When he was a youth of fifteen or twenty，

　　He chased a wild horse， he caught him and rode him，

　　He shot the white-browed mountain tiger，

　　He defied the yellow-bristled Horseman of Ye.

　　Fighting single- handed for a thousand miles，

　　With his naked dagger¹ he could hold a multitude.

　　……Granted that the troops of China were as swift as heaven's thunder

　　And that Tartar soldiers perished in pitfalls² fanged³ with iron，

　　General Wei Qing's victory was only a thing of chance.

　　And General Li Guang's thwarted⁴ effort was his fate， not his fault.

　　Since this man's retirement⁵ he is looking old and worn：

　　Experience of the world has hastened his white hairs.

　　Though once his quick dart⁶ never missed the right eye of a bird，

　　Now knotted veins⁷ and tendons make his left arm like an osier.

　　He is sometimes at the road-side selling melons from his garden，

　　He is sometimes planting willows⁸ round his hermitage.

　　His lonely lane is shut away by a dense⁹ grove¹⁰，

　　His vacant window looks upon the far cold mountains

　　But， if he prayed， the waters would come gushing¹¹ for his men

　　And never would he wanton his cause away with wine.

　　……War-clouds are spreading， under the Helan Range；

　　Back and forth¹²， day and night， go feathered messages；

　　In the three River Provinces， the governors call young men ——

　　And five imperial edicts have summoned the old general.

　　So he dusts his iron coat and shines it like snow-

　　Waves his dagger from its jade¹³ hilt in a dance of starry¹⁴ steel.

　　He is ready with his strong northern bow to smite¹⁵ the Tartar chieftain ——

　　That never a foreign war-dress may affront¹⁶ the Emperor.

　　……There once was an aged¹⁷ Prefect， forgotten and far away，

　　Who still could manage triumph with a single stroke.