安徒生童话的英文故事
篇一：A Rose from Homer's Grave荷马墓上的`一朵玫瑰
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 turtledove flew among the branches of the tall trees， and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings， they glistened as if they were motherofpearl. On the rosebush 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 cameldriver 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.”
篇二：the Shepherd's Story of the Bond of Friendship
the little dwelling in which we lived was of clay， but the doorposts were columns of fluted marble， found near the spot on which it stood. The roof sloped nearly to the ground. It was at this time dark， brown， and ugly， but had originally been formed of blooming olive and laurel branches， brought from beyond the mountains. The house was situated in a narrow gorge， whose rocky walls rose to a perpendicular height， naked and black， while round their summits clouds often hung， looking like white living figures. Not a singing bird was ever heard there， neither did men dance to the sound of the pipe. The spot was one sacred to olden times; even its name recalled a memory of the days when it was called “Delphi.” Then the summits of the dark， sacred mountains were covered with snow， and the highest， mount Parnassus， glowed longest in the red evening light. The brook which rolled from it near our house， was also sacred. How well I can remember every spot in that deep， sacred solitude! A fire had been kindled in the midst of the hut， and while the hot ashes lay there red and glowing， the bread was baked in them. At times the snow would be piled so high around our hut as almost to hide it， and then my mother appeared most cheerful. She would hold my head between her hands， and sing the songs she never sang at other times， for the Turks， our masters， would not allow it. She sang，—
“On the summit of mount Olympus， in a forest of dwarf firs， lay an old stag. His eyes were heavy with tears， and glittering with colors like dewdrops; and there came by a roebuck， and said， 'What ailest thee， that thou weepest blue and red tears?' And the stag answered， 'The Turk has come to our city; he has wild dogs for the chase， a goodly pack.' 'I will drive them away across the islands!' cried the young roebuck; 'I will drive them away across the islands into the deep sea.' But before evening the roebuck was slain， and before night the hunted stag was dead.”
And when my mother sang thus， her eyes would become moist; and on the long eyelashes were tears， but she concealed them and watched the black bread baking in the ashes. Then I would clench my fist， and cry， “We will kill these Turks!” But she repeated the words of the song， “I will drive them across the islands to the deep sea; but before evening came the roebuck was slain， and before the night the hunted stag was dead.”
We had been lonely in our hut for several days and nights when my father came home. I knew he would bring me some shells from the gulf of Lepanto， or perhaps a knife with a shining blade. This time he brought， under his sheepskin cloak， a little child， a little halfnaked girl. She was wrapped in a fur; but when this was taken off， and she lay in my mother's lap， three silver coins were found fastened in her dark hair; they were all her possessions. My father told us that the child's parents had been killed by the Turks， and he talked so much about them that I dreamed of Turks all night. He himself had been wounded， and my mother bound up his arm. It was a deep wound， and the thick sheepskin cloak was stiff with congealed blood. The little maiden was to be my sister. How pretty and bright she looked： even my mother's eyes were not more gentle than hers. Anastasia， as she was called， was to be my sister， because her father had been united to mine by an old custom， which we still follow. They had sworn brotherhood in their youth， and the most beautiful and virtuous maiden in the neighborhood was chosen to perform the act of consecration upon this bond of friendship. So now this little girl was my sister. She sat in my lap， and I brought her flowers， and feathers from the birds of the mountain. We drank together of the waters of Parnassus， and dwelt for many years beneath the laurel roof of the hut， while， winter after winter， my mother sang her song of the stag who shed red tears. But as yet I did not understand that the sorrows of my own countrymen were mirrored in those tears.
One day there came to our hut Franks， men from a far country， whose dress was different to ours. They had tents and beds with them， carried by horses; and they were accompanied by more than twenty Turks， all armed with swords and muskets. These Franks were friends of the Pacha， and had letters from him， commanding an escort for them. They only came to see our mountain， to ascend Parnassus amid the snow and clouds， and to look at the strange black rocks which raised their steep sides near our hut. They could not find room in the hut， nor endure the smoke that rolled along the ceiling till it found its way out at the low door; so they pitched their tents on a small space outside our dwelling. Roasted lambs and birds were brought forth， and strong， sweet wine， of which the Turks are forbidden to partake.
When they departed， I accompanied them for some distance， carrying my little sister Anastasia， wrapped in a goatskin， on my back. One of the Frankish gentlemen made me stand in front of a rock， and drew us both as we stood there， so that we looked like one creature. I did not think of it then， but Anastasia and I were really one. She was always sitting on my lap， or riding in the goatskin on my back; and in my dreams she always appeared to me.
Two nights after this， other men， armed with knives and muskets， came into our tent. They were Albanians， brave men， my mother told me. They only stayed a short time. My sister Anastasia sat on the knee of one of them; and when they were gone， she had not three， but two silver coins in her hair—one had disappeared. They wrapped tobacco in strips of paper， and smoked it; and I remember they were uncertain as to the road they ought to take. But they were obliged to go at last， and my father went with them. Soon after， we heard the sound of firing. The noise continued， and presently soldiers rushed into our hut， and took my mother and myself and Anastasia prisoners. They declared that we had entertained robbers， and that my father had acted as their guide， and therefore we must now go with them. The corpses of the robbers， and my father's corpse， were brought into the hut. I saw my poor dead father， and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke， I found myself in a prison; but the room was not worse than our own in the hut. They gave me onions and musty wine from a tarred cask; but we were not accustomed to much better fare at home. How long we were kept in prison， I do not know; but many days and nights passed by. We were set free about Eastertime. I carried Anastasia on my back， and we walked very slowly; for my mother was very weak， and it is a long way to the sea， to the Gulf of Lepanto.
On our arrival， we entered a church， in which there were beautiful pictures in golden frames. They were pictures of angels， fair and bright; and yet our little Anastasia looked equally beautiful， as it seemed to me. In the centre of the floor stood a coffin filled with roses. My mother told me it was the Lord Jesus Christ who was represented by these roses. Then the priest announced， “Christ is risen，” and all the people GREeted each other. Each one carried a burning taper in his hand， and one was given to me， as well as to little Anastasia. The music sounded， and the people left the church handinhand， with joy and gladness. Outside， the women were roasting the paschal lamb. We were invited to partake; and as I sat by the fire， a boy， older than myself， put his arms round my neck， and kissed me， and said， “Christ is risen.” And thus it was that for the first time I met Aphtanides.
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