Andersen's fairy tales
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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 beauteous, 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 from Paradise, 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 waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo 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 Shakspeare'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 kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst 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 fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth– "The Phoenix of Arabia."
In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee– thy name, Poetry.
I Paradisets Have, under kundskabstræet, stod en rosenhæk; her, i den første rose, fødtes en fugl, dens flugt var som lysets, dejlig dens farve, herlig dens sang.
Men da Eva brød kundskabens frugt, da hun og Adam joges fra Paradisets Have, faldt fra straffeenglens flammesværd en gnist i fuglens rede og antændte den. Fuglen døde i flammerne, men fra det røde æg fløj en ny, den eneste, den altid eneste Fugl Føniks. Sagnet melder, at den bygger i Arabien, og hvert hundrede år brænder sig selv op i sin rede, og at en ny Føniks, den eneste i verden, flyver ud fra det røde æg.
Fuglen omflagrer os, hurtig som lyset, dejlig i farve, herlig i sang. Når moderen sidder ved barnets vugge, er den ved hovedpuden, og slår med vingerne en glorie om barnets hoved. Den flyver gennem nøjsomhedens stue, og der er solglans derinde, den fattige dragkiste dufter med violer.
Men Fugl Føniks er ikke alene Arabiens fugl, den flagrer i nordlysskær på Laplands issletter, den hopper imellem de gule blomster i Grønlands korte sommer. Under Faluns kobberklipper, i Englands kulgruber flyver den, som et pudret møl, hen over sangbogen i den fromme arbejders hænder. Den sejler på lotusbladet ned ad Ganges' hellige vande, og hindupigens øjne lyser ved at se den.
Fugl Føniks! Kender du ham ikke? Paradisets fugl, sangens hellige svane. På Thespiskærren sad den, som en sladrende ravn, og slog med de sorte, bærmebesmurte vinger; over Islands sangerharpe gled svanens røde, klingende næb; på Shakespeares skulder sad den som Odins ravn og hviskede ham i øret: Udødelighed; den fløj ved sangerfesten gennem Wartburgs riddersal.
Fugl Føniks! Kender du ham ikke? Han sang dig Marseillaisen, og du kyssede fjeren, der faldt fra hans vinge; han kom i paradisglans, og du vendte dig måske bort til spurven, der sad med bogguld på vingerne.
Paradisets fugl! fornyet hvert århundrede, født i flammer, død i flammer, dit billede indfattet i guld hænger i de riges sale, selv flyver du tit vildfarende og ensom, – et sagn kun: Fugl Føniks i Arabien.
– I Paradisets Have, da du fødtes under kundskabstræet, i den første rose, kyssede Vor Herre dig og gav dig dit rette navn – Poesien.