The Ts‘éen-Ts‘éen Che Shih

How high those frowning rocks arise !
With awe they fill the mind. go
Our way through streams, o’er mountains lies ;
Toilsome the march we find.
Hastward our expedition goes,
Nor has our chief one hour’s repose

Those frowning rocks the heights surmount,
And fill the mind with dread.
O’er hills, through streams, our steps we count ;—r
When shall our march be sped ?
Our warrior hastens on the track,
Nor thinks he of our drawing back.

Look at the swine, with legs all white,
Washed by the pools from stain !
The moon wades through the Hyads bright, F
Foretelling heavier rain.
He at whose word we eastward fare
No leisure has for other care.