Mourning Bak's Child, and Setting Down a Matter from a Dream as Well悼朴生兒。兼書夢中事。
林先輩椿卽世幾踰二紀。戊午六月二十五日夢。予友朴還古來告云。林先生死。墓銘非子焉託。因出木槧三寸許。請其辭。予若嫌其狹。朴曰。得子辭。雖一字足矣。遂誌之曰。林某字耆之。性孤峭。頗以才自員。累擧春場不捷。某月日卒于家。銘曰。未施才。命哉。傍有僧硏朱書之。及窹。甚怪之曰。林死久。朴纔乞誌。是何祥乎。明日。朴生來。予具說夢中事。朴禪指良久曰。奇是夢也。昨失吾兒。瘞于林椿塚側。今欲請子一詩爲哭。故來謁。豈此徵耶。予奇其夢。感其事。作此詩以哭之。
It is nearly more than four and twenty years since Elder Im Chun (林椿) left the world. On the twenty-fifth day of the sixth month of the Muo year I dreamed that my friend Bak Hwango came and told me, "Master Im has died; if not to you, to whom should the tomb inscription be entrusted?" and thereupon drew out a wooden tablet of some three inches and asked me for the writing. When I seemed to shrink from its narrowness, Bak said, "If I get your writing, even a single character is ample." So at last I set it down: "Im So-and-so had the style-name Gija (耆之). His nature was solitary and steep, and he reckoned himself much by his talent. Several times he went up for the spring examination and did not pass, and in a certain month on a certain day he died at home. The inscription says: he could not unfold his talent — it was his lot." Beside me a monk ground cinnabar and wrote it out. On waking I thought it very strange, and said, "Im has been dead long, and only now does Bak ask for a tomb inscription — what sign can this be?" The next day Bak came, and when I told him all that was in the dream, Bak reckoned a long while on his fingers and said, "Strange indeed is this dream! Yesterday I lost my child and buried him beside Im Chun's grave. I came now to ask you for a poem to wail with; how should this not be that sign?" I thought the dream strange, and was moved by the matter, and made this poem to wail with.
Interlinear notes 1
幷序
A preface is appended.
夢豈自無徵。事或先有讖。憶昨夜方午。睡熟邯鄲枕。君來乞人銘。及窹良恠甚。子來告兒亡。淚暈餘老臉。因思夢中事。莫是精神感。君兒方六齡。眉目得君範。何物奪之去。無奈鬼橫僣。預玄童烏亡。無槨孔鯉殮。壽殤皆關天。子幸勿爲念。細君苟無恙。立竹眞可厭。葬隣林君墩。雖夭未爲慊。
How should a dream of itself have no sign in it? Events have now and then a portent beforehand. I think how last night at midnight I slept deep on the pillow of Handan (邯鄲). You came and asked for another's tomb inscription, and waking I found it truly very strange. You came and told me your child had died, and the traces of tears stayed on your aged cheeks. At this I thought upon the matter in the dream: was it not that our spirits had touched? Your child, now six years old, had brows and eyes cast in your own mould. What was it that took him away? What is to be done with the ghosts' reckless overreaching? Yang Xiong's son Tongwu (童烏) died, and Kong Li (孔鯉) was shrouded without an outer coffin. Long life and early death hang both on Heaven; do not, I pray, take it to heart. If your wife is truly without ailment, children standing in a row like bamboo will truly be enough to tire of. You have buried him beside Im's grave: and though he died early, there is nothing wanting in that.