De Ave Phoenice I
Far in the earliest regions of the light, where wide to eternal skies the vast gates stand greeting the vernal Sun, a blissful land, not summer's frenzy fears, nor winter's sprite
Ample and fair a plain is nurtured thus, not ridged with hills nor scarred with chasms dread, yet at such a height, its gentle meads are spread, as many peaks dwindle, most perilous.
In that same region leaved with deathless green, Its victor-crown for all time's season won, a mighty grove and sacred to the Sun, by deep-set forests guarded, lies unseen.
When pale Phaethon drove his fatal course, And heaven blazed, the flames here turned aside: This land out-towered the huge earth-drowning tide Whereof Prometheus' son survived the force.
And here no wan disease nor feeble age, Harsh death nor crime unspeakable, comes near, nor envy comes, nor grief, nor bitter fear, nor poverty, nor unrelenting rage.
Here sounds no growl of storm nor shriek of gale nor yet with the frost the humid earth is sealed: No fleece of cloud spreads dark above the field, nor driving rain descends with eager flail.
But in the midst a spring that rises clear, transparent, sweet, the Well of Life 'tis said. Each moon brims over, through the grove to spread its bounteous flood, nor fails in all the year.
Here flourish lofty trees of changeless hue, of noble trunk, ripe fruits which do not fall: And in this grove and in this forest tall, The Phoenix dwells, which dies to live anew.
The Sun her law, the Sun her worshipped lord, no other task than so to live in is hers: Most true, most famed of Phoebus' followers, Her deed and nature perfectly accord.
When dawn from pallid gold is reddening to light the stars from hence, in those pure waves the Phoenix then her body four times leaves, and four times drinks she of the living spring.
From thence her soaring pinions bear her straight to that one tree which overtops the rest: And eastward turning, in its leafy crest she sits, the Sun's first shining to await.
And when his radiance strikes the day's bright still, when his first splendour's gladsome beam outsprings, then what sublimest hymn of welcome rings in wondrous music from the Phoenix's bill!
No nightingale nor yet the dying swan, nor flute nor harp that have on earth excelled can vie against that song unparalleled which gives the birth of day her benison.
When Phoebus' team, urged ever onward, gains the open sky and shows the orb entire, three times she beats her wings, the lord of fire three times salutes, then silent she remains: Save that by night and day the ours that run she marks with sounds by man not understood: Priest of the groves, dread Guardian of the wood, She solely knows the arcana of the Sun.