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