# The Rape of Proserpine/Book 3

THE PHŒNIX.
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THE PHŒNIX.
Beyond the Ind, in ocean's utmost flood Embosom'd rests a fair and verdant wood; First spot that feels the breath of Phœbus' steeds, As through the dewy gates his car proceeds, And hears his lash, when rosy tints betray The near arrival of the breaking day: And, shrouded deep in pallid garb, the Night Seeks her far refuge from the wheels of light. In that fair region, to mankind denied, The bird of Titan dwells in blissful pride: From noxious contact with our world debarr'd, The Sun's fierce splendours his unfailing guard. A god-like bird—coeval with the skies— Whom weary Time with life still new supplies— Who not on common aliment is fed, Who quaffs no draught from earthly fountain-head: The sun's pure warmth sustains him, and the breeze That wafts refreshment from the gentle seas.
His beaming eyes are bright with wondrous rays, A fiery lustre round his aspect plays. His crest a connate star to rear is seen, The darkness piercing with its light serene. Tyre o'er his limbs it's purple glory flings, More swift than Zephyrs are his airy wings; Where azure edgings feathery flowers infold, And each gay plume is chequer'd o'er with gold. Not his the birth to common natures known, Parent and offspring to himself alone; His frame to no progenitor is due, Form'd from decay by fruitful death anew, For life, which—buried oft—he still from burial drew. For when a thousand Summers have been past, A thousand Winters have the skies o'ercast, As many Springs restored the grateful shade, Which withering Autumn had in ruin laid— Then, worn with age, by weight of years subdued, He sinks a prey to slow decrepitude. As some tall pine, on bleak Caucasian brow, Compell'd at length its weary head to bow, Breaks piecemeal up, till scarce a limb remain, Torn by the blast, and rotted by the rain.
Now shrinks in chilly mists his languid eye, The star that crowned him beams no more on high: So pale the Moon—by circling clouds o'erborne— Fades from the heavens with dim and waning horn. Now droop on earth the wings, through middle air That wont so oft their buoyant freight to bear. He feels his hour is come—another frame Must soon be his—another, yet the same— And, timely warn'd, betakes him to provide Herbs, which the warmth of summer hills has dried, And weaves a mass of rich Sabean bloom, His future birth-place, and his present tomb: And there he sits, and feebly to the Sun Breathes in sweet strains his dying orison, And prays the God for such a gift of fire, As may new life, while it consumes, inspire. Sol checks his course to mark the plaintive bird, And soothes his votary with a gentle word. "Yes, here lay down thy peaceful age awhile, Re-born from this, misnamed thy funeral pile; Put on the life which death confers once more, With youth invigorate, from destruction soar: Again thy mortal, wasted body leave, A new beginning, a new form receive."
Then from his neck he shakes one golden hair, And smites his suppliant with its vital glare; Who, willing, longing, feels the flame extend, And hastes to rise, rejoicing in his end. Lit by that heavenly dart, the fragrant pyre Involves the ancient in devouring fire. The Moon, astonished, hath her steers represt; Awhile unmoved the polar axles rest: The labouring pile great Nature's heart hath stirr'd With fear to lose the everlasting bird: She bids the flames keep faith, and, as of yore, Th' immortal glory of the world restore. And now with strength renew'd each member glows, Full through each vein the blood returning flows; Along the cindery shape strange movements pass, Life thrills within, and plumage clothes the mass. But now a father—he springs forth a son— Next, yet not other; second, yet but one: So hath the potent fire its work of wonder done! Whose thin partition of disjoining flame Two lives holds separate in a single frame. Soon now to Nile he speeds, the sacred freight Of ashes, whence he sprang, to dedicate.
With joy he hastens to the Pharian plains, And, wrapt in herbs, conveys his prized remains. Unnumbered birds attend him as he flies, Their gathered armies darken all the skies: Not one impedes him; all, in airy ring, Adore the progress of the fragrant king. From rage and war the kite and eagle cease; They see, and reverence—and the heaven has peace. So, from the banks of Tigris, Parthia's Lord Rides stately on before his barbarous horde: Assyria's broider'd dyes his limbs infold, Gems grace his crown, his steed is curb'd with gold: And thus adorned he moves in proud delight, While vassal thousands own his matchless might. In one fam'd city, Egypt loves to pay Her tranquil worship to the God of day. An hundred columns from the Theban hill Its temple courts with strength and beauty fill. 'Tis said, that thither, borne on duteous wing, His father-load the bird is seen to bring. His Patron God he duly first adores, Then heaps the altar with his treasured stores: There views them burning, as the flames ascend, Germs of his birth, and relics of his end.
'Tis then an odour of divinest myrrh Steals through the fane, and, as the breezes stir— Soft and more soft—the far Pelusian lakes, A breath of Ind the raptured sense awakes, And, redolent of health, perfumes awhile, More sweet than nectar, the dark mouths of Nile. O happy bird! thine own surviving heir, "Whose smouldering ashes still new life prepare; To whom decay but firmer strength supplies, For not thyself—'tis but thine age that dies: Eternal witness of whate'er has been— All changes of the world thine eye hath seen: The time when ocean's waters, day by day Upborne, in stillness on the mountains lay: And that, when Phäeton, in wild career, To conflagration doomed the wasted year. Thee neither death, nor mundane ills invade, Safe mid destruction, fresh when all things fade; For thee the Parcæ weave their webs in vain— Unharmed thou art, and shalt unharm'd remain.