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.»