Student Han So Sat the Ministry of Rites Examination and Did Not Pass, so I Consoled Him with a Poem韓生韶赴禮部試不捷。以詩慰之。
Dongguk Isangguk Jip (Collected Works of Minister Yi of the Eastern Country) 東國李相國集 · Yi Gyubo · Compiled 1241 (Goryeo, 28th year of King Gojong); revised and enlarged 1251 · 1 passages · 98 Chinese characters · reading time 1 min
Dongguk Isangguk Jip (Collected Works of Minister Yi of the Eastern Country) Former Collection, Book 11 The collected writings of Yi Gyubo of Goryeo, gathered and cut in woodblock by his son Yi Ham in 1241 and revised and enlarged by his grandson Yi Ikbae in 1251. It holds poems and rhapsodies, memorials and reports sent up to the king, records written for temples and pagodas, stele and tomb inscriptions, letters and prefaces, and the state letters that passed to and from the Mongols during the invasions. The Lay of King Dongmyeong, which sings the founder of Goguryeo, stands in volume 3 of the first collection, and the daily life of a man who called himself the White Cloud Layman — with his wine, his zither and his verse — fills the later collection. The book closes with the last poem he wrote as his eyes failed and he laid down the brush, and with the dirge and tomb inscription others made for him after his death.
You are the descendant, a hundred generations on, of the illustrious Duke Wen (文公),
and your writing is outstanding and unhindered, disdaining the narrow field-paths.
Your scales are only cramped a while in the shallow water of a hoofprint;
your stride is excellent — why should it follow a narrow ant-hill?
Rising high, you did not suit what the men of the day would accept,
and shooting at the questions at the Golden Gate (金門) you were often dotted on the forehead.
Even if the ape-armed archer failed to hit the mark once,
who says there is never a stone pierced to the very feathers?
There is no need to go on diligently bearing the names of a thousand buddhas;
I know that you will surely be entered on the roll of the immortals.
Look: even the gentleman who took first place this year
was, in that year, a man whose lips were black from drinking ink.
I would beat the mojo (眊矂) for you,
but alas, there is no new wine as green as spring water.