ALL the songs of the east speak of the love ofthe nightingale for the rose in the silent starlightnight. The winged songster serenades the fragrantflowers.
Not far from Smyrna， where the merchantdrives his loaded camels， proudly arching their longnecks as they journey beneath the lofty pines overholy 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， morebeautiful than them all， and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remainedsilent， not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed herhead over a heap of stones， and said， “Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over histomb will I spread my fragrance， and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scattersthem. He who sung of Troy became earth， and from that earth I have sprung. I， a rose fromthe grave of Homer， am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale.” Then the nightingale sunghimself to death. A camel-driver came by， with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his littleson 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， anddreamed： and this was her dream.
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken apilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north， thehome of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose andplaced it in a book， and carried it away into a distant part of the world， his fatherland. Therose faded with grief， and lay between the leaves of the book， which he opened in his ownhome， 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 fromthe leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun rose， and the flower bloomed more beautiful thanever. 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 poetfrom the north; he plucked the rose， pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth， and carried heraway to the home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy， the flower now restsin his “Iliad，” and， as in her dream， she hears him say， as he opens the book， “Here is arose from the grave of Homer.”
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