Poems of Meng Jiao
Evil poems, they all gain acceptance.
Good poems, vainly cherished in the hills.
Cherished in the hills, fainting in the cold,
All day, they are sad, yet very dignified.
Good poems grow jealous of each other,
Swords and halberds springing from their jaws.
The ancient worthy poets have too long been
Ruminated over like some ancient cud.
So I, to the very limits of myself,
Lofty and pure, nurture high steadfastness.
Asking others to preserve this integrity won't do --
The crowd will mock you with unbridled fury.
In our time, 闲 means "idle" or "idle time." But it originally meant to "guard, defend, preserve." "Preserving oneself" has come to mean "being idle" much as "recreation" no longer has anything to do with "creation" or "renewal." So I have translated 闲 as both "steadfastness" and "integrity" in order to convey this old meaning. The doubled bigram 虤虤 means "the unbridled fury of a tiger."
I think this poem is rightly placed in the scrolls post Autumn Mind. The final quatrain is not self-referential or introverted. It's a pronouncement of Meng Jiao's standing his ground. The gloves are off. You can answer the challenge or remain cringing in the shadows.
It also seems like Meng Jiao is a stronger poet here. The lines naturally link as couplets. Usually, he is too busy crowding his poem with ideas to bother with couplets. The fall in randomly, sometimes crossing conventional breaks. Here, every two lines forms a single phrase without losing any substance in either line.