Ne'er to its quiver to return, I ween;
The bow, the left side's fitting ornament;
The bow, the tough and pliant bow is bent;
It yields a sound, like thunder from afar,
While flies the arrow, like a streaming star.

None now expects a tale of fabled might;
Wang Liyang's {22} bridle will no more delight;
Nor how his chariot Siyan Ou did guide;
Nor how, incas'd in hauberk's steely pride,
His hundred myriads, at the cymbals' sound,
The falcon launch'd, or slipp'd the eager hound;
Or giving rein to every fiery steed
No more precipitous Tai Shan would heed,
Than stair which leadeth to some upper bower;
Or swarming down tumultuous to the shore,
Chain'd the sea-waters with the nets they cast--
For such wild miracles the time is past.

Numerous and brilliant spreads our hunting train,
Stilly or noisily the aim is ta'en,
Forth the shaft speedeth all athirst for blood,
Whilst the string rattleth sharp against the wood;
The stags we scatter, in the plain which browse,
Or from his cavern the rough boar uprouse;
We scare the bokoin to the highest steeps,
Hunt down the hare, along the plain which leaps.
But though we slaughter, nor the work resign
When stiff and wearied are each hand and spine,
On field and mountain still the beasts are spied