The landscape is fair, why not delight?
Yet solitary rambles lose their zest.
If I have a companion by my side,
Why must it be an old and bosom friend?
I wish to visit Sweet Dew Temple now,
But find no idle official on the way.
Two strangers I have never met before,
Gladly agree to ride along with me.
The ancient town uses hills as its walls,
Tiered stairs wind up to the vermilion rails.
Towers cling to the cliff's broken edge,
The ground is narrow, sky and water vast.
A single glance takes in several states,
Mountains stretch long, the river flows on and on.
Looking back at Great Brightness Temple,
Only masts in the mist can still be seen.
The fierce stone lies within the courtyard,
Arched like a crouching wild mountain goat.
I recall the Sleeping Dragon, Zhuge Liang,
Who wielded strategies, carved his way through.
In one talk he subdued the wild young lord,
With another, he made the old sly fox flee.
His lofty name leaves endless thoughts behind,
Past events leave no traces to behold.
Duke Xiao's ancient iron cauldron stands,
Facing it, merely round and hollow space.
The sloping ground holds a hundred hu,
Accumulated rain breeds tiny ripples.
The Si River lost the Zhou tripod's trace,
Wei City said farewell to the Han plate.
Mountains and rivers lost their former state,
Strange that this alone remains intact.
Sengyou's six transformed figures here,
Rainbow robes hang on icy silk gauze.
Appearing and hiding in twelve folds,
Viewers doubt, thinking it wild boast.
Lu's painting on the broken board,
A blue lion plays, pacing to and fro.
Above, two heavenly beings stand,
Waving hands as if soaring phoenixes.
Though brush and ink may wish to end,
The model handed down will never fade.
Illustrious, the Duke of Zanhuang,
His heroic bearing stern and cold.
The ancient cypress he planted with his own hands,
Stands upright, who would dare offend?
Its branches prop up clouds, peaks split,
Its roots delve into stone caves, coiling deep.
Clearing weeds, a broken stele is found,
Chopping cliffs, a golden coffin emerges.
Buried, could it not be secure?
Seen and hidden, the principle sighs.
Four heroes, all dragons and tigers,
Their traces solemn, not yet worn away.
In their prime and vigorous years,
Would they contend without a moment's peace?
Rise and fall belong to the Creator,
Passing away, who can control or grasp?
Moreover, those foolish mediocrities,
Who wish to undertake such difficult tasks.
Ancient and modern share the same track,
Posterity only tastes bitterness.
Let me just sigh like at Guangwu,
No need for Yongmen's mournful tune.