Cui Jin was a man of noble character,
From Chenggu in Liangzhou, his native land.
He studied not for office, but to till the soil,
And lived in harmony with farming's toil.
He and his wife had both grown old with grace,
With no descendants left to take their place.
One day he summoned all his servants near,
And gave them fields and houses, equal share.
He bade them each to make their own career,
And never to report or bring him care.
Then he withdrew to Southern Mountain's shade,
Where deer and elk became the friends he made.
He promised, "If I ever pass your way,
Just offer me the simplest fare, I pray."
Sometimes he took his wife along to call
Upon the people's doors, both great and small.
They'd share with him their wine and humble meal,
And sing and laugh, a joy both true and real.
Zheng Yuqing south of the mountain, in his might,
Appointed him an aide to serve with light.
Urged to assume the post, he went along,
But knew no clerkly arts, nor official song.
Soon he excused himself and left the role,
Saying to elders, "This is not my goal."
Wang Zhifang, a Rectifier of Omissions,
Was once his neighbor, sharing old traditions.
In Emperor Wenzong's reign, he sent a plea,
Was summoned for advice, his words set free.
He praised Cui Jin's high conduct, pure and bright,
A model to restore the age's light.
An edict named him Court Diarist with praise,
A carriage sent through Baoxie's winding ways.
He pleaded illness, would not take the ride,
His lofty spirit soared like autumn's sky.
I passed his county just the other day,
And lingered, thinking of his fragrant way.
I asked the elders, seeking trace or sign,
But found no shrine, no tomb, no hallowed line.
Such men no longer strive in our long night,
How can the shallow then be made upright?
This county, in the Han and Tang's great prime,
Saw noble men who rose in fragrant climb.
Their poems carved in Zijian's temple wall—
May later ages heed and heed their call.