On Southern Mount a phoenix sings,
Its notes are harmonious and clear.
It sings in a land of virtuous kings,
Its emergence brings peace far and near.
Du Mo, the East's gifted son,
Can chant the phoenix's melody.
Hundreds of poems he has done,
Long songs and short lines flowing free.
He brought them to the capital town,
Hoping to startle every ear.
He came to my hall, knelt down,
Bowed twice to me, his teacher dear.
I nodded and sent him away,
Advised him to shun pride and conceit.
Three poems of heroes I gave that day,
My name among them, incomplete.
Du came to visit me again,
Seeking a harmonious reply.
But my humble words, in vain,
Could not match heroes' verse so high.
How could my lines compare with thine,
Resounding like bells and pipes fine?
Vulgar tunes please the common ear,
Like a hundred birds' twitter unclear.
Du rolled his tongue and left the place,
His robe fluttering with light grace.
East of the capital, bandits swarm,
North of the river, new troops form.
Famine and sorrow fill the road,
Daily the burdens are bestowed.
Why not raise your voice aloud,
To convey the people's plight?
Let the Emperor hear, wise and proud,
Then the ministers, day and night.
Why need a nine-feathered fowl rare,
To bless the sage Emperor's court?
When will your new poem be there?
My ear is eager for your thought.
I wish with a lute of white jade,
To set it on crimson strings displayed.