Classical Prose
阿房宫赋
杜牧
六王毕，四海一。
蜀山兀，阿房出。
覆压三百余里，隔离天日。
骊山北构而西折，直走咸阳。
二川溶溶，流入宫墙。
五步一楼，十步一阁。
廊腰缦回，檐牙高啄。
各抱地势，钩心斗角。
盘盘焉，囷囷焉，蜂房水涡，矗不知其几千万落。
长桥卧波，未云何龙？
复道行空，不霁何虹？
高低冥迷，不知西东。
歌台暖响，春光融融。
舞殿冷袖，风雨凄凄。
一日之内，一宫之间，而气候不齐。
妃嫔媵嫱，王子皇孙，辞楼下殿，辇来于秦。
朝歌夜弦，为秦宫人。
明星荧荧，开妆镜也。
绿云扰扰，梳晓鬟也。
渭流涨腻，弃脂水也。
烟斜雾横，焚椒兰也。
雷霆乍惊，宫车过也。
辘辘远听，杳不知其所之也。
一肌一容，尽态极妍。
缦立远视，而望幸焉。
有不见者，三十六年。
燕赵之收藏，韩魏之经营，齐楚之精英，几世几年，剽掠其人，倚叠如山。
一旦不能有，输来其间。
鼎铛玉石，金块珠砾，弃掷逦迤，秦人视之，亦不甚惜。
嗟乎！一人之心，千万人之心也。
秦爱纷奢，人亦念其家。
奈何取之尽锱铢，用之如泥沙？
使负栋之柱，多于南亩之农夫。
架梁之椽，多于机上之工女。
钉头磷磷，多于在庾之粟粒。
瓦缝参差，多于周身之帛缕。
直栏横槛，多于九土之城郭。
管弦呕哑，多于市人之言语。
使天下之人，不敢言而敢怒。
独夫之心，日益骄固。
戍卒叫，函谷举。
楚人一炬，可怜焦土！
呜呼！灭六国者六国也，非秦也。
族秦者秦也，非天下也。
嗟乎！使六国各爱其人，则足以拒秦。
使秦复爱六国之人，则递三世可至万世而为君，谁得而族灭也？
秦人不暇自哀，而后人哀之。
后人哀之而不鉴之，亦使后人而复哀后人也。
Translation
The six kingdoms perished and the four seas were united. The mountains of Shu were stripped bare, and the Epang Palace arose. It covered more than three hundred li, blotting out the sun and sky. From the northern side of Mount Li it was built, turning westward and running straight to Xianyang. Two rivers flowed gently into the palace walls. Every five steps a tower, every ten steps a pavilion. The corridor waist curved like a ribbon, the eaves beaks pecked high. Each structure followed the terrain, interlocking with hooks and confronting angles. They coiled and circled, like beehives or whirlpools, towering in countless thousands. The long bridge lay across the water — where was the dragon without clouds? The skyway spanned the void — where was the rainbow without clearing skies? High and low were lost in darkness, no one knew east from west. On the singing terraces warm notes rose like spring sunlight; in the dancing halls cold sleeves swept like wind and rain. Within a single day, within a single palace, the climate was not uniform. The concubines and princesses, the sons and grandsons of kings, left their towers and halls, came in carriages to Qin. Morning singers and nighttime musicians, they became servants of Qin. Stars glittered brightly — those were the mirrors of their dressing tables. Green clouds swirled — those were their morning hairstyles. The Wei River swelled with grease — discarded rouge and powder. Mist and smoke spread sideways — burning pepper and orchid incense. Thunder suddenly startled — the imperial carriages passing. The rumbling faded into the distance, growing faint, no one knew where they went. Every face and every form was perfected to utmost beauty. They stood gazing into the distance, hoping for the emperor's favor. Some never saw him in thirty-six years. The treasures gathered by Yan and Zhao, the riches accumulated by Han and Wei, the finest things of Qi and Chu — collected over many generations by plundering the people, piled up like mountains. When the kingdoms could no longer hold them, they were brought here. Tripods were treated as cauldrons, jade as stones, gold as clods, pearls as gravel, cast away in heaps — to the people of Qin, none of this was worth cherishing. Alas! The heart of one man is the heart of millions. The Qin emperor loved extravagance, but every person loves their family. How could he take from them down to the last penny and then use it all like mud and sand? The pillars supporting the beams outnumber the farmers in the fields. The rafters on the frames outnumber the women at the looms. The nailheads glittering on the beams outnumber the grains in the granaries. The uneven roof tiles outnumber the threads in all the world's clothing. The railings and balustrades outnumber the city walls of all the nine provinces. The din of flutes and strings outnumber the speech of marketplace crowds. Thus the people of the world dared not speak but nursed their silent rage. The tyrant's heart grew daily more arrogant and stubborn. The garrison soldiers cried out — and Hangu Pass was taken. The man of Chu set one torch — pitifully, all was turned to scorched earth! Ah! Those who destroyed the six kingdoms were the six kingdoms themselves, not Qin. Those who destroyed Qin were Qin itself, not the world. If the six kingdoms had each loved their own people, they could have resisted Qin. And if Qin had then loved the people of the six kingdoms, it could have passed the throne for three generations, even ten thousand generations, and ruled as sovereign. Who could have destroyed it then? The people of Qin had no leisure to mourn themselves, so later generations mourned them. But if later generations mourn them without learning from them, then still later generations will mourn these later generations in turn.
Analysis
Rhapsody on the Epang Palace is Du Mu's most famous fu-style prose work and a masterpiece of Tang dynasty historical rhapsody. The opening is extraordinarily compact: 'The six kingdoms perished and the four seas were united. The mountains of Shu were stripped bare, and the Epang Palace arose.' The parallel structure of destruction/construction compresses the entire political meaning of the piece into twelve syllables: unification demands violence, and splendor demands destruction. The central section is a series of parallel descriptions in which the phenomenal richness of the palace mirrors the human cost of its construction. Du Mu piles image on image until opulence becomes overwhelming, then reverses the current: 'The garrison soldiers cried out — and Hangu Pass was taken. The man of Chu set one torch — pitifully, all was turned to scorched earth!' The entire edifice, described over the course of the long narrative, collapses in five syllables. The most important passage is the final turning toward moral judgment: 'Those who destroyed the six kingdoms were the six kingdoms themselves, not Qin. Those who destroyed Qin was Qin itself, not the world.' Du Mu refuses the simple reading of history in which one power conquers another. He insists that self-destruction precedes external conquest. The concluding lines are among the most famous in Chinese prose: 'The people of Qin had no leisure to mourn themselves, so later generations mourned them. But if later generations mourn them without learning from them, then still later generations will mourn these later generations in turn.' This turns history into a mirror: Du Mu wrote about Qin, but he was warning his own late Tang age. The power of the piece lies in its control of scale — from the immense palace to the single torch, from imperial ambition to historical irony.
About the Author
Du Mu, courtesy name Muzhi, literary name Fanchuan Jushi, was a late Tang dynasty poet and prose writer from Wannian in Jingzhao. Together with Li Shangyin, he is known as one of the 'Little Li-Du' pair, representing the finest achievements of late Tang poetry. Du Mu excelled in both poetry and prose, particularly in seven-character quatrains and historical fu rhapsodies. His style is lucid, vigorous, and keenly observant, often using historical subjects to critique the present. Representative works include 'Rhapsody on the Epang Palace,' 'Mooring on the Qinhuai River,' 'Traveling in the Mountains,' 'Passing the Huaqing Palace,' and 'Red Cliff.'