A ROSE FROM HOMERS GRAVE

　　 1872

　　 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

　　 A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE

　　 by Hans Christian Andersen

　　 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."

　　 THE END

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　　 Written By Anderson