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Title: The Phoenix Out Of Claudian, [Idyll I]
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
Oceani summo circumfluus aequore lucus
Trans Indos, Eurumque viret, &c.
A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd,
Beyond the Indies and the Eastern wind,
Which, as the sun breaks forth in his first beam,
Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team;
When with his dewy coach the Eastern bay
Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching Day,
And blasted with his burnish'd wheels the Night
In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.
This the bless'd Ph[oe]nix' empire is, here he,
Alone exempted from mortality,
Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign,
And ne'er afflicted like our world with pain.
A bird most equal to the gods, which vies
For length of life and durance with the skies,
And with renew'd limbs tires ev'ry age
His appetite he never doth assuage
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
When thirsty on some river's muddy brink.
A purer, vital heat shot from the sun
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need;
On such abstracted diet doth he feed.
A secret light there streams from both his eyes,
A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise.
His crest grows up into a glorious star
Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far,
That piercing through the bosom of the night
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
--More swift than winds are--have sky-colour'd rings
Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
But is himself the parent, and the birth.
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.
For when the tedious Summer's gone about
A thousand times: so many Winters out,
So many Springs: and May doth still restore
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline,
Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine
Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height
Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight,
Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain
Part is consum'd, and part with age again;
So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
The cloudy moon is, having spent her light.
And now his wings, which used to contend
With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend.
He knows his time is out! and doth provide
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames.
On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
The youth and vigour, which he had before.
Whom, soon as Ph[oe]bus spies, stopping his reins,
He makes a stand and thus allays his pains.
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
And art by seeming funerals to have
A new return of life, whose custom 'tis
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss
Ev'n death itself, a new beginning take,
And that thy wither'd body now forsake!
Better thyself by this thy change! This said
He shakes his locks, and from his golden head
Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire
The willing bird; to burn is his desire,
That he may live again: he's proud in death,
And goes in haste to gain a better breath.
The spicy heap fir'd with celestial rays
Doth burn the aged Ph[oe]nix, when straight stays
The chariot of th' amazed moon; the pole
Resists the wheeling swift orbs, and the whole
Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,
Till the old bird a new young being gains.
All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they
Suffer not Nature's glory to decay.
By this time, life which in the ashes lurks
Hath fram'd the heart, and taught new blood new works;
The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes
Due vigour; th' embers too are turn'd to plumes;
The parent in the issue now revives,
But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives,
With very little space between the same,
Were parted only by the middle flame.
To Nilus straight he goes to consecrate
His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate
His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away
Into a distant land, and doth convey
The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend
His journey without number, and defend
His pious flight, like to a guard; the sky
Is clouded with the army, as they fly.
Nor is there one of all those thousands dares
Affront his leader: they with solemn cares
Attend the progress of their youthful king;
Not the rude hawk, nor th' eagle that doth bring
Arms up to Jove, fight now, lest they displease;
The miracle enacts a common peace.
So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris' side
His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride
In pearls and habit; he adorns his head
With royal tires: his steed with gold is led;
His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,
With rare Assyrian needle-work are wrought;
And proudly reigning o'er his rascal bands,
He raves and triumphs in his large commands.
A city of Egypt, famous in all lands
For rites, adores the sun; his temple stands
There on a hundred pillars by account,
Digg'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.
Here, as the custom did require--they say--
His happy parent's dust down he doth lay;
Then to the image of his lord he bends
And to the flames his burden straight commends.
Unto the altars thus he destinates
His own remains; the light doth gild the gates;
Perfumes divine the censers up do send:
While th' Indian odour doth itself extend
To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all
The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale,
To which compar'd nectar itself is vile,
Fills the sev'n channels of the misty Nile.
O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!
Death, to whose force all other creatures must
Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;
'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.
Thou hast seen all! and to the times that run
Thou art as great a witness as the sun.
Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied
The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.
What year the straggling Phaeton did fire
The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire
Against thy life; alone thou dost arise
Above mortality; the destinies
Spin not thy days out with their fatal clue;
They have no law, to which thy life is due.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: Phoenix Out Of Claudian, [idyll I.]
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