ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of thenightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night.The winged songster serenades the fragrantflowers.
Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant driveshis loaded camels, proudly arching their long necksas they journey beneath the lofty pines over holyground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-doveflew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, theyglistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush GREw a flower, more beautifulthan them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, noteven a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over aheap of stones, and said, "Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will Ispread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He whosung of Troy became earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave ofHomer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself to death. Acamel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the deadbird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled inthe wind.
The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and dreamed: andthis was her dream.
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken a pilgrimageto the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of theclouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in abook, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded withgrief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, "Hereis 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 theleaves upon the singer's grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful thanever. 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 fromthe north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away tothe 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 thegrave of Homer."
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