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Phœnix. The legend states that it takes up its
abode in Arabia; that every hundred years it
burns itself up in its nest, and that a new
Phœnix, the only one in the world, flies out
from the red egg.
The bird hovers around us, rapid as the
light, beautiful in colour, glorious in song.
When the mother sits by the child’s cradle, it
is by the pillow, and with its wings flutters a
glory around the child’s head. It flies through
the chamber of contentment, and there is the
sun’s radiance within: – the poor chest of
drawers is odoriferous with violets.
But the bird Phœnix is not alone Arabia’s
bird: it flutters in the rays of the Northern
Lights on Lapland’s icy plains; it hops amongst
the yellow flowers in Greenland’s short summer.
Under Fahlun’s copper rocks, in England’s coal
mines, it flies like a powdered moth over the
hymn-book in the pious workman’s hands. It
sails on the lotus-leaf down the sacred waters of
the Ganges, and the eyes of the Hindoo girl
glisten on seeing it.
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