High flies the phoenix,
Escaped from the worm-web
He soars in the sunlight,
He bathes in the dew.
He visits his old haunts,
The holt and the sun-hill;
The founts of his youth, and
The fields of his love.
The stars in the welkin,
The blooms on the earth,
Are glad in his gladness,
Are young in his youth.
While round him the birds troop,
the Hosts of the Himmel, [208]
Blisses of music, and
Glories of wings;
Hymning and hailing,
And filling the sun-air
With music, and glory
And praise of the King."
As the lay ceased, Thyra said:
"Ah, Edith, who would not brave the funeral pyre to live again like the phoenix!"
"Sweet sister mine," answered Edith, "the singer doth mean to image out in the phoenix the rising of our Lord, in whom we all live again."
And Thyra said, mournfully:
"But the phoenix sees once more the haunts of his youth—the things and places dear to him in his life before. Shall we do the same, O Edith?"