1872 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE by Hans Christian Andersen ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale forthe rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songsterserenades the fragrant flowers. Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loadedcamels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath thelofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. Theturtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as thesunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they weremother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful thanthem all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the roseremained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on herleaves. 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 Ispread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when thestorm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from thatearth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too loftyto bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself todeath. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his blackslaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovelysongster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled inthe wind. The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closelyround her, and dreamed: and this was her dream. It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who hadundertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers wasa minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliantlights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it ina book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, hisfatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves ofthe book, which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rosefrom 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 sunrose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day washot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footstepsapproached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, cameby, 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 thehome of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flowernow 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." THE END.