Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Complete by Lytton (rm book recommendations .TXT) 📕

the height, he halted, and made sign to Haco, who had also dismounted, to do the same. Half way down the side of the slope which faced the ruined peristyle, Haco beheld a maiden, still young, and of beauty surpassing all that the court of Normandy boasted of female loveliness. She was seated on the sward;—while a girl younger, and scarcely indeed grown into womanhood, reclined at her feet, and leaning her cheek upon her hand, seemed hushed in listening attention. In the face of the younger girl Haco recognised Thyra, the last-born of Githa, though he had but once seen her before—the day ere he left England for the Norman court—for the face of the girl was but little changed, save that the eye was more mournful, and the cheek was paler.

And Harold’s betrothed was singing, in the still autumn air, to Harold’s sister. The song chosen was on that subject the most popular with the Saxon poets, the mystic life, death, and resurrection of the fabled Phoenix, and this rhymeless song, in its old native flow, may yet find some grace in the modern ear.

THE LAY OF THE PHOENIX. 206 “Shineth far hence—so Sing the wise elders Far to the fire-east The fairest of lands. Daintily dight is that Dearest of joy fields; Breezes all balmy-filled Glide through its groves. There to the blest, ope The high doors of heaven, Sweetly sweep earthward Their wavelets of song. Frost robes the sward not, Rusheth no hail-steel; Wind-cloud ne’er wanders, Ne’er falleth the rain. Warding the woodholt, Girt with gay wonder, Sheen with the plumy shine, Phoenix abides. Lord of the Lleod, 207 Whose home is the air, Winters a thousand Abideth the bird. Hapless and heavy then Waxeth the hazy wing; Year-worn and old in the Whirl of the earth. Then the high holt-top, Mounting, the bird soars; There, where the winds sleep, He buildeth a nest;— Gums the most precious, and Balms of the sweetest, Spices and odours, he Weaves in the nest. There, in that sun-ark, lo, Waiteth he wistful; Summer comes smiling, lo, Rays smite the pile! Burden’d with eld-years, and Weary with slow time, Slow in his odour-nest Burneth the bird. Up from those ashes, then, Springeth a rare fruit; Deep in the rare fruit There coileth a worm. Weaving bliss-meshes Around and around it, Silent and blissful, the Worm worketh on. Lo, from the airy web, Blooming and brightsome, Young and exulting, the Phoenix breaks forth. Round him the birds troop, Singing and hailing; Wings of all glories Engarland the king. Hymning and hailing, Through forest and sun-air, Hymning and hailing, And speaking him ‘King.’ 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?”

“It is the persons we love that make beautiful the haunts we have known,” answered the betrothed. “Those persons at least we shall behold again, and whenever they are—there is heaven.”

Harold could restrain himself no longer. With one bound he was at Edith’s side, and with one wild cry of joy he clasped her to his heart.

“I knew that thou wouldst come to-night—I knew it, Harold,” murmured the betrothed.