Bereft of their love,
Huang and Yin, the royal ladies of old,
Ranged the banks of Hsiao and Hsiang, south of Tungting.
They wandered by the fathomless waters of the deep.
All the world tells the tale of their misery.
Dark is the day, and dismal the clouds;
Demons how! in the fog and infernal spirits whistle in the rain.
Ah, me! What would it avail me if I dared to speak?
High heaven shines not, I fear, on the loyalty of my heart.
Clouds gather clouds,—they would roar aloud in anger.
Even Yao and Shun ruling, the scepter would pass to Yui.
A king, deprived of his minister, is a dragon turned to a fish;
A minister usurps power, lo! a mouse is become a tiger.
Yao was imprisoned, they say, and Shun died in the open field.
The Nine Hills of Perplexity stand in a row, one resembling another—
How could they find the solitary mound of the Double-pupiled One?
The king’s daughters cried where the black clouds lowered;
Their lord was gone like wind and wave never to return.
They wept and moaned, and gazed into the distance.
Gazed longingly toward the deep mountains of Tsang-wu.
The Mountains of Tsang-wu may crumble, the River Hsiang go dry.
Their tears on the bamboo leaves will not fade forever.