《徐仙翰藻》Vol. 3

The "Ode to Mount Ao" in Scroll Three of Xu Xian's Literary Treasures depicts the majestic scenery of a towering peak. This Mount Ao soars into the clouds; according to Huainanzi, its mountain range originates from Kunlun, while Chisongzi's (an ancient immortal of legend) Qingnang Jing reveals its branches extend to the Yuling Range. Viewed from the south, it resembles myriad foreign states paying tribute; gazing northward, it evokes the lofty Songshan bowing in reverence to the sage.

The mountain's forms are diverse: some like overturned golden bowls, others resembling upturned ceremonial cauldrons; here an immortal unfurling his ritual robe, there a celestial maiden opening her mirror; now a warrior donning his helmet, then a noble holding a jade scepter. Its periphery is framed by Mount Fang in front like an altar table, Mount Bu behind as a screen, Mount Lu supporting from the left, and Mount He bolstering from the right—a layout of solemn grandeur. Even renowned peaks like Jiuhuashan, Huangshan, and Yandangshan pale in comparison to Mount Ao's majesty; scenic wonders such as Kuaijishan, Yunmeng Marsh, Luofushan, and Wulingyuan fall short of capturing its essence.

Measured by ceremonial tablets, its circumference spans over two to three hundred li; marked by survey poles, its height reaches no less than four to five thousand zhang. The summit nearly grazes the heavens—ascending here brings one to the courtyard of Ziwei (the Daoist celestial abode of the Heavenly Emperor), where one could scoop waves from the Milky Way. Gazing downward, all earthly things appear minuscule, as though heaven and earth rest in the palm of one's hand.

The text notes that were Meng Canjun (the Jin dynasty luminary Meng Jia) present, he would surely be as unrestrained as when his hat blew off at Longshan; had Governor Xie (the Southern Dynasties poet Xie Lingyun) seen this vista, he would surely have fastened his clogs to come and wander. Alas, these refined scholars are gone—who now remains to appreciate such splendor?

The passage then describes the mountain's scenery: undulating terrain, terraced fields in harmonious disorder. Morning mists disperse as the sun rises in the east; evening glows blaze as the moon hangs in the west. Pure radiance glistens, emerald shadows flourish—spring breezes carry the fragrance of a hundred flowers, summer clouds shift beneath dense greenery, autumn dew dissipates as mountain mists rise, each season's vistas distinct. (Note: The original text is fragmentary toward the end; the final line depicting autumn remains incomplete.)

The passage paints a vivid picture where natural mountain scenery harmoniously blends with human activity. In the depths of winter, when frost and snow blanket the land and vegetation withers, these mountains nevertheless teem with vitality and resources.

The forest shelters diverse creatures: tigers, wolves, foxes and hares make their homes in caves, while birds like sparrows, turtledoves and pheasants nest among the branches, their calls echoing through the woods. Hunters set intricate traps here, wielding exquisite bows (including legendary ancient models like the "Xiafu arrows" and "Wuhao bows") to capture game for sacrificial rites and culinary use.

The mountains yield an abundance of valuable timber—over thirty types including pine, cypress, camphor, catalpa and nanmu. Smaller trees provide materials for door bolts and wedges, while massive trunks become beams and pillars for construction.

The slopes also produce various cash crops: red bananas and white ramie for weaving cloth; fine kudzu and green hemp for clothing materials; wild mulberries and silkwornthorns for sericulture. Delicacies like lychees, longans and tangerines grow alongside dozens of medicinal herbs including aromatic rue, achyranthes root, and Solomon's seal—not to mention famous regional specialties like Guzhu purple-bud tea and Jiaozhou coix seed.

The final section depicts hermits' lives: Daoist adepts practice cultivation in stone chambers while recluses meditate in thatched huts. Here one finds meditation cushions for Buddhist sitting practice (anchan) and immortal platforms for Daoist ascension (dengzhen, achieving immortality). Taoist relics remain—auspicious celestial lanterns, elixir-refining cauldrons, stone drums that still resonate when struck, and sword-grooved rocks bearing ancient blade marks. Precipitous spots bear names like "Battle-Summoning Gate" while level areas are called "Horse-Resting Bay." The author reflects that these historic sites stand as authentic witnesses to bygone eras.

(Note: The term "dengzhen" refers to Taoist cultivation leading to immortality, while "anchan" denotes Buddhist meditation practice—reflecting the period's cultural blending of Buddhist and Taoist traditions.)

This passage paints a magnificent panorama of natural landscapes and historical transformations. It begins with towering cliffs and unfathomably deep pools, where mountain ridges rise and fall in dramatic contours. Orchids intertwine with vines, exuding fragrance, while emerald creepers cascade downward. Mountain springs gush forth, and waterfalls plunge from sheer cliffs—pure as white silk, profound as indigo, their droplets round like pearls, collecting in jade-like basins so deep they defy measurement even with golden blades or jade rulers.

Here, divine dragons manifest unpredictably, now soaring, now hiding, capable of transforming into thunderous storms or gentle drizzles. Amidst swirling mists, ancient temples still receive the devout worship of local people. Tracing back to antiquity, this region wasn't incorporated into Qin dynasty territories until the Han dynasty, when it became part of Nanyue (present-day Guangdong and Guangxi regions).

During the Tang dynasty's Zhenguan era (627-649 CE), the area was officially named "Shangdu," its majestic city walls radiating grandeur. The text details geographical features: the bustling markets of Zhongqingpu echoing with tidal sounds; the undulating terrain of Chuanzhudun and Xianglugang; mountains with stark black-and-white stones; Qianyang curving like an arm, while Fushan resembles a heel. Here, people till fields, build homes, and live in peace.

Yet the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period (907-979 CE) brought relentless warfare and societal decline. The Wang rulers' incompetence and extravagance—with excessive construction and decadent pleasures—drove away wildlife and left mountains desolate. Only during the Song dynasty, from Jianlong (960-963) to Xiangfu (1008-1016), when the court promoted civil governance and established schools, did scholars flourish and vitality return, making this a cradle of talent. The passage concludes reflectively: where once the mountain's spirit resided in natural wonders, now its essence manifests in nurturing exceptional people.

This "Ode to Lingji Palace" from Xu Xian's Literary Exuberance employs ornate language to depict the sacred scenery of a Daoist temple and the mysteries of the cosmos. Let me explain it section by section:

The opening describes how deities traverse between north and south, while this mountain remains eternally youthful as it embodies divine presence. The gods never fail in bestowing blessings, guiding people toward goodness, demonstrating that the Dao of heaven remains undiminished. Deities dwell in profound secrecy, and the great Dao (Dao) lies concealed—requiring personal, careful contemplation. The author modestly compares himself to the literary figures Cao Zhi and Zuo Si, claiming limited talent while reluctantly composing this ode.

Next comes the mystical depiction of Lingji Palace: divine dragons clutching prophetic charts, sacred turtles bearing celestial scriptures—all mysterious omens. Inquiring of the deity of Supreme Primordial (Taiyuan, the highest Daoist realm), the poet seeks to comprehend the world's primordial beginnings. Though Fuxi and Yu the Great (legendary sage-kings) explain the origins, their words remain obscure. Suddenly enlightened by the omen of the mysterious bird (a celestial sign), the vision dissolves back into chaos. Even master craftsmen's measurements cannot rival the intricate patterns of heavenly Dao (Dao). These are no ordinary signs decipherable through plants—not even the divination herbs (lingfen) can reveal them.

The reclusive cultivators (youren) guard truths of "the mystery beyond mystery." Lightning flashes prove elusive; the cosmos' extremities remain unknowable. The Five Emperors and Three Sovereigns—ancient sages—all have their places within the divine gardens. Treading upon constellations to ascend the heavens, the Ninefold Celestial Realms (jiutian) stretch boundlessly without discernible edges. The Ao Peak (mythical turtle-borne mountain) pierces the clouds; ascending its exquisite altar reaches the sky's zenith. Gazing downward, mountains appear as mounds while clouds churn unpredictably.

The towering peaks resemble tamed steeds, their summits arched like crimson azure dragons. Lotus-shaped clouds swirl dynamically, their pure qi (vital energy) invigorating the spirit (shen). The numinous mountain soars into jade-green mists. Nine intersecting altar paths extend in well-ordered patterns like the ancient well-field system. The Dao's (Dao) tidal breath flows ceaselessly—verily, mountain deities (yuezhi), water spirits (dugui), and the Earth Mother (Hou'ao) nurture this vital energy. During the Zhenghe era (Northern Song period), officials constructed this temple complex, selecting auspicious days for groundbreaking. Now, stone pillars stand firm as bedrock, jade columns gleam with intricate carvings, and upturned eaves mimic rugged mountain contours.

Through lavish mythological imagery and natural landscapes, the text presents Daoist temples as sacred spaces connecting heaven and earth, embodying the profound principles of cosmic operation.

This passage depicts a magnificent Daoist temple complex with its solemn atmosphere. The layered eaves resemble birds poised for flight, while the interlocking bracket sets extend upward in intricate patterns. The vermilion gates stand open with the grandeur of ancient stone drums from Qiyang, their towering walls adorned with vibrant paintings.

Within the temple lie secluded inner chambers, with east and west corridors harmoniously following the terrain. The ornamentation is extraordinarily lavish: curtains embroidered with qilin patterns, beaded nets strung with pearls and jade, along with exquisite decorations of peacocks and golden geese. Here are enshrined precious Daoist talismans (fulu) where even gold and mandala flowers pale in comparison, all accentuated by crystalline glass.

Auspicious clouds rise from lingzhi-shaped incense burners, while Boshan censers waft fragrant smoke. Wind whispers through pines and cedars, as moonlight hangs upon scholar trees and osmanthus. Courtyards feature carved pools teeming with fish. Though compact in size, this temple seems to encompass the entire cosmos, its soaring pagodas piercing the heavens.

The temple maintains strict hierarchies, with solemn ceremonial guards and attendants standing in reverent silence. All malevolent spirits are warded off, daring not approach. Before rituals, devotees observe pious fasting with utmost reverence. The painted deities bear awe-inspiring countenances, while guardian warriors stand fierce as bears or mighty as pixiu (legendary beasts), armed with bows, banners, and weapons in impenetrable formation.

This temple manifests celestial majesty, drawing distant nations across mountains and seas to pay tribute. Finally, it offers blessings for the emperor's boundless longevity, whose nurturing grace like Heaven and Earth shall extend the kingly Dao's influence to all under heaven.

This passage depicts a magnificent celestial realm, celebrating the exalted state and virtuous achievements of Daoist practitioners.

The cultivator wears loyalty as armor, integrity as protective gear, propriety as a shield, and righteousness as a fortified tower. They immerse themselves in classical literature (蒐诗社 sōu shī shè and 猎词林 liè cí lín signify extensive reading), master literary arts (游墨场 yóu mò chǎng and 聘翰国 pìn hàn guó denote skilled writing), and follow the path of ancient sages (崇璟 chóng jǐng represents lofty ideals), shining brilliantly like auspicious clouds.

The text vividly portrays the grandeur of Lingyan Pavilion (a Daoist site honoring immortals): celestial beings adorned with golden seals and purple robes (symbolizing nobility) dazzle like performers from the Western Liang region (ancient Central Asia), featuring lion dances and exotic acrobatics. The Pear Garden (Tang imperial music academy) resounds with enchanting melodies, while beauties from across the land (楚娃 Chǔ wá, 吴艳 Wú yàn, 秦娥 Qín é, 卫姝 Wèi shū—representing renowned women of different regions) clad in splendid attire savor rare delicacies (八珍 bā zhēn, the finest culinary treasures).

Yet, the cultivator does not indulge in such pleasures. Instead, they maintain reverence, pursuing the state of 无为 Wuwei (non-action, the highest Daoist attainment). The text alludes to the Book of Songs’ "Cutting Wood" (a metaphor for harmony) and the rituals of Duke Lu (a ruler of the Spring and Autumn period), illustrating the practitioner’s adherence to ceremonial propriety.

Further emphasizing their scholarly refinement, the cultivator excels in ancient scripts (籀篆 zhòu zhuàn), rivaling the legendary Cangjie (mythic inventor of writing). Through practices like "Bear Stretching and Turtle Breathing" (熊经龟息 xióng jīng guī xī, Daoist daoyin exercises mimicking animal movements and breathing), they attain the wisdom of figures like Huang Shigong, Xu Shu, and Dong Zhongshu (renowned hermits and scholars of history).

The passage culminates in a majestic procession of immortals: the Thunder God (雷公 Léi Gōng) clears the path, the Rain Master (雨师 Yǔ Shī) purifies the dust, Feilian (飞廉, the Wind God) howls, and divine matriarchs (神母 Shén Mǔ, such as Nüwa) guide the way. Dragon chariots and phoenix carriages (龙车凤辇 lóng chē fèng niǎn), accompanied by celestial birds (八鸾五凤 bā luán wǔ fèng), ascend to the Heavenly Gate (紫庭 zǐ tíng, the celestial palace). There, the immortals feast on fine wine and fragrant herbs (芳芷 fāng zhǐ, 杜衡 dù héng), eternally honored in the Hall of Longevity (寿宫 shòu gōng).

Through lavish imagery, the text illustrates how cultivators, through inner and outer refinement, ultimately transcend the mundane to attain divine perfection.

A devoted scholar came to visit me bearing incense offerings, and mentioned how every temple and monastery in our hometown has its stele records—even Yuqing Hall has its documented history—yet Xing'an Pagoda, this sacred Daoist practice site, remains without written documentation. This gentleman believed such a significant site should not be overlooked—why not compose a record?

It’s not that I deliberately refused, but rather that witnessing this sacred place gradually falling into ruin without finding the right person to restore its original form filled me with deep regret. Now that someone has raised the question, I’ve gathered the relevant accounts in hopes of inspiring those with the right affinity. Thus, I write this poetic essay:

The towering Aofeng Peak, its undulating ridges rising and falling through countless ages, suddenly opens into a pure land amidst three emerald-green summits. Encircled by mountains as if bowing in reverence, gazing westward invites lingering contemplation. This is no place for donkeys or horses to tread, but a spiritual abode where dragon-elephants (symbolizing great power in Buddhism) dwell. Enshrined here are the true relics of the Tathagata (Buddha), each as round as a cherry, radiant with golden splendor. Once wrapped in felt and carried by camels from the distant Western Regions, they were finally interred in this pagoda. Its structure, carved from frothy white stone in the shape of mountain ridges, ascends in seven tiers, majestic as if manifesting a thousand Buddhas.

Within the pagoda, divine flames glow with a cool blue light, their radiance reaching the constellations of Dou and Niu (two of the twenty-eight lunar mansions). Mortals, celestial beings, and spirits alike gaze upon it reverently, joyfully seeing their aspirations in harmony with the Dharma. Morning and evening devotions never cease, with special emphasis on the last day of the month, the full moon (15th), the first and last quarters (7th and 22nd), and the new moon (1st)—all key dates. This tradition was passed down by ancestral shrine keepers and abbots, who composed verses for cultivation. Among them was a descendant of Bi Gan (a loyal minister of the Shang Dynasty) named Huaixian, a true patron of the village, using the wooden fish’s sound to awaken the world, its nightly resonance like a crane’s cry in the mountains.

With united hearts, all contributed merit—even the smallest offerings of a spoon or bowl were gathered. The inscription from the Yuanfu era (Emperor Zhezong’s reign) remains carved in stone, its date still verifiable. Here, I offer only a brief summary: The fame of Jinghui (a revered monk) has echoed since ancient times, speaking of the Western Pure Land; the renown of Wenxing Temple endures to this day, embodying Confucian ideals. The shrine honors Confucius (Xuan Sheng) to manifest scholarly devotion, while sacrifices to Yuanhuang (a Daoist deity) seek blessings of rank and success. Guanghui Hall and Qingzhen Pavilion stand symmetrically—on the right, paying homage to the Dark Emperor of Heaven (Zhenwu), and on the left, gazing upon the sacred Eastern Peak. Eminent monks were invited to guide Pure Land practice (An Yang, the Western Paradise), seated on lotus thrones radiating light. A thousand wisdom forms manifest, unadorned yet naturally majestic, as pure and dazzling as Master Yuan Ying’s white robes.

This passage depicts the spiritual journey and compassionate deeds of a Daoist practitioner (Immortal Xu), using poetic language to illustrate the integration of Daoist cultivation with worldly benevolence.

At times, the practitioner embodies simple authenticity, like golden threads adorning a robe of enlightenment; at other times, he dons elegant attire, healing the sick with compassion, saving lives without relying on rare medicines. He refines himself through filial piety, thereby transforming the shallowness and vices of the mundane world.

The text describes the solemn grandeur of the cultivation site: the Hall of Realization (a place of practice) is sacred and dignified, its pavilions like a phoenix spreading its wings, its eaves exquisitely carved, its chambers orderly arranged, complete with kitchens and baths. Master painters (such as Zhang Sengyou, the renowned Southern Dynasties artist) adorned the walls with vibrant murals, some areas embellished in black and white. Once all the implements were prepared, everyone devoted themselves wholeheartedly—these achievements were not accomplished overnight.

From the Xuanhe era of Emperor Huizong of Song through the efforts of successive practitioners (Zhang, Wu, Guo, Xu, Zhou, and others), the site was continuously expanded and renovated from the Yuanfu to the Jingyan periods. Their loyal and diligent aspirations are praised—their merits will endure as countless as the sands of the Ganges. Should anyone recklessly abandon this legacy, they would feel shame before heaven and earth.

The passage then employs metaphors to illustrate the impermanence of worldly affairs: the Candle Dragon (a mythical dragon holding a torch to illuminate the world) does not shine forever, and dusk must eventually fade; when musk burns out, it cannot be rekindled, just as bellows (tuoyue, a Daoist alchemical tool) cannot stir dead ashes; a collapsing tower cannot be propped up by a single beam. Lamenting that the transformative teachings of the ancients are now beyond reach, later generations struggle to comprehend, leaving one to sigh alone.

Finally, a series of rhetorical questions expresses sorrow over the state of the world: Why do hills and valleys shift, and the path of life grow treacherous? Why do people fight over trifling gains while neglecting what truly matters? Why do the aged shrink back in shame? Why do the dull-witted remain unenlightened? Why do fine steeds go unrecognized by a discerning judge? Why do plans fail to reach perfection? Why are the traces of past sages destroyed? Why do some reap without sowing? When will a worthy guide (like the matchmaker Jian Xiu, here symbolizing a mentor) come to set things right?

In his self-defense, the author admits that his actions are often seen as impractical and absurd, yet he believes that today’s seemingly unrealistic cultivation will one day be honored. Citing ancient texts like In Search of the Supernatural and Records of Divine Wonders as examples, he notes that these accounts were once dismissed as fanciful but are now revered as classics. This implies that his own path of cultivation will likewise be vindicated by future generations.

Reading the books of sages evokes profound reflections—who could deny this? When I studied the classics, Confucius claimed to avoid speaking of supernatural phenomena, yet the Spring and Autumn Annals repeatedly records covenant oaths and celestial omens like the capture of the qilin. Some dismiss these as later interpolations from commentaries like Gongyang, Zuo, and Guliang. But consider the adage about "the first to make funerary figurines"—even sages cannot escape responsibility for precedents they establish. Hence the saying, "Those who understand me will do so through the Spring and Autumn; those who condemn me will also do so through the Spring and Autumn." This reveals how rare true discernment is.

Literature belongs to the world's common treasury. If we must distinguish right from wrong, by what standard? I cannot judge whether my own writings are correct—I leave that to your evaluation. Consider Duan Wenchang's Stele of Pacifying Cai: when Governor Chen Xiong ordered such monuments destroyed, only Han Yu's text was spared. Though later generations revere Han Yu, Su Shi once remarked, "Who remembers Duan Wenchang exists?" So how shall we assess Duan's merit? My writings lack Duan's brilliance—they may be preserved though unworthy of destruction. Should anyone insist on erasure, even with records preserved, who would speak as Su Shi did? My insistence on preservation seeks neither contemporary fame nor posthumous glory, only that future temple visitors might understand my actions through these records, avoiding self-deception in dark chambers while nurturing genuine reverence.

For engraving stelae, one must find the right calligrapher. I venture to request—knowing you must have discerning judgment. Su Shi claimed never to compose funerary biographies, yet for Sima Guang and Fu Bi he wrote, "I dared not refuse"—revealing his true stance. Your willingness to inscribe this stele surely follows Su's example. Though Cai Yong told Lu Zhi, "Of my many epitaphs, most fill me with shame—only the Stele for Guo Daowen leaves my conscience clear," I presume to make this request by that precedent.

Regarding clarification: Since assuming celestial office (xianzhi), after universal salvation (pudu zhongsheng), I've abstained from worldly interactions. Occasional writings merely exhort virtue. Without sincere hearts, no spiritual resonance (ganying) manifests. As for disasters like floods, droughts, or plagues...

This scripture primarily addresses fraudulent practices in deity worship and divination, offering sharp criticism of such phenomena.

The text begins by stating that disasters and misfortunes in the world stem from moral failings in human virtue (De), and people should examine themselves with reverent awe. Ancient divination tools like oracle slips responded truthfully, but today's spirit-writing (a form of divination) produces unreliable strokes precisely because it mixes falsehoods with truth. Some charlatans fabricate lies to deceive people, conjuring spirits in empty rooms where none exist. The scripture pointedly asks: "Humans may be deceived, but can deities (Shen) be fooled?" Just as fish eyes cannot pass for pearls, falsehoods will ultimately be discerned by the discerning eye.

The text then censures those who exploit divine names for deception. True deities reside in the hidden realms, their revelations luminous as precious jade. Ancient masters like Han Kang and Guo Pu (Guo Jingchun), who genuinely understood the arts of Yin-Yang, left virtuous legacies that endure through the ages. Yet today some proclaim themselves immortals while being nothing more than foxes and rats causing mischief—distorting truth and falsehood in ways that provoke righteous indignation.

Finally, the text employs classical allusions—Nüwa mending the heavens, Emperor Shun and Yu's royal inspections—to contrast ancient and modern beliefs. It laments how authentic spiritual power (Qi) once flowed from the vital energies of heaven, earth, and sacred mountains, whereas today's temples are filled with absurdities. Those who traffic in false spirituality will ultimately reap what they sow, facing both celestial retribution and human judgment.

Through this historical comparison, the entire text exposes religious fraud of its time, emphasizing that true deities cannot be deceived, and deceivers will inevitably meet their demise.

This passage conveys the author's lament over the treacherous ways of the world and the deceitfulness of human hearts, while advocating steadfast adherence to the righteous path. The text employs a series of vivid metaphors:

Like a serpent seeking to destroy a man's dignified attire, I watch as the world descends into peril. When a great edifice is about to collapse yet none pay heed, how can a single pillar hope to bear its weight? In these desolate times, I persist with bitter resolve at Luochi (perhaps a place of spiritual practice), recording these thoughts with brush and ink—only to have truth and falsehood inverted. Some deceive with honeyed words, prattling like the sophists of the Qin dynasty. You feign tranquility yet harbor cunning—better to remain in your unadorned simplicity.

A small vessel cannot contain greatness, just as one peers at the sky through a withered well's narrow shaft. A swollen belly breeds parasites—less pure than a wine-skin's clean emptiness. The mulberry and grain (ephemeral things) sprout at dawn only to perish by dusk. What harm can the hidden fox (a malevolent spirit of legend) do with its furtive gaze? Heaven and earth stretch boundless—who can fathom life and death's vast mystery? Ruan Zhan (a Jin dynasty scholar) debated right and wrong, yet in the end, even his bones returned to dust.

The text concludes by emphasizing Heaven's Dao: blessings follow goodness, calamity befalls wickedness—as immediate as a shadow cast by a standing pole. The cunning and arrogant waver in hesitation, unaware that divine spirits observe from all sides. "Do not deface the stele" warns that stone tablets recording misdeeds must remain intact. Contemporary deceit scurries like rats, their outward guile as fragrant as gardenias while their tongues drip venom. Painters who cannot depict dogs or horses excel at sketching demons (those who neglect proper pursuits). They abandon the broad road for treacherous byways, fireflies chasing darkness, convinced dawn will never break. A beast's visage with human speech remains but an ape; a python may devour deer yet remains trapped by its own scales.

Yi the Archer (legendary marksman) brought ruin upon himself through martial pride; the avaricious invite disaster yet blame wives and children. Evil ultimately consumes itself—like curses carved in stone that fulfill their own prophecy. Behold Heaven's net, vast yet unerring—who can escape its grasp? Blowing on boiling soup to cool it while clutching the scalding pot—what guidance remains for those who forsake all principles?

Through abundant allusions and metaphors, the entire passage admonishes humanity to hold fast to the upright path, warning that cunning schemes inevitably lead to self-destruction.

This passage, composed in the style of Chu Ci poetry, expresses the author's reflections on the retribution of good and evil in the world. It begins with the allegory of "imitating the gait of Handan" (a classical allusion about blind imitation leading to loss of one's true nature), criticizing those who engage in empty talk without substantive action.

The text mentions how loyal and upright individuals (yuanrong) often fall victim to slander by petty men, yet emphasizes that justice has its own impartial standards (the superiority and inferiority of public judgment), not stemming from private motives. Through the allusion to the "Mohe people" (an ancient northeastern ethnic group), it illustrates the cyclical nature of the Dao—eternal principles (exemplary laws) endure forever, while the foolish who indulge in cruelty will ultimately reap what they sow.

The author cites multiple historical cases: injustices like the "white stone ox" (an obscure allusion, possibly referring to innocent victims), instances where people perished due to unpredictable misfortune (Yi dying at the gate), or where the deceased were still held accountable across the Yin-Yang divide (posthumous accusations against Wen). He questions whether the principles of retribution differ between ancient and modern times, or whether people presumptuously speculate about the Dao of Heaven (wild talk about water and fire).

Finally, the passage clarifies that "blessings follow virtue, calamities follow wickedness" is the constant principle of Heaven. Using the metaphor "hesitating to throw at a rat for fear of breaking the vase" (acting with caution), it warns those who delusionally think they can manipulate everything. The phrase "the heavens form the rafters" (the net of Heaven is vast) underscores that celestial principles are clear—evildoers will ultimately face consequences, and historical records (epitaphs) cannot be erased, expressing steadfast belief in the justice of the Dao.