|
All the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for
the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster
serenades the fragrant flowers.
Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels,
proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty
pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew
among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon
her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the
rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her
the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not
even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last
she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said, "Here rests the
greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread my
fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm
scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth
I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to
bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself to
death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black
slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely
songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in
the wind.
The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round
her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had
undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers
was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the
brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and
placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the
world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between
the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying,
"Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."
Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A
drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun
rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was
hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps
approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came
by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose,
pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the
home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower
now rests in his "Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say,
as he opens the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."
A Rose from Homer's Grave
A Classic Children's Short Story
by
Hans Christian Andersen |
