By Hans Christian Andersen

(1842)

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.”

　

I. Translation for Reference(參考譯文)

荷馬墓上的一朵玫瑰

（注：荷馬（Homer)是公元前１０００年希臘的一個(gè)偉大詩人。他的兩部馳名的 史詩《依里亞特》（Illiad)《奧德賽》(Odyssey)描寫希臘人遠(yuǎn)征特洛伊城(Troy)的故事。此城在小亞細(xì)亞的西北部。）

東方所有的歌曲都歌誦著夜鶯對(duì)玫瑰花的愛情。在星星閃耀著的靜夜里，這只有翼的歌手就為他芬芳的花兒唱一支情歌。離士麥那（注：士麥那（Ｓｍｙｒｎａ）是土耳其西部的一個(gè)海口。）不遠(yuǎn)，在一株高 大的梧桐樹下，商人趕著一群馱著東西的駱駝。這群牲口驕傲地昂起它們的長(zhǎng)脖子，笨重地在這神圣的土地上行進(jìn)。我看到開滿了花的玫瑰樹所組成的籬笆。野鴿子在高大的樹枝間飛翔。當(dāng)太陽射到它們身上的時(shí)候，它們的翅膀發(fā)著光，像珍珠一樣。玫瑰樹籬笆上有一朵花，一朵所有的鮮花中最美麗的花。夜鶯對(duì)它唱出他的愛情的悲愁 。但是這朵玫瑰一句話也不講，它的葉子上連一顆作為同情的眼淚的露珠都沒有。它只是面 對(duì)著幾塊大石頭垂下枝子。“這兒躺著世界上一個(gè)最偉大的歌手！”玫瑰花說。“我在他的墓上散發(fā)出香氣；當(dāng)暴 風(fēng)雨襲來的時(shí)候，我的花瓣落到它身上，這位《依里亞特》的歌唱者變成了這塊土地中的塵土，我從這塵土中發(fā)芽和生長(zhǎng)！我是荷馬墓上長(zhǎng)出的一朵玫瑰。我是太神圣了，我不能為一個(gè)平凡的夜鶯開出花來。”

于是夜鶯就一直歌唱到死。

趕駱駝的商人帶著馱著東西的牲口和黑奴走來了。他的小兒子看到了這只死鳥。他把這 只小小的歌手埋到偉大的荷馬的墓里。那朵玫瑰花在風(fēng)中發(fā)著抖。黃昏到來了。玫瑰花緊緊 地收斂起它的花瓣，做了一個(gè)夢(mèng)。它夢(mèng)見一個(gè)美麗的、陽光普照的日子。一群異國人——佛蘭克人——來參拜荷馬的墳?zāi)?。在這些異國人之中有一位歌手；他來自北國，來自云塊和北極光的故鄉(xiāng)（注：指丹麥、挪威和瑞典。）。他摘下這朵玫瑰，把它夾在一本書里，然后把它帶到世界的另一部分——他 的遼遠(yuǎn)的祖國里來。這朵玫瑰在悲哀中萎謝了，靜靜地躺在這本小書里。他在家里把這本書打開，說：“這是從荷馬的墓上摘下的一朵玫瑰。”這就是這朵花做的一個(gè)夢(mèng)。她驚醒起來，在風(fēng)中發(fā)抖。于是一顆露珠從她的花瓣上滾到 這位歌手的墓上去。太陽升起來了，天氣漸漸溫暖起來，玫瑰花開得比以前還要美麗。她是 生長(zhǎng)在溫暖的亞洲。這時(shí)有腳步聲音響起來了。玫瑰花在夢(mèng)里所見到的那群佛蘭克人來了； 在這些異國人中有一位北國的詩人：他摘下這朵玫瑰，在它新鮮的嘴唇上吻了一下，然后把它帶到云塊和北極光的故鄉(xiāng)去。這朵花的軀體像木乃伊一樣，現(xiàn)在躺在他的《依里亞特》里面它像在做夢(mèng)一樣，聽到他打開這本書，說：“這是荷馬墓上的一朵玫瑰。”

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（１８４２年）這是一首散文詩，收集在《詩人的集市》里。這大概也是安徒生在旅行中根據(jù)自己的見 聞?dòng)兴卸鴮懗傻摹Ｎ闹械?ldquo;一位北國詩人”可能就是他本人。那朵玫瑰有它坎坷的遭遇，詩人的一生中有時(shí)也有類似的經(jīng)驗(yàn)。因此也只有他最能理解和鐘愛這朵玫瑰花。

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