“Arabia, named the Happy, now he gains;
Incense and myrrh perfume her grateful plains;
The Virgin Phœnix there in seek of rest,
Selects from all the world her balmy nest.”
We get the same idea again in Fletcher’s poem of “The Purple Island”:—
“So that love bird in fruitful Arabie,
When now her strength and waning life decays,
Upon some airy rock or mountain high,
In spicy bed (fix’d by near Phœbus’ rays),
Herself and all her crooked age consumes.
Straight from her ashes and those rich perfumes,
A new-born phœnix flies, and widow’d place resumes.”
These two extracts speak respectively of the virgin and widowed phœnix. The latter idea can scarcely be correct; widowhood implies the loss of a mate, and the phœnix, we are told, is unique and alone in the world. Pliny and Ovid use the masculine pronoun. The former writer’s account of him, her, or it will be found in the second chapter of his tenth book, and runs as follows:—“It is reported that never man was knowne to see him feeding; that in Arabie hee is held a sacred bird, dedicated unto the Sunne; that he liveth six hundred years, and when he groweth old and begins to decay, he builds himselfe a nest with the twigs and branches of the cannell or cinnamon and frankincense trees; and when he hath filled it with all sort of sweet aromiticall spices, yieldeth up his life thereupon. He saith, moreover, that of his bones and marrow there breedeth at first, as it were, a little worme, which afterwards proveth to bee a pretie bird. And the first thing that this young phœnix doth is to performe the obsequies of the former phœnix late deceased; to translate and carie away his whole nest into the citie of the Sunne, near Panchæ, and to bestow it there full devoutly upon the altar.”
It was one of the venerable jokes of our fathers that a man hearing that a goose would live one hundred years, determined to buy one and see whether this really was so; but this simple plan does not seem to have occurred to any of the ancients, for while Herodotus affirms that the phœnix lives five hundred years, Pliny as plumply and roundly asserts as a matter beyond doubt or contradiction that it is six hundred. Another authority, more precise, though perhaps not more accurate, brings it, we see, to just one thousand four hundred and sixty one, the odd unit giving a delightful appearance of extreme accuracy and precision that seems to challenge one to gainsay it if he dare.
In Ovid the fable is given with the fullest detail. The following lines from Dryden’s translation let us into the secret of how the whole thing is managed. “Our special correspondent” could hardly be more precise:—
“All these receive their birth from other things,
But from himself the phœnix only springs;
Self-born, begotten by the parent flame
In which he burn’d, another and the same;
Who not by corn or herbs his life sustains,
But the sweet essence Amomum he drains;
And watches the rich gums Arabia bears,
While yet in tender dews they drop their tears.
He (his five centuries of life fulfill’d)
His nest of oaken boughs begins to build,
On trembling tops of palms:[9] and first he draws
The plan with his broad bill and crooked claws,
Nature’s artificers: on this the pile
Is formed and rises round: then with the spoil
Of Cassia, Cynamon, and stems of Nard
(For softness strewed beneath) his funeral bed is reared.
Funeral and bridal both: and all around
The borders with corruptless myrrh are crowned.
On this incumbent, till ethereal flame;
First catches then consumes the costly frame;
Consumes him, too, as on the pile he lies:
He lived on odours, and on odours dies.
An infant phœnix from the former springs,
His father’s heir, and from his tender wings
Shakes off his parent dust, his method he pursues,
And the same lease of life on the same terms renews.
When grown to manhood he begins his reign,
And with stiff pinions can his flight sustain;
He lightens of his load the tree that bore
His father’s royal sepulchre before,
And his own cradle: this with pious care
Placed on his back, he cuts the buxom air,
Seeks the Sun’s city, and his sacred church,
And decently lays down his burden in the porch.”
The phœnix was a good deal employed during the Middle Ages, like the griffin, salamander, and other mythical creatures, as a badge or heraldic device, one of the most interesting illustrations being its use by Jane Seymour. Queen Elizabeth then adopted it, and thereby gave the court poets a grand opportunity of yielding her that highly spiced flattery that was so much to her liking. Sylvester, in his “Corona Dedicatoria,” a poem written at a slightly later period, thus introduces the title:—
“As when the Arabian (only) bird doth burne
Her aged body in sweet flames to death,
Out of her cinders a new bird hath breath,
In whom the beauties of the first return;
From spicy ashes of the sacred urne
Of our dead phœnix (deere Elizabeth)
A new true phœnix lively flourisheth.”