Kitabı oku: «Japanese Literature», sayfa 17

CLASSICAL POETRY OF JAPAN

[Selections translated by Basil Hall Chamberlain]

INTRODUCTION

The poetry of a nation is always the best revealer of its genuine life: the range of its spiritual as well as of its intellectual outlook. This is the case even where poetry is imitative, for imitation only pertains to the form of poetry, and not to its essence. Vergil copied the metre and borrowed the phraseology of Homer, but is never Homeric. In one sense, all national poetry is original, even though it be shackled by rules of traditional prosody, and has adopted the system of rhyme devised by writers in another language, whose words seem naturally to bourgeon into assonant terminations. But Japanese poetry is original in every sense of the term. Imitative as the Japanese are, and borrowers from other nations in every department of plastic, fictile, and pictorial art, as well as in religion, politics, and manufactures, the poetry of Japan is a true-born flower of the soil, unique in its mechanical structure, spontaneous and unaffected in its sentiment and subject.

The present collection of Japanese poetry is compiled and translated into English from what the Japanese call "The Collection of Myriad Leaves," and from a number of other anthologies made by imperial decree year by year from the tenth until the fifteenth century. This was the golden age of Japanese literature, and nowadays, when poetry is dead in Japan, and the people and their rulers are aiming at nothing but the benefits of material civilization, these ancient anthologies are drawn upon for vamping up and compiling what pass for the current verses of the hour. The twenty volumes of the "Myriad Leaves" were probably published first in the latter half of the eighth century, in the reign of the Mikado Shiyaumu; the editor was Prince Moroye, for in those days the cultivation of verse was especially considered the privilege of the princely and aristocratic. A poem written by a man of obscure rank was sometimes included in the royal collections, but the name of the author never. And indeed some of the distinctive quality of Japanese poetry is undoubtedly due to the air in which it flourished. It is never religious, and it is often immoral, but it is always suffused with a certain hue of courtliness, even gentleness. The language is of the most refined delicacy, the thought is never boorish or rude; there is the self-collectedness which we find in the poetry of France and Italy during the Renaissance, and in England during the reign of Queen Anne. It exhibits the most exquisite polish, allied with an avoidance of every shocking or perturbing theme. It seems to combine the enduring lustre of a precious metal with the tenuity of gold-leaf. Even the most vivid emotions of grief and love, as well as the horrors of war, were banished from the Japanese Parnassus, where the Muse of Tragedy warbles, and the lyric Muse utters nothing but ditties of exquisite and melting sweetness, which soothe the ear, but never stir the heart: while their meaning is often so obscure as even to elude the understanding.

Allied to this polite reserve of the courtly poets of Japan is the simplicity of their style, which is, doubtless, in a large measure, due to the meagre range of spiritual faculties which characterize the Japanese mind. This intellectual poverty manifests itself in the absence of all personification and reference to abstract ideas. The narrow world of the poet is here a concrete and literal sphere of experience. He never rises on wings above the earth his feet are treading, and the things around him that his fingers touch. But within this limited area he revels in a great variety of subjects. In the present anthology will be found ballads, love-songs, elegies, as well as short stanzas composed with the strictest economy of word and phrase. These we must characterize as epigrams. They are gems, polished with almost passionless nicety and fastidious care. They remind us very much of Roman poetry under the later Empire, and many of them might have been written by Martial, at the court of Domitian. They contain references to court doings, compliments, and sentiments couched in pointed language. The drama of Japan is represented by two types, one of which may be called lyrical, and the other the comedy of real life. Specimens of both are found in the present collection, which will furnish English readers with a very fair idea of what the most interesting and enterprising of Oriental nations has done in the domain of imaginative literature.

E. W.

BALLADS

THE FISHER-BOY URASHIMA

 
'Tis spring, and the mists come stealing
O'er Suminóye's shore,
And I stand by the seaside musing
On the days that are no more.
 
 
I muse on the old-world story,
As the boats glide to and fro,
Of the fisher-boy, Urashima,
Who a-fishing loved to go;
 
 
How he came not back to the village
Though sev'n suns had risen and set,
But rowed on past the bounds of ocean,
And the sea-god's daughter met;
 
 
How they pledged their faith to each other,
And came to the Evergreen Land,
And entered the sea-god's palace
So lovingly hand in hand,
 
 
To dwell for aye in that country,
The ocean-maiden and he—
The country where youth and beauty
                          Abide eternally.
 
 
But the foolish boy said, "To-morrow
I'll come back with thee to dwell;
But I have a word to my father,
A word to my mother to tell."
 
 
The maiden answered, "A casket
I give into thine hand;
And if that thou hopest truly
To come back to the Evergreen Land,
 
 
"Then open it not, I charge thee!
Open it not, I beseech!"
So the boy rowed home o'er the billows
To Suminóye's beach.
 
 
But where is his native hamlet?
Strange hamlets line the strand.
Where is his mother's cottage?
Strange cots rise on either hand.
 
 
"What, in three short years since I left it,"
He cries in his wonder sore,
"Has the home of my childhood vanished?
Is the bamboo fence no more?
 
 
"Perchance if I open the casket
Which the maiden gave to me,
My home and the dear old village
Will come back as they used to be."
 
 
And he lifts the lid, and there rises
A fleecy, silvery cloud,
That floats off to the Evergreen Country:—
And the fisher-boy cries aloud;
 
 
He waves the sleeve of his tunic,
He rolls over on the ground,
He dances with fury and horror,
Running wildly round and round.¹³²
 
 
But a sudden chill comes o'er him
That bleaches his raven hair,
And furrows with hoary wrinkles
The form erst so young and fair.
 
 
His breath grows fainter and fainter,
Till at last he sinks dead on the shore;
And I gaze on the spot where his cottage
Once stood, but now stands no more.
 

Anon.

ON SEEING A DEAD BODY

 
Methinks from the hedge round the garden
His bride the fair hemp hath ta'en,
And woven the fleecy raiment
That ne'er he threw off him again.
 
 
For toilsome the journey he journeyed
To serve his liege and lord,¹³³
Till the single belt that encircled him
Was changed to a thrice-wound cord;
 
 
And now, methinks, he was faring
Back home to the country-side,
With thoughts all full of his father,
Of his mother, and of his bride.
 
 
But here 'mid the eastern mountains,
Where the awful pass climbs their brow,
He halts on his onward journey
And builds him a dwelling low;
 
 
And here he lies stark in his garments,
Dishevelled his raven hair,
And ne'er can he tell me his birthplace,
Nor the name that he erst did bear.
 

Sakimaro.

THE MAIDEN OF UNÁHI ¹³⁴

 
In Ashinóya village dwelt
The Maiden of Unáhi,
On whose beauty the next-door neighbors e'en
Might cast no wandering eye;
 
 
For they locked her up as a child of eight,
When her hair hung loosely still;
And now her tresses were gathered up,
To float no more at will.¹³⁵
 
 
And the men all yearned that her sweet face
Might once more stand reveal'd,
Who was hid from gaze, as in silken maze
The chrysalis lies concealed.
 
 
But here 'mid the eastern mountains,
Where the awful pass climbs their brow,
He halts on his onward journey
And builds him a dwelling low;
 
 
And they formed a hedge round the house,
And, "I'll wed her!" they all did cry;
And the Champion of Chinu he was there,
And the Champion of Unáhi.
 
 
With jealous love these champions twain
The beauteous girl did woo,
Each had his hand on the hilt of his sword,
And a full-charged quiver, too,
 
 
Was slung o'er the back of each champion fierce,
And a bow of snow-white wood
Did rest in the sinewy hand of each;
And the twain defiant stood.
 
 
Crying, "An 'twere for her dear sake,
Nor fire nor flood I'd fear!"
The maiden heard each daring word,
But spoke in her mother's ear:—
 
 
"Alas! that I, poor country girl,
Should cause this jealous strife!
As I may not wed the man I love
What profits me my life?
 
 
"In Hades' realm I will await
The issue of the fray."
These secret thoughts, with many a sigh,
She whisper'd and pass'd away.
 
 
To the Champion of Chinu in a dream
Her face that night was shown;
So he followed the maid to Hades' shade,
And his rival was left alone;
 
 
Left alone—too late! too late!
He gapes at the vacant air,
He shouts, and he yells, and gnashes his teeth,
And dances in wild despair.
 
 
"But no! I'll not yield!" he fiercely cries,
"I'm as good a man as he!"
And girding his poniard, he follows after,
To search out his enemy.
 
 
The kinsmen then, on either side,
In solemn conclave met,
As a token forever and evermore—
Some monument for to set,
 
 
That the story might pass from mouth to mouth,
While heav'n and earth shall stand;
So they laid the maiden in the midst,
And the champions on either hand.
 
 
And I, when I hear the mournful tale,
I melt into bitter tears,
As though these lovers I never saw
Had been mine own compeers.
 

Mushimaro.

THE GRAVE OF THE MAIDEN OF UNÁHI

 
I stand by the grave where they buried
The Maiden of Unáhi,
Whom of old the rival champions
Did woo so jealously.
 
 
The grave should hand down through ages
Her story for evermore,
That men yet unborn might love her,
And think on the days of yore.
 
 
And now, methinks, he was faring
Back home to the country-side,
With thoughts all full of his father,
Of his mother, and of his bride.
 
 
And so beside the causeway
They piled up the bowlders high;
Nor e'er till the clouds that o'ershadow us
Shall vanish from the sky,
 
 
May the pilgrim along the causeway
Forget to turn aside,
And mourn o'er the grave of the Maiden;
And the village folk, beside,
 
 
Ne'er cease from their bitter weeping,
But cluster around her tomb;
And the ages repeat her story,
And bewail the Maiden's doom.
 
 
Till at last e'en I stand gazing
On the grave where she now lies low,
And muse with unspeakable sadness
On the old days long ago.
 

Sakimaro.

[Note.—The existence of the Maiden of Unáhi is not doubted by any of the native authorities, and, as usual, the tomb is there (or said to be there, for the present writer's search for it on the occasion of a somewhat hurried visit to that part of the country was vain) to attest the truth of the tradition. Ashinóya is the name of the village, and Unáhi of the district. The locality is in the province of Setsutsu, between the present treaty ports of Kobe and Osaka.]

THE MAIDEN OF KATSUSHIKA

 
Where in the far-off eastern land
The cock first crows at dawn,
The people still hand down a tale
Of days long dead and gone.
 
 
For toilsome the journey he journeyed
To serve his liege and lord,¹³⁶
Till the single belt that encircled him
Was changed to a thrice-wound cord;
 
 
They tell of Katsushika's maid,
Whose sash of country blue
Bound but a frock of home-spun hemp,
And kirtle coarse to view;
 
 
Whose feet no shoe had e'er confined,
Nor comb passed through her hair;
Yet all the queens in damask robes
Might nevermore compare.
 
 
With this dear child, who smiling stood,
A flow'ret of the spring—
In beauty perfect and complete,
Like to the moon's full ring.
 
 
And, as the summer moths that fly
Towards the flame so bright,
Or as the boats that deck the port
When fall the shades of night,
 
 
So came the suitors; but she said:—
"Why take me for your wife?
Full well I know my humble lot,
I know how short my life."¹³⁷
 
 
So where the dashing billows beat
On the loud-sounding shore,
Hath Katsushika's tender maid
Her home for evermore.
 
 
Yes! 'tis a tale of days long past;
But, listening to the lay,
It seems as I had gazed upon
Her face but yesterday.
 

Anon.

THE BEGGAR'S COMPLAINT ¹³⁸

 
Methinks from the hedge round the garden
His bride the fair hemp hath ta'en,
And woven the fleecy raiment
That ne'er he threw off him again.
 
 
The heaven and earth they call so great,
For me are mickle small;
The sun and moon they call so bright,
For me ne'er shine at all.
 
 
Are all men sad, or only I?
And what have I obtained—
What good the gift of mortal life,
That prize so rarely gained,¹³⁹
 
 
If nought my chilly back protects
But one thin grass-cloth coat,
In tatters hanging like the weeds
That on the billows float—
 
 
If here in smoke-stained, darksome hut,
Upon the bare cold ground,
I make my wretched bed of straw,
And hear the mournful sound—
 
 
Hear how mine aged parents groan,
And wife and children cry,
Father and mother, children, wife,
Huddling in misery—
 
 
If in the rice-pan, nigh forgot,
The spider hangs its nest,¹⁴⁰
And from the hearth no smoke goes up
Where all is so unblest?
 
 
And now, to make our wail more deep,
That saying is proved true
Of "snipping what was short before":—
Here comes to claim his due,
 
 
The village provost, stick in hand
He's shouting at the door;—
And can such pain and grief be all
Existence has in store?
 

Stanza

 
Shame and despair are mine from day to day;
But, being no bird, I cannot fly away.
 

Anon.

A SOLDIER'S REGRETS ON LEAVING HOME

 
When I left to keep guard on the frontier
(For such was the monarch's decree),
My mother, with skirt uplifted,¹⁴¹
Drew near and fondled me;
 
 
And my father, the hot tears streaming
His snow-white beard adown,
Besought me to tarry, crying:—
"Alas! when thou art gone,
 
 
"When thou leavest our gate in the morning,
No other sons have I,
And mine eyes will long to behold thee
As the weary years roll by;
 
 
"So tarry but one day longer,
And let me find some relief
In speaking and hearing thee speak to me!"
So wail'd the old man in his grief.
 
 
And on either side came pressing
My wife and my children dear,
Fluttering like birds, and with garments
Besprinkled with many a tear;
 
 
And clasped my hands and would stay me,
For 'twas so hard to part;
But mine awe of the sovereign edict
Constrained my loving heart.
 
 
I went; yet each time the pathway
O'er a pass through the mountains did wind,
I'd turn me round—ah! so lovingly!—
And ten thousand times gaze behind.
 
 
But farther still, and still farther,
Past many a land I did roam,
And my thoughts were all thoughts of sadness,
All loving, sad thoughts of home;—
 
 
Till I came to the shores of Sumi,
Where the sovereign gods I prayed,
With off'rings so humbly offered—
And this the prayer that I made:—
 
 
"Being mortal, I know not how many
The days of my life may be;
And how the perilous pathway
That leads o'er the plain of the sea,
 
 
"Past unknown islands will bear me:—
But grant that while I am gone
No hurt may touch father or mother,
Or the wife now left alone!"
 
 
Yes, such was my prayer to the sea-gods;
And now the unnumbered oars,
And the ship and the seamen to bear me
From breezy Naníha's shores,
 
 
Are there at the mouth of the river:—
Oh! tell the dear ones at home,
That I'm off as the day is breaking
To row o'er the ocean foam.
 

Anon.

LOVE SONGS

ON BEHOLDING THE MOUNTAIN

Composed by the commander of the forces of the Mikado Zhiyomei

 
The long spring day is o'er, and dark despond
My heart invades, and lets the tears flow down,
As all alone I stand, when from beyond
The mount our heav'n-sent monarch's throne doth crown.
 
 
There breathes the twilight wind and turns my sleeve.
Ah, gentle breeze! to turn, home to return,
Is all my prayer; I cannot cease to grieve
On this long toilsome road; I burn, I burn!
 
 
Yes! the poor heart I used to think so brave
Is all afire, though none the flame may see,
Like to the salt-kilns there by Tsunu's wave,
Where toil the fisher-maidens wearily.
 

Anon.

LOVE IS PAIN

 
'Twas said of old, and still the ages say,
"The lover's path is full of doubt and woe."
Of me they spake: I know not, nor can know,
If she I sigh for will my love repay.
My heart sinks on my breast; with bitter strife
My heart is torn, and grief she cannot see.
All unavailing is this agony
To help the love that has become my life.
 

Anon.

HITOMARO TO HIS MISTRESS

 
Tsunu's shore, Ihámi's brine,
To all other eyes but mine
Seem, perchance, a lifeless mere,
And sands that ne'er the sailor cheer.
 
 
Ah, well-a-day! no ports we boast,
And dead the sea that bathes our coast;
But yet I trow the wingèd breeze
Sweeping at morn across our seas,
 
 
And the waves at eventide
From the depths of ocean wide,
Onward to Watadzu bear
The deep-green seaweed, rich and fair;
 
 
And like that seaweed gently swaying,
Wingèd breeze and waves obeying,
So thy heart hath swayed and bent
And crowned my love with thy content.
 
 
But, dear heart! I must away,
As fades the dew when shines the day;
Nor aught my backward looks avail,
Myriad times cast down the vale,
 
 
From each turn the winding road
Takes upward; for thy dear abode
Farther and still farther lies,
And hills on hills between us rise.
 
 
Ah! bend ye down, ye cruel peaks,
That the gate my fancy seeks,
Where sits my pensive love alone,
To mine eyes again be shown!
 

Hitomaro.

NO TIDINGS

 
The year has come, the year has gone again,
And still no tidings of mine absent love!
Through the long days of spring all heaven above
And earth beneath, re-echo with my pain.
 
 
In dark cocoon my mother's silk-worms dwell;
Like them, a captive, through the livelong day
Alone I sit and sigh my soul away,
For ne'er to any I my love may tell.
 
 
Like to the pine-trees I must stand and pine,¹⁴²
While downward slanting fall the shades of night,
Till my long sleeve of purest snowy white,
With showers of tears, is steeped in bitter brine.
 

Anon.

HOMEWARD

 
From Kaminábi's crest
The clouds descending pour in sheeted rain,
And, 'midst the gloom, the wind sighs o'er the plain:—
        Oh! he that sadly press'd,
Leaving my loving side, alone to roam
Magami's des'late moor, has he reached home?
 

Anon.

THE MAIDEN AND THE DOG

 
As the bold huntsman on some mountain path
Waits for the stag he hopes may pass that way,
So wait I for my love both night and day:—
Then bark not at him, as thou fearest my wrath.
 

Anon.

LOVE IS ALL

 
Where in spring the sweetest flowers
Fill Mount Kaminábi's bowers,
Where in autumn dyed with red,
Each ancient maple rears its head,
And Aska's flood, with sedges lin'd,
As a belt the mound doth bind:—
There see my heart—a reed that sways,
Nor aught but love's swift stream obeys,
And now, if like the dew, dear maid,
Life must fade, then let it fade:—
My secret love is not in vain,
For thou lov'st me back again.
 

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Wife.—

 
Though other women's husbands ride
Along the road in proud array,
My husband, up the rough hill-side,
On foot must wend his weary way.
 
 
The grievous sight with bitter pain
My bosom fills, and many a tear
Steals down my cheek, and I would fain
Do aught to help my husband dear.
 
 
Come! take the mirror and the veil,
My mother's parting gifts to me;
In barter they must sure avail
To buy an horse to carry thee!
 

Husband.—

 
And I should purchase me an horse,
Must not my wife still sadly walk?
No, no! though stony is our course,
We'll trudge along and sweetly talk.
 

Anon.

HE COMES NOT

 
He comes not! 'tis in vain I wait;
The crane's wild cry strikes on mine ear,
The tempest howls, the hour is late,
Dark is the raven night and drear:—
And, as I thus stand sighing,
The snowflakes round me flying
Light on my sleeve, and freeze it crisp and clear.
 
 
Sure 'tis too late! he cannot come;
Yet trust I still that we may meet,
As sailors gayly rowing home
Trust in their ship so safe and fleet.
Though waking hours conceal him,
Oh! may my dreams reveal him,
Filling the long, long night with converse sweet!
 

Anon.

HE AND SHE

 
He.—To Hatsúse's vale I'm come,
                        To woo thee, darling, in thy home;
                        But the rain rains down apace,
                        And the snow veils ev'ry place,
                        And now the pheasant 'gins to cry,
                        And the cock crows to the sky:—
                                Now flees the night, the night hath fled,
                                Let me in to share thy bed!
 
 
She.—To Hatsúse's vale thou'rt come,
                        To woo me, darling, in my home:—
                        But my mother sleeps hard by,
                        And my father near doth lie;
                        Should I but rise, I'll wake her ear;
                        Should I go out, then he will hear:—
                                  The night hath fled! it may not be,
                                  For our love's a mystery!
 

Anon.