tactics to save Qi or Bai Qi's massacre of 400,000 Zhao troops became routine horrors. Manipulators like Su Qin and Zhang Yi used their silver tongues to sow discord—as vicious as throttling others by the throat.

Ode on the Qin Dynasty analyzes its downfall: during the Seven States' rivalry, all sought unification. Yet Qin's dominance left corpses strewn across fields. Figures like Lord Mengchang with their 3,000 retainers saw dreams shattered. Qin's supposedly impregnable heartland (the "hundred-two rivers" denoting Guanzhong's strategic terrain) crumbled overnight. Abolishing feudalism for commanderies proved futile—a eunuch like Zhao Gao was no statesman.

Ode on the Two Han Dynasties reviews their legacy: rising from Qin's ruins to establish four centuries of rule. Yet later chaos under Wang Mang and Dong Zhuo made them forget the founding hardships of Emperors Gaozu and Guangwu. Their glorious capitals ultimately became crumbling walls (chenghuang signifying collapsed fortifications).

Ode on the Three Kingdoms laments their futility: though the tripartite standoff thundered across history, heroic deeds faded into oblivion. Exhausting campaigns wasted lives and resources—grand ambitions remained unfulfilled. What seemed heavenly will was merely human design, like carelessly losing precious jade.

Ode on the Western Jin warns against complacency: peace conceals crises; reveling without vigilance courts disaster. Scholar-officials idly debated character rankings (using "orpiment" to denote frivolous critiques), yet proved helpless against Jia Chong's treachery or Liu Yuan's Xiongnu ambitions. The seeds of catastrophe were sown during secret talks at Sunset Pavilion, culminating in the Yongjia Upheaval.

Ode on the Sixteen Kingdoms compares the era to vermin infestation: the Nine Provinces demarcated by Yu the Great now resembled lice-ridden rags or maggot-infested melons. Those usurpers flaunting imperial insignia ("dragon robes") were wholly unworthy to rule All Under Heaven.

The "Yichuan Jirang Collection" reveals the principles of unity and division through historical reflections on the rise and fall of dynasties. The first section mentions the governance wisdom of Kou Zhun (Kou Xiangwei) and Confucius (Nifu), lamenting the absence of capable ministers like Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) in their time.

During the Northern and Southern Dynasties, though the realm was divided into opposing regimes, envoys maintained constant communication. Northern warlords preserved the institutions of previous dynasties, while the prosperous south retained old customs. Cui Hao of Luoyang was revered for his virtue, and the Eastern Jin's extraordinary talent Xie An commanded admiration. For over two hundred years, north and south coexisted, yet each denounced the other as barbarians.

The Sui dynasty faltered from its inception, later descending into fratricidal strife. Rulers oppressed the people like ants scrambling for land, squandering treasures to please concubines. They launched distant campaigns to control remote frontiers and dredged canals solely for pleasure. The dynasty collapsed in just thirty-six years—had it endured, the realm might never have passed to the Tang.

The Tang laid its foundation through divinely martial rulers; otherwise, quelling rebellions would have been impossible. The Zhenguan era saw enlightened governance, while the Kaiyuan golden age radiated grandeur. Only by ascending heights could one behold the land's majesty; only in summer's depth perceive the day's expanse. Though its three-century legacy has faded, its statecraft still shines today.

During the Five Dynasties, Tang discipline crumbled, and the people suffered war's ravages. The military held the nation's fate, while regional warlords seized imperial power. Like withered trees in winter, renewal seemed impossible—yet faint starlight still pierced the predawn dark. Fifty-three years witnessed five dynasties, proving only a true Son of Heaven could cleanse the chaos.

With the Five Dynasties' end, peace returned like sunlight through parting clouds. Spring revived all plants; uniform measures and script were restored. Officials reappeared in common streets, music echoed through gardens anew. Though men aged, prosperity blossomed—carefree amid orioles' songs, they rested easy.

That we enjoy such peace owes all to enlightened rule. Worthy talents could live in seclusion; the world's beauty gladdened hearts. Lifetimes knew only abundance; old age escaped war's scourge. Five marks define this golden age: markets thrived through dynastic change; order followed the throne's ascent; none were slain unjustly; a century saw but four rulers; no great strife arose for a hundred years. Such feats have been unmatched since Emperor Yao.

Finally, "Ode to Joy in Old Age" celebrates the delight of twilight years, beholding the world's finest scenes in an era of peace.

The poem "Hair Like Silk" reflects: How can one keep black hair from turning white forever? Why bother plucking those white strands? Though not an official, one can see through worldly affairs. When spring warms and autumn cools, it's the perfect time for wandering. See those open fields—the mountain elder finally relaxes his brow and smiles.

"The Praise of Confucius" observes: Everyone reads books, but how many truly grasp human nature? The truly wise weave profound truths into ordinary words, transcending worldly constraints. They harmonize existence like a potter shaping clay and weigh order and chaos like an emperor. Confucius' work in revising the Book of Changes is unparalleled, unmatched since the dawn of humanity.

"To the Monk Yuan Yi" depicts an eminent monk: Carrying only a water flask and bamboo hat—the latter having brushed dust from all ten directions. His mind long merged with Buddha-nature, yet he speaks Confucian principles without stiffness. The rivers and mountains of Wu and Yue fade like smoke; now he keeps company with the breeze and moon of Mount Yi-Song. Leisurely strolling or meditating under pines, his wise eyes always hold a smile of worldly insight.

"The Song of Heaven and Man" discusses wisdom in life: Fully understanding human sentiment is to comprehend Heaven's will—otherwise, it's like the divide between sky and earth. In youth, sharpness blinds one to life's hardships, refusing to believe in unsolvable problems. But if one empathizes and considers others' perspectives, what worry remains in governing the world?

"Spring Chant at Brocade Screen" paints a spring visit: Below Brocade Screen Mountain lies an estate, visited yearly during the Cold Food Festival. Early March brings fine weather, rarer still is the host's exceptional virtue. We drink heartily by the stream, drunk beneath ten thousand blossoms. Tomorrow, the saddle turns east—the scenery of Shangyang Palace will glow even brighter.

"The Joy of Spring" celebrates the season: Of all seasons, spring is most beloved, especially the vernal equinox. All things warm and revive, free of biting chill. Buds begin to bloom, wine reaches its peak—how can those in their cozy nests not drink halfway to bliss?

"Observations on Things" (four poems) brim with philosophy: The sun and moon share one nature, divided only by day and night; humans and spirits share one disposition, parted only by life and death. If one doesn't understand living, how dare they speak of death? If one can't serve the living, how serve the spirits? Since orioles and cicadas differ, why force mutual understanding? When momentum peaks, strength abounds; when fame fades, let it go. Seize opportunities when they come; when fortune departs, others take charge. Avoid heartbreak—nothing wounds the body more.

The Yichuan Jirang Collection contains several philosophical short poems that explore principles for living and reflections on life. The first poem speaks of how human sentiments remain constant across ages, yet truly understanding worldly affairs is never easy. People often miss opportunities due to excessive suspicion or let their guard down from naive trust—even sage rulers like Yao and Shun could be deceived by cunning manipulators.

The second poem emphasizes that firsthand observation surpasses hearsay. What the ear hears may be distorted, while what the eye sees is certain. Relying solely on others' words to judge right and wrong not only prevents great achievements but becomes a subject of ridicule.

The third discusses spiritual refinement—true nobility lies in a mind of pure Shen (spirit). When Shen becomes impure, it confuses values: anger mistakes right for wrong, joy mistakes wrong for right, distancing the virtuous while embracing the petty. Many familial and national downfalls stem from this. In choosing partners, marry gentle-tempered women and men of talent with De (Virtue).

Discourse on Righteousness and Profit examines their relationship: True worth lies in simple living—when righteousness leads, benefit naturally follows. Abandoning one's spiritual wisdom (symbolized by the sacred turtle) to covet others' gains loses both righteousness and profit. Upholding righteousness elevates the noble path, while chasing profit only sparks contention among petty minds.

First Outing in a Carriage depicts spring joy riding through Luoyang's scenery—like visiting one celestial grotto (a Daoist paradise) per day among the Thirty-Six Grotto-Heavens.

At Prefect Wang Xuanhui's Banquet celebrates spring revelry: The host, one of Luoyang's three chief magistrates, owns famed gardens and mansions. As spring returns, myriad blossoms reflect in crimson wine cups. Yet after the revelry fades, only enduring friendship remains when spring's splendor vanishes.

Spring Twilight Reply to a Friend voices nostalgia as spring ends: Though years have passed without meeting, affection stays unchanged. When Luoyang's spring fades, will you recall our past camaraderie?

Hearing Music at Tianjin Bridge paints Luoyang's springscape: renowned gardens adjoin spotless streets, silken new attire everywhere. From which pavilion's music drifts through peach and plum blossoms to Tianjin Bridge?

Spring Twilight Verse uses catkins and elm seeds as life metaphors: Willow fluff vainly imitates snowflakes; elm coins pile randomly. Poverty doesn't betray spring's grace, yet wine-induced malaise lingers like last year's.

Self-Reflection Duo laments aging years: Why can I still compose poetry lately? Alas, though spring returns, I've grown old. The oriole's song... (original text fragmentary here)

These poems from the Yichuan Jirang Collection convey life reflections and historical contemplation in simple language.

The first poem describes orioles singing until dusk in spring, metaphorically expressing the helplessness of aging as spring departs. The second recalls drinking beneath flowering trees in Tianjin, while now, though flowers bloom in Chengdu, the poet no longer yearns for the spring scenery of Luoyang—a poignant reflection on how places remain while people change.

The two poems titled Reflections on Wu and Yue recount the historical rivalry between these ancient states: King Helü of Wu attacking Chu and King Goujian of Yue eventually conquering Wu—events forgotten after thirty-four years. The cycle of rise and fall, from King Fuchai imprisoning Goujian to Goujian’s revenge and Wu’s downfall, unfolds over twenty-two years, mirroring the past as if it were yesterday.

On Mundane Affairs uses the metaphor of a wren building its nest to caution that sweet words may breed arrogance, yet true strength cannot even cross the North Sea. It advises gratitude over craving favor, much like spring blossoms that must eventually wither.

On Rise and Fall contrasts figures from the Three Kingdoms: Sun Hao, Chen Shubao, and Li Yu—all fallen rulers with literary talent but lacking heroic spirit—against Cao Cao, Liu Bei, and Sun Quan, who founded dynasties with ability yet fell short of heaven’s mandate.

On Civil and Martial Virtues stresses that scholars, too, must prepare for war, as both civil and martial paths are inherent duties. On Good and Evil poses a question: why do sage-kings like Shun and Yao leave no heirs, while villains like Shun’s father Gusou and Yu’s father Gun have descendants? Where is the retribution for good and evil?

On Self-Reproach states that ordinary people need not be overly critical, but those aspiring to greatness must bear full responsibility. On Freedom from Illness laments that health and peace are life’s greatest blessings, yet people remain perpetually unsatisfied.

On the Four Obsessions observes how worldly pursuits—wealth, lust, fame, and power—blind humanity, and only by transcending them can one see clearly. On Gratitude and Grudges reveals that life-and-death moments expose true hearts: gratitude allows one to die without resentment, while grudges leave eyes unclosed in death.

Finally, the two poems Qin River Reflections describe crossing the Qin River again after twenty years. Sharing mundane talk with an old friend, the poet faintly recalls bygone days, suffused with melancholy for time’s passage.

Plain Interpretation of The Yichuan Collection of Beating the Ground Poems:

The Qin region (modern-day Shaanxi) was once the imperial heartland of the Han dynasties, but now the new capital lies east of Hangu Pass. Countless sagely deeds remain recorded in history books, yet today, only desolation greets the setting sun.

In a matching poem for Magistrate Wang Zhongxian of Jiangzhou, it is written: Sent to Jiangzhou as an official, the verses you composed were no empty words. The land here still bears the plants of the Tang, and the mountains and rivers are veiled in the clouds of the Jin. Gardens and ponds stir poetic inspiration, while the simple customs of the people leave little room for disputes. The magistrate’s governance benefits the people, truly living up to the court’s expectations.

The Chant of Sun and Moon says: When the moon is bright, the stars naturally dwindle; when the sun rises, the moonlight dims. Since there have been figures like Shaozheng Mao (a scholar contemporary with Confucius), how could there be no sages like Confucius?

The Chant of Flood and Drought mentions: In Yao’s time, there were nine years of floods; in Tang’s time, seven years of drought. Where now are the merits of those who harmonized Yin-Yang? Such prolonged calamities left half the people dead.

The Chant of Growing Old laments: If I were ten years younger, I could still accomplish more. But the workings of Heaven and Earth are like the sun—it will never again stand at noon. Now at sixty-six, aging is inevitable; my will remains, but my strength wanes—this is plain for all to see.

The Chant of Human Affairs states: The hardest thing to fathom is the human heart; the hardest to predict is human sentiment. People often judge carelessly, but in the end, the truth will out.

The Chant of Differences points out: What is forced cannot be gained; what is refused cannot be done—how vast the gap between these two attitudes.

The Chant of Greed and Righteousness warns: To covet others’ faults is a great wrong; to covet others’ virtues is also a sin.

The Chant of the New Moon writes: The new moon and the waning moon share the same shape—why, then, do people rejoice at the sight of the new?

In a matching poem for Magistrate Li Shifu of Neixiang, it describes: Though unable to escape heat and cold like immortals, here, with water and bamboo, I’ve never left the mountains and forests. My views differ from the new school of thought, and my talents go unrecognized for high office, yet in these peaceful, bountiful years, there is joy to be found. As an official in Nanyang, I balance governance with the pleasures of nature. In spring, peach and plum blossoms vie in splendor; in the breeze, orchids and irises waft their fragrance. The virtuous magistrate governs wisely, and the people live in contentment.

The Tianchun Pavilion in Neixiang depicts: In Neixiang lies a garden called "Heavenly Spring," where peach and plum blossoms bloom like colored clouds. The people come with wine and food to wander and sing, dancing in unrestrained delight. The magistrate lingers here in ease, as if no one had done so before. A hundred peonies, crimson and purple, dazzle in their brilliance.

The Yichuan Jirang Collection contains several independent poetic works, each revealing distinct reflections on life and philosophical contemplation.

The first poem depicts the life of an official in a remote county town. Though burdened with clerical duties ("簿领" refers to paperwork), the simple and honest customs of the locals meant few legal disputes. In his leisure, he could share wine and laughter with colleagues, as if living in seclusion among the mountains. The poet asks himself: Who else in the neighboring counties enjoys such tranquility?

The second poem is an impromptu piece composed on behalf of someone keeping an appointment. In Luoyang, spring gives way to summer—peonies wither in the light rain, while peonies begin to bloom in the gentle breeze. Raising a cup beneath the shade of green willows, the poet marvels at his own good health and the peace of the times, believing it the perfect moment to express his feelings freely.

The third poem conveys the melancholy of drinking while ill. Every year at this season, illness confines him indoors with wine. Already prone to sorrow, he is further saddened by the departure of spring. Watching butterflies flit among fading flowers and hearing cuckoos cry through the long day, he yearns for the gentle breezes of better days.

The fourth poem explores the philosophy of "contention" (争) and "yielding" (让). Where there is yielding, contention inevitably follows; without tradition, there can be no change. This duality stems from human nature and manifests in action: Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor yielded through the Dao (道), Yao and Shun through virtue (德). Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou contended through achievement, while Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin contended through force.

The fifth poem expresses gratitude to Imperial Remonstrator Wang for his concern. Pines and bamboo encircle the study, where all thoughts quieten to reveal one’s true self. Unexpectedly, in this place of clarity and brightness, the poet still often recalls old friends.

The sixth poem is a reply to Secretary Ren. The wealth and status of nobles and generals are beyond words, yet the landscapes in paintings are more worthy of admiration. Unlike those who fixate on Mount Song, the poet prefers the spiritual atmosphere of the Heavenly Altar (天坛), a sacred Daoist site.

The final three poems convey the emotions of ascending heights while longing for someone: Climbing a hundred-foot tower that pierces the clouds, the poet gazes upon the imperial capital beneath the pale blue sky. Yet ascending further still leaves him unsatisfied—because the one he misses is not there. Since resigning his post to live here, though unafraid of hardship and often climbing high, he sees no bustling streets, only the familiar peaks of Mount Song encircling his view.

Through scenes of daily life, these poems reveal the poet’s reflections on officialdom and reclusion, the changing seasons, and human relationships. They combine keen observations of nature with profound insights into existence.