IN the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beautiful, and his song ravishing.
But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven fromParadise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.
The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color, charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant's cradle, he stands on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant's head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.
But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England's coal mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred watersof the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindu maid gleams bright when she beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan's red beak; on Shakespeare's shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin's raven, and whispered in the poet's ear "Immortality!"
and at the minstrels' feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise, and thou kissed the pen that fell fromhis wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didn't turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.
The Bird of Paradise renewed each century born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself often flies around, lonely and disregarded, a myth "The Phoenix of Arabia."
In Paradise, when thou were born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou received a kiss, and thy right name was given thee thy name, Poetry.
在天国花园里，在知识树底下，有一丛玫瑰花。在这儿，那第一朵开出的玫瑰花生出一只鸟来。它飞起来像一道闪光。它的色彩华丽，它的歌声美妙。
不过当夏娃①摘下那颗知识的果子的时候，当她和亚当被驱出了天国花园的时候，有一颗火星从复仇天使的火剑上落到这鸟儿的巢里去，把它烧起来。鸟儿就在火中被焚死了。不过从巢里的那个火红的蛋中飞出一只新的鸟儿——世界上唯一的凤凰。
神话上面说，这只凤凰住在阿拉伯;它每过一百年就把自己在巢里烧死一次。不过每次总有一个新的凤凰——世界上唯一的凤凰——从那个红蛋里飞出来。
这鸟儿在我们的周围飞翔，快速得像闪电;它的颜色非常美丽，歌声非常悦耳。当母亲坐在她孩子的摇篮旁的时候，它就站在枕头上，拍着翅膀，在孩子头上形成一个光圈。它飞过这朴素的房间。这里面有太阳光;那张简陋的桌上发出紫罗兰花的香气。
但是凤凰不仅仅是一只阿拉伯的鸟儿。它在北极光的微曦中飞过拉普兰的冰冻的原野;它在短暂的格陵兰的夏天里，在黄花中间走过。在法龙②的铜山下，在英国的煤矿里，它作为一个全身布满了灰尘的蛾子，在虔诚的矿工膝上摊开的那本《圣经》上面飞。它在一片荷叶上，顺着恒河的圣水向下流。印度姑娘的眼睛一看到它就闪出亮光。
这只凤凰!你不认识它吗?这只天国的鸟儿，这只歌中的神圣的天鹅!它作为一个多嘴的乌鸦，坐在德斯比斯③的车上，拍着粘满了渣滓的黑翅膀。它用天鹅的红嘴在冰岛的竖琴上弹出声音;作为奥丁④的乌鸦坐在莎士比亚的肩上，同时在他耳边低声地说：“不朽!”它在诗歌比赛的时候，飞过瓦特堡⑤的骑士宫殿。
这只凤凰!你不认识它吗?它对你唱着《马赛曲》;你吻着从它翅膀上落下的羽毛。它从天国的光辉中飞下来;也许你就在这时把头掉开，去看那翅上带着银纸的、坐着的麻雀吧。
天国的鸟儿!它每一个世纪重生一次——从火焰中出生，在火焰中死去!你的镶着金像框的画像悬在有钱人的大厅里，但是你自己常常是孤独地、茫然地飞来飞去。你是一个神话——“阿拉伯的凤凰”。
在天国花园里，你在那知识树下，在那第一朵玫瑰花里出生的时候，上帝吻了你，给了你一个正确的名字——“诗”。
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