Our Catholic Heritage in English Literature of Pre-Conquest Days | Page 7

takes up the nest with its deposit and
bears it to the City of the Sun, and lays it down there in front of the
sacred portals."
It was a much later and a much longer version of the story that our
English poet was debtor to. It was written in Latin by Lactantius, and
the fable there, Professor Earle says, "is so curiously and, as it were,
significantly elaborated, that we hardly know whether we are reading a
Christian allegory or no."
He goes on to say that Allegory has always been a favourite form with
Christian writers, and finds more than one reason for it. There was a
tendency towards symbolism in literature outside Christianity when the
Christian literature arose. Another reason was that the early Christians
used it to convey what it would probably have endangered their lives to
set in plain words; besides this--here I must give the Professor's own
beautiful words--"Christian thought had in its own nature something
which invited allegory, partly by its own hidden sympathies with nature,
and partly by its very immensity, for which all direct speech was felt to
be inadequate." One more reason he suggests, and that is "the
all-pervading and unspeakable sweetness of Christ's teaching by
parables."
The Romans used the representation of the phoenix on coins to signify
the desire for fresh life and vigour, and Christian writers used the
phoenix as an emblem of the Resurrection.
Many scholars think that it was Cynewulf who wrote the Anglo-Saxon
poem of "The Phoenix." We are, however, uncertain as to its authorship
and as to its date. Whoever wrote it probably took some hints as to the
allegorical interpretation of the story from both St Ambrose and St
Bede. And this poet, too, gives us much more brightness and colour
than we find in Caedmonic poetry. I use the word "Caedmonic" to

cover the poetry which used to be attributed to Caedmon, and which
was probably written under his influence. That he did write much I
have shown in
Chapter I.
I cannot give the poem at full length, but in parts quote from it, and in
part give the gist of it. It begins with a description of the Happy Land
which is the home of the Phoenix. Far away in the East it lies, that
noblest of lands, renowned among men. Not to many of the
earth-owners is it given to have access to that country. God's power sets
it far from the workers of evil. Beautiful is that plain, with joys
endowed and with the sweetest smells of earth. Peerless is the island,
set there by its noble Maker. Oft is the door of Heaven opened for the
blessed ones and the joy of its music known of them. Winsome is the
plain with its wide green woods. And there is neither rain nor snow, nor
breath of frost nor flame of fire, nor the rush of hail, nor the falling of
rime, nor burning heat of the sun, nor everlasting cold, but blessed and
wholesome standeth the plain, and full is the noble country of the
blowing of blossoms.
The glorious land is higher than earth's highest towering mountain,
lying serene in its sunny wooded fairness. Ever and always the trees are
hung with fruits, and never comes the withering of the leaf. No foes
may enter that land, and there is no weeping nor any sorrow, nor losing
of life, nor sin, nor strife, nor age, nor care, nor poverty. When the
Flood covered the earth, this Paradise was shielded from the rush of
angry waters, happy through God's grace and inviolate; and so shall it
remain even to the day of the coming of the Judgement of the Lord.
In this fair country there abides a bird of wondrous beauty and strong of
wing. For him there shall be no death while the world shall last. Ever
he watches the course of the sun, eagerly looks for the radiant rising
over ocean of the noblest of stars, the first work of the Father, the
glowing token of God. At the coming of the sun he flies swift-winged
toward it, singing more wondrously than any son of man hath heard
since the making of heaven and earth. Never was human voice nor

sound of any instrument of music like unto the song. And so twelve
times by day he marks the hours, as twelve times by night he has
marked them by his bath in the glorious fountain, and his drink of its
cool clear water.
A thousand years go on, and the burden of years is upon him, and he
flies to a spacious lonely realm and there abides alone. He is lord over
all the birds, and dwells with them in the wilderness. He flies