A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE

                                      1872

                     FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                           A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE

                           by Hans Christian Andersen

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    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."