glisten on seeing it.

The bird Phoenix! Dost thou not know it? The bird of Paradise, song's
sacred swan! It sat on the car of Thespis, like a croaking raven, and
flapped its black, dregs-besmeared wings; over Iceland's minstrel-harp
glided the swan's red, sounding bill. It sat on Shakspeare's shoulder
like Odin's raven, and whispered in his ear: "Immortality!" It flew at
the minstrel competition, through Wartzburg's knightly halls.

The bird Phoenix! Dost thou not know it? It sang the Marseillaise for
thee, and thou didst kiss the plume that fell from its wing: it came
in the lustre of Paradise, and thou perhaps didst turn thyself away to
some poor sparrow that sat with merest tinsel on its wings.

The bird of Paradise! regenerated every century, bred in flames, dead
in flames; thy image set in gold hangs in the saloons of the rich,
even though thou fliest often astray and alone. "The bird Phoenix in
Arabia"--is but a legend.

In the garden of Paradise, when thou wast bred under the tree of
knowledge, in the first rose, our Lord kissed thee and gave thee thy
proper name--Poetry.




KINNAKULLA.

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