THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                    THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD

                       by Hans Christian Andersen



THERE lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at

all seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the

world. She specially loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most

beautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its

apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near

the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and

window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the

halls. They were of every fragrance and color.

But care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a

sick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. "There is

still one thing that could save her," said one of the wisest among

them. "Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits

the purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before

her eyes close, she will not die."

Then from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in

every garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one

from the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth the

highest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in

the world, and each named one which he considered worthy of that

title; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide

to every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and

condition.

"No one has yet named the flower," said the wise man. "No one

has pointed out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor. It is

not a rose from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of

Walburg, though these roses will live in everlasting song. It is not

one of the roses which sprouted forth from the blood-stained fame of

Winkelreid. The blood which flows from the breast of a hero who dies

for his country is sacred, and his memory is sweet, and no rose can be

redder than the blood which flows from his veins. Neither is it the

magic flower of Science, to obtain which wondrous flower a man devotes

many an hour of his fresh young life in sleepless nights, in a

lonely chamber."

"I know where it blooms," said a happy mother, who came with her

lovely child to the bedside of the queen. "I know where the

loveliest rose in the world is. It is seen on the blooming cheeks of

my sweet child, when it expresses the pure and holy love of infancy;

when refreshed by sleep it opens its eyes, and smiles upon me with

childlike affection."

"This is a lovely rose," said the wise man; "but there is one

still more lovely."

"Yes, one far more lovely," said one of the women. "I have seen

it, and a loftier and purer rose does not bloom. But it was white,

like the leaves of a blush-rose. I saw it on the cheeks of the

queen. She had taken off her golden crown, and through the long,

dreary night, she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept over

it, kissed it, and prayed for it as only a mother can pray in that

hour of her anguish."

"Holy and wonderful in its might is the white rose of grief, but

it is not the one we seek."

"No; the loveliest rose in the world I saw at the Lord's table,"

said the good old bishop. "I saw it shine as if an angel's face had

appeared. A young maiden knelt at the altar, and renewed the vows made

at her baptism; and there were white roses and red roses on the

blushing cheeks of that young girl. She looked up to heaven with all

the purity and love of her young spirit, in all the expression of

the highest and purest love."

"May she be blessed!" said the wise man: "but no one has yet named

the loveliest rose in the world."

Then there came into the room a child- the queen's little son.

Tears stood in his eyes, and glistened on his cheeks; he carried a

great book and the binding was of velvet, with silver clasps.

"Mother," cried the little boy; "only hear what I have read." And

the child seated himself by the bedside, and read from the book of Him

who suffered death on the cross to save all men, even who are yet

unborn. He read, "Greater love hath no man than this," and as he

read a roseate hue spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes

became so enlightened and clear, that she saw from the leaves of the

book a lovely rose spring forth, a type of Him who shed His blood on

the cross.

"I see it," she said. "He who beholds this, the loveliest rose

on earth, shall never die."

                        THE END

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