the Hindoo girl
glisten on seeing it.

The bird Phoenix! Dost thou not know it? The bird of Paradise, song's
sacred swan! It sat on the car of Thespis, like a croaking raven, and
flapped its black, dregs-besmeared wings; over Iceland's minstrel-harp
glided the swan's red, sounding bill. It sat on Shakspeare's shoulder
like Odin's raven, and whispered in his ear: "Immortality!" It flew at
the minstrel competition, through Wartzburg's knightly halls.

The bird Phoenix! Dost thou not know it? It sang the Marseillaise for
thee, and thou didst kiss the plume that fell from its wing: it came
in the lustre of Paradise, and thou perhaps didst turn thyself away to
some poor sparrow that sat with merest tinsel on its wings.

The bird of Paradise! regenerated every century, bred in flames, dead
in flames; thy image set in gold hangs in the saloons of the rich,
even though thou fliest often astray and alone. "The bird Phoenix in
Arabia"--is but a legend.

In the garden of Paradise, when thou wast bred under the tree of
knowledge, in the first rose, our Lord kissed thee and gave thee thy
proper name--Poetry.

KINNAKULLA.

* * * * *

Kinnakulla, Sweden's hanging gardens! Thee will we visit. We stand by
the lowest terrace in a plenitude of flowers and verdure; the ancient
village church leans its grey pointed wooden tower, as if it would
fall; it produces an effect in the landscape: we would not even be
without that large flock of birds, which just now chance to fly away
over the mountain forest.

The high road leads up the mountain with short palings on either side,
between which we see extensive plains with hops, wild roses,
corn-fields, and delightful beech woods, such as are not to be found
in any other place in Sweden. The ivy winds itself around old trees
and stones--even to the withered trunk green leaves are lent. We look
out over the flat, extended woody plain, to the sunlit church-tower of
Maristad, which shines like a white sail on the dark green sea: we
look out over the Venern Lake, but cannot see its further shore.
Skjaergaardens' wood-crowned rocks lie like a wreath down in the lake;
the steam-boat comes--see! down by the cliff under the red-roofed
mansions, where the beech and walnut trees grow in the garden.

The travellers land; they wander under shady trees away over that
pretty light green meadow, which is enwreathed by gardens and woods:
no English park has a finer