Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Volume 10. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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      "True," said Haco, "and I am no babbler. Three things are ever silent: Thought, Destiny, and the Grave."

      Each then, pursuing his own fancies, rode on fast, and side by side; the long shadows of declining day struggling with a sky of unusual brightness, and thrown from the dim forest trees and the distant hillocks. Alternately through shade and through light rode they on; the bulls gazing on them from holt and glade, and the boom of the bittern sounding in its peculiar mournfulness of toile as it rose from the dank pools that glistened in the western sun.

      It was always by the rear of the house, where stood the ruined temple, so associated with the romance of his life, that Harold approached the home of the Vala; and as now the hillock, with its melancholy diadem of stones, came in view, Haco for the first time broke the silence.

      "Again—as in a dream!" he said, abruptly. "Hill, ruin, grave-mound— but where the tall image of the mighty one?"

      "Hast thou then seen this spot before?" asked the Earl.

      "Yea, as an infant here was I led by my father Sweyn; here too, from thy house yonder, dim seen through the fading leaves, on the eve before I left this land for the Norman, here did I wander alone; and there, by that altar, did the great Vala of the North chaunt her runes for my future."

      "Alas! thou too!" murmured Harold; and then he asked aloud, "What said she?"

      "That thy life and mine crossed each other in the skein; that I should save thee from a great peril, and share with thee a greater."

      "Ah, youth," answered Harold, bitterly, "these vain prophecies of human wit guard the soul from no anger. They mislead us by riddles which our hot hearts interpret according to their own desires. Keep thou fast to youth's simple wisdom, and trust only to the pure spirit and the watchful God."

      He suppressed a groan as he spoke, and springing from his steed, which he left loose, advanced up the hill. When he had gained 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.3

          "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,4

             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.

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