《伊川擊壤集》Vol. 2

These poems from Volume II of The Yichuan Collection of Beating the Ground reveal the contemplations of Song Dynasty scholar Shao Yong (courtesy name Yaofu) in various settings:

Drinking with friends in the autumn at Zhengzhou's Song Garden, he depicts ancient trees towering like swords and halberds, with long vines draping like earthbound dragons. A modest gathering in the bamboo pavilion after rain, startled roosting crows at dawn on his return—with sparse strokes he captures the leisurely charm of an autumn literary gathering.

Returning to his old home in Gongcheng during the Double Ninth Festival, he reflects on how swiftly ten years have passed before these unchanged mountains, rivers, wind, and moon. New white hairs entwine the familiar fence; when villagers jestingly ask about official honors, he replies that "returning home in silken robes" is but the ordinary aspiration of any man.

Passing through Shaanxi while honoring ancestors, he recalls the glory of the Shao clan's forebear serving as Grand Guardian assisting King Cheng during the Zhou Dynasty. Though separated by vast time and rugged terrain, descendants still remember their ancestor's virtuous governance beneath the sweet pear tree.

His unconventional take on the Yellow River observes that its seemingly turbid waters were never truly clear—from Kunlun to the Eastern Sea, its currents have buried countless human injustices unknown to the world.

At Tong Pass, he argues that natural barriers matter less than moral fortification: this strategic military stronghold through the ages truly requires wisdom to dissolve conflicts.

In his ode to Mount Hua, he notes the ritual sacrifices to the Five Sacred Peaks, subtly questioning the Tang Dynasty's conferral of "Golden Heavenly King" and the Song's additional title "Obedient Sacred Emperor" upon its deity—implying divine honors should not overreach heaven and earth.

Lodging overnight at Huaqing Palace recalling Emperor Xuanzong and Lady Yang, he finds the same clear breeze and bright moon remain, with warm springs still trickling in stone basins—prompting reflections on permanence and change.

From Chaoyuan Pavilion's vantage, rain-washed Xiuling Mountain wreathed in mist evokes imperial processions of old—now only broken jade statues remain. Yet standing by the Wei River, one can still discern Chang'an's outlines, the weight of history palpable in the scene.

Finally, his musings along Chang'an's ancient road observe that "today's travelers walk paths of antiquity," with the closing phrase "unaware of the cold" lingering poignantly—suggesting hurried passersby seldom pause to sense life's vicissitudes.

Selections from the Yichuan Jirang Ji Interpreted in Vernacular:

The first passage depicts a summer scene: The unbearable heat lingers from dawn till dusk, while carriages and horses endlessly stir up dust on the roads. When wind and rain arrive, the paths turn muddy and impassable—under such conditions, no one wishes to venture outdoors.

Inscription at the Temple of Marquis Liu (Zhang Liang) recounts the achievements of Zhang Liang (Marquis of Liu): Toppling Xiang Yu and restoring the Han dynasty was as effortless as turning over his hand for him; opposing the tyrannical Qin and reviving the Han court felt as natural as moving pieces in a game of chess. He could both strategize from the command tent to govern the realm and cultivate his inner nature through fasting and longevity practices. He received military teachings from the legendary Old Man of the Yellow Stone (who bestowed upon him The Grand Duke’s Art of War), while also keeping company with the immortal Chisongzi (Red Pine Master). Such unparalleled talent is rarely seen across the ages.

Ten Inscriptions at the Temple of Marquis Huaiyin (Han Xin) reflect on Han Xin’s legacy:

1. Han Xin’s rebellion warranted punishment, but exterminating three generations of his clan was excessive.

2. When Liu Bang first established the Han dynasty, he ruled through霸道 (the Way of Hegemony); even his chancellor Xiao He could hardly be called noble in conduct.

3. Despite monumental contributions, Han Xin’s ambition for a royal title led to his downfall.

4. Though encountering a wise ruler, his demand for the title of "Acting King" sowed the seeds of disaster.

5. Han Xin harbored no rebellious intent, yet Xiao He’s suspicions framed him.

6. Had he followed Kuai Tong’s advice to declare independence, history might have unfolded differently.

7. Gifted yet blind to the wisdom of timely withdrawal, he paled beside Fan Li, who retired after achieving glory.

8. Without Han Xin, Xiang Yu could not have been crushed; without Xiao He, Han Xin could not have been controlled.

9. Among the five non-imperial kings ennobled in early Han, Han Xin stood preeminent—yet suffered most grievously.

10. Merits that overshadow the ruler invite distrust. Had he emulated Fan Li’s timely retreat, he might have been spared.

Vista from the Tower of Fengzhou Prefecture describes a rooftop panorama: Willow branches sway like carriage canopies in the wind; from the high tower, one gazes idly all day. Birds leaving the woods deepen the solitude; clouds drifting past mountains meet no hindrance, while thoughts chase after a pair of darting swallows.

The Yichuan Jirang Collection is a poetic anthology by Shao Yong, a Northern Song Dynasty Neo-Confucian scholar. These verses primarily depict natural landscapes and philosophical reflections on life. The first poem portrays the vast scene of a lone swan flying past layered cliffs at dusk—the fading crimson of the setting sun, distant ripples on the water, and misty haze obscuring the view—prompting the long-exiled poet to lean against the railing, gazing eastward with deep emotion.

On his return from Fengzhou to the Qinchuan post station, the poet sent verses to his friends Xue and Yao, lamenting how their ninety-day joyous gathering now seemed as fleeting as a dream, with the bright moon and clear river no longer shared. Another poem describes heavy snowfall over Luoyang, where the stove lacks fire and the wine cup lies empty—yet someone delivers a snow-inspired poem from Zhang Yuanbo of the Western Terrace at dawn.

When bidding farewell to Zhang, the assistant magistrate of Yishi, the poet reminds him of the thousand-mile journey ahead in officialdom, urging him to remember his parents’ concern, much like a roc taking its first flight must remain mindful of the arduous path. The New Year’s Chant of 1060 (Jiayou 5th year) alludes to the ancient sages Qu Yuan and Confucius reading the Book of Changes, expressing contemplation on heavenly will and human sentiment while yearning for a reclusive life by the Yichuan River.

Among the five spring excursion poems, the first notes how plum blossoms in Lingnan bloom in winter, contrasting with northerners admiring them in early spring—a subtle metaphor for spring’s gradual northward advance. The second depicts Luoyang’s magnificent spring scenery: willows swaying in the wind, flowers mirrored in water, yet travelers sigh over the emperor’s prolonged absence from western tours. The third captures leisurely moments in February’s floral season—seeking fragrance under green poplar shade and returning home tipsy amidst apricot blossoms. The fourth identifies the Cold Food Festival (eve of Qingming) as a worldly celebration where Luoyang’s famed gardens shine brightest: the Golden Valley’s warm palaces, Bronze Camel Street’s radiant sunlight, willows draping to the ground, swings peeking over walls, and white horses treading young grass—a scene sustained for over a decade.

The following poems from Yichuan Jirang Ji depict seasonal landscapes and literati pleasures, rendered here in vernacular interpretation:

When peonies bloom in the third lunar month, music drifts from pavilions on every side. Ladies in carriages laugh behind silk curtains, while pedestrians stroll leisurely below. Emerald waves shimmer through swaying drapes; the floral fragrance of Shangyang Palace perfumes wine cups. Though Luoyang's western capital nurtures the finest flora, none pause to lament even its most splendid sights.

By summer bamboo courtyards, the poet wakes from naps leaning on his desk. In the season's lingering daylight, fledgling orioles practice song as young apricots tinge yellow. Raindrops interrupt secluded dreams; breezes scatter distant thoughts. Days slip by unnoticed while dabbling in shaded streams beneath dense foliage.

Lotus flowers blaze glorious crimson in the seventh month, drawing the poet to southeastern gardens. When wind crosses the pond, waves carry their fragrance like mistaking Yànhuà Creek for a painted scroll, or yearning for Dongting Lake's unreached grandeur. Sudden drizzles bring fresh coolness to wine cups.

Before autumn's official arrival, Luoyang's agreeable climate already whispers of chill. Rain-washed courtyards glow cleaner still—some float leisurely on Yishui's currents, others admire the moon on horseback at Tianjin Bridge. Comparing himself to ancient sages Gao Yao and Kuí, the poet celebrates peace with verse and wine.

The eighth month finds special delight in pine pavilions and bamboo groves, when days and nights achieve perfect balance. The moon seems sentimentally attentive; clear breezes greet like old friends. Content in solitude, he chants poetry unconcerned with courtly recognition.

By southern walls where water mirrors bamboo, autumn never finds the poet idle. He savors crisp air and half-drunken hours—riding freely through rain-washed streets, leaning on monastery railings in sunlight. Having sought beauty ten years through, now he laughs at white hairs dancing in autumn wind.

Though the ninth month nears year's end, central plains retain their charm. Holding chrysanthemum sprigs, he gazes at endless autumn vistas. Fine wine measures idle days; no mirror mourns aging faces. Even with utmost cinnabar sincerity (chìchéng zhī xīn), who in this world truly understands?

The final verses paint frosty heights: from towers, distant mountains frame all horizons; deep autumn palaces stand hollow. Clouds bar the peaks like thousand-fathom screens (qiānxún píngzhàng), articulating the poet's boundless solitude.

These poems depict the autumn and winter landscapes, along with the poet's inner reflections. The first poem describes the scattered rays of sunset glow, evoking boundless sorrow that finds no listener—only the west wind to confide in. In "Autumn Impressions," birdsong disturbs the daytime woods while insect chirps disrupt the night courtyard, prompting the poet to lament why these creatures toil so tirelessly without rest.

"Journey Along Mount Shang" records travel observations. Though the road to Mount Shang (modern Shangluo, Shaanxi) is long, it proves not overly arduous. Following the Luo River, one gazes upon the Qinling Mountains. Though wandering beyond the mist-clad wilderness, the poet's heart remains tethered to family, anticipating a swift return home.

In the plum blossom poem, the blossoms are praised as if the Queen Mother of the West (supreme Daoist goddess) had snipped white clouds with deft hands—their fragrance pure and subtle. Southern Qin (south of Qinling) enjoys warm weather, where plum trees bloom early, unfurling multiple times by early spring. Amid competing flowers, only the plum embodies noble purity; it scorns rivalry, blooming solely for the Spring Deity. Frost highlights its lofty character, while breezes carry its delicate scent afar.

"Lodging on Mount Shang" portrays a solitary winter night: a dimming lamp, icy quilts, and memories of bygone days. Though the bright moon illuminates a thousand miles, it cannot outshine the sorrow confined within one's heart.

"Early Plum Blossoms" notes how the southern Qin region, warm like Lingnan, sees plum blossoms unfurling by the twelfth lunar month. Disdaining floral competition, it blooms alone in early spring. Wind-scattered petals surpass the flute's melancholy notes; their falling resembles rouge clinging to a beauty's forehead. Local officials present the blossoms to the governor, who shares their fragrance with the people.

"Unburdening the Heart" offers life insights: though the future remains unknowable, wealth and fame cannot be forced. Wine best cleanses the mind, while poetry refines one's nature. Faced with nature's beauty, how can one squander moments of wind, flowers, snow, and moon? A true man should embrace life's gains and losses with open-hearted ease, never dwelling in perpetual gloom.

"Viewing Snow from the Tower" captures the poet ascending with Shangzhou's governor to admire winter's pristine snowscape, framing its crisp, refreshing beauty.

The poems from Yichuan Jirang Ji depict winter snowscapes and the poet's shifting emotions stirred by the scenery. The first poem describes ascending the west tower to admire the snow—crystalline flakes dance like shattered jade, light as willow catkins. Though separated by vast distances, the poet reflects how sharing wine with friends evokes contrasting moods.

The second portrays the clearing sky after snowfall: sunlight glints on pristine drifts, mountain peaks stand sharp as swords, and frozen surfaces gleam like newly woven silk. Comparing Kunlun's snow to flawless jade and the frozen Milky Way to silver, the poet laments his inability to craft verses worthy of such beauty.

In the third poem, climbing the tower as the snow melts, the poet watches winter recede before returning spring. Though wine flows freely, he regrets the absence of plum blossoms to admire, yet remains grateful for the prefect's kindness. The fourth captures a moonlit night after snowfall—the cold radiance of moonlight upon snow, bamboo shadows swaying in the crisp breeze—but again, worthy lines elude him.

The fifth poem paints a clearing dusk after light snow: distant mountains cast slanting shadows through sparse woods, while sunset hues streak the sky. The intermittent sound of horns carries on the wind, a scene so exquisite even painters would struggle to capture it.

The final verses express year-end reflections—time flies like arrows, another spring approaches, yet fame and fortune seem as transient as clouds to his disillusioned heart. Another New Year finds his aging body steeped in solitude; fine wine deepens his melancholy, and though the moonlit night is serene, the beauty around him only sharpens his quiet sorrow. Through delicate snowscape imagery, these works reveal the poet's solitary contemplation amid nature's splendor and his poignant awareness of time's relentless passage.

"Following the Rhyme of Prefect Wang Changshi's 'Gazing at Mountains from the Commandery Tower'":

Four sages once wandered and contemplated here, their memory cherished through the ages. Though fame may spread under heaven, it cannot escape worldly entanglements; only a mind free of attachments may dwell in mountain seclusion. Surveying the rise and fall of dynasties past and present, the true principle lies in the interplay between sovereign and minister. Those endowed with extraordinary talents are destined for extraordinary service—otherwise, one merely drifts through life in vain.

"Four Poems on the Temple of the Four Haos":

1: When Qin's governance collapsed, chaos engulfed the realm as heroes vied for supremacy—none knowing where the symbolic deer (of rulership) would ultimately rest.

2: As Liu Bang (the Ba Shang True Man) rose to power, the four sages exchanged silent glances, recognizing Heaven's mandate was settled—better to emulate the recluses Chao Fu and Xu You.

3: Though Emperor Gaozu of Han was arrogant and unyielding, the Crown Prince (later Emperor Hui) won the sages' support through humility. Even in old age they achieved greatness—their virtue still shines like sun and moon.

4: Tian Heng found refuge at sea, while the Four Haos came near Chang'an. That these sages preserved their integrity proves Liu Bang's true kingly virtue.

"Gratitude to Prefect Song Langzhong for Sending Tianzhu Mountain Residence Documents, Following Original Rhymes":

The new household register from Shangyu warms my heart, especially the auspicious purple fungus (of immortality). Tianzhu Mountain in the southwest touches the heavens—I once sought courtly service but now dwell beneath its peaks, free from nocturnal travelers' (officialdom's) perils.

No longer reporting life-and-death matters to the court, I retreat to wooded hills. Grateful for Song Langzhong's vacant position awaiting this Tianzhu recluse. Cloud-wrapped peaks confirm my hermitage—henceforth withdrawn from worldly affairs. Years spent with mountain deer, now registered here—my name shall endure with Tianzhu's peaks through eternity.

"To Prefect Song Langzhong in Shang":

Returning to Luoyang's myriad duties, this idle man seems out of place. Now savoring leisure like the recluse who once whistled atop Mount Shang's cliffs.

"Waking from a Nap in My Small Garden":

Beyond my gate lies wilderness profound—here natural truth returns. Outside official bustle, time flows silent. Water animates the garden; windless, plants stand hushed. A spring bird's song pierces deep dreams, whispering through branches.

"Three Poems on Mountain Wandering":

(Incomplete original text prevents full translation)

Living too long in the city, my heart naturally grew weary—yet the moment I stepped beyond the city gates, my vision brightened. At Longmen (the scenic spot south of Luoyang), I took in the beauty along both banks of the Yi River; at Mount Nüji (near Luoyang), I listened to the murmuring flow of the Luo River. After admiring the majestic sunrise from Mount Taishi (the main peak of Songshan), I ascended the Heavenly Altar (a ritual site on Songshan) to gaze at the rising clouds. I’ve resolved in this lifetime to follow true companions of the Dao, never again to haggle over petty gains.

As spring nears its end, climbing high to gaze afar feels just right—one’s mood becomes as clear and bright as the weather. At night, drifting on a boat along the Yi River, I feel the gentle breeze; fishing by the stream’s mouth, I watch the moon rise. When inspiration strikes, I pour my heart into poetry; when my body feels unwell, wine alone revives my spirit. Life is fleeting as floating clouds—why spend each day with a furrowed brow?

Pursue what brings joy, avoid what brings sorrow—understanding Heaven’s will is the mark of a true man. Trivial achievements are not worth forcing; the beauty of mountains and waters naturally refreshes the heart. Don’t fear the misty mountain paths—walk them while your strength remains. What more should one seek in life beyond basic needs? Wealth and glory, indulged in excess, only bring sorrow.

Two peach trees of different hues—one pink, one red—each lovely in its own way, each enchanting as a peerless beauty. They seem like a pair of immortal sisters from the Palace of Blossoming Pearls (a Daoist celestial realm), both vowing to wed the spring wind.

Composed while climbing mountains and facing waters:

Mountains have their towering peaks, rivers their surging waves—

Neither can fully hold my wooden sandals, nor my little boat.

It’s not that the joys of the wise and benevolent are absent,

But few are those who climb high without tiring.

Speaking of delicacies, all know the taste of fine fish,

But who can discern true jade when discussing the Dao?

I shame myself for failing to fully recognize talent,

And often lament how today’s standards are set too high.

Declining Prime Minister Fu’s (the renowned Northern Song statesman Fu Bi) repeated invitations to serve:

I thank you for your many summons,

Thinking my heart holds great talent.

But how could an official escape the duties of his post?

Since I live in idleness, why chase empty fame?

(The messenger suggested accepting an honorary post if unwilling to serve)

I’d rather be like Chao Fu and Xu You (ancient recluses),

Content as a commoner in an age like Yao and Shun’s.

With a court full of virtuous and able men,

Why should this sickly man fret over state affairs?

My plan to end my days in mountain forests—

Who knows if Heaven will allow?

High ranks may bring honor,

But none compare to beholding clouds and peaks.

Fine scenes never lack poetic inspiration,

Yet the ambitions of youth have long faded.

Wild geese find joy in rivers and lakes—

Why trouble to weave nets of officialdom?

Answering a question about Confucian teachings:

Since the dawn of creation, worldly teachings have flourished,

Among them, the most outstanding are called true Confucians.

Cultivating the self is...

(The original text breaks off here, likely referring to the Confucian ideal of self-cultivation, family harmony, state governance, and world peace.)

Shao Yong (styled Master Yichuan) expresses in these two poems his reflections on the transmission of Daoist learning and life's ideals.

The first poem conveys: Since ancient times, every era has had those who awakened to the Dao (xianjue). They deeply explored the mysteries of the cosmos (da ao qu), leaving behind classics as vivid as painted scrolls (huan ruo danqing). The principles within the classics and histories shine as clearly as sun and moon (yi ming ru riyue). Though we ordinary people (zousheng) may have long immersed ourselves (hanyong sui yun jiu) in the path of the sages (shengren tu), how dare we presumptuously judge the talents of the world?

The second poem is a farewell verse for Academician Wang Bochu departing for the capital: A true man's aspirations and integrity can only be determined at life's end (gai guan ding), for he naturally possesses grand designs (xiong tu). Parting inevitably stirs nostalgia for bygone days (gan jiu), yet how can one indulge personal sentiments upon assuming office? In casual discourse, precision and thoroughness should be valued (gui jingmi), while governing requires advance planning for peaceful times. Who says there are no good strategies for defending against external threats? The supreme strategy lies in achieving victory without battle (fa ren mou chu bu xu bing).

Note: "Zousheng" was an ancient self-deprecating term meaning "shallow person"; "fa mou" originates from Sunzi's Art of War ("The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting"), referring to winning through strategy. The poems demonstrate Shao Yong's characteristic fusion of Daoist wisdom with Confucian concern for worldly affairs.