English Original
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.'
中文翻译
东方所有的诗歌都在传颂夜莺对玫瑰的爱恋。在寂静的星夜，这位有翼的歌手为芬芳的花朵吟唱小夜曲。
在离士麦那不远的圣地上，商人驱赶着满载的骆驼，在挺拔的松树下穿行，骆驼骄傲地昂着长颈。在那里，我看到一道玫瑰树篱。斑鸠在高大的树枝间飞翔，阳光洒在它的翅膀上，闪烁着珍珠母般的光泽。玫瑰丛中有一朵花，比所有花儿都美。夜莺向她倾诉自己的哀愁，但玫瑰沉默不语，连一滴同情的泪珠——露水，也不曾出现在她的叶片上。最后，她垂首朝向一堆石头，说道：“这里安息着世界上最伟大的歌者；我将把我的芬芳播撒在他的墓上，当风暴吹散我的花瓣，我将让它们飘落在他的墓上。那位歌唱特洛伊的诗人已化为尘土，而我正是从这尘土中生长出来的。我，一朵来自荷马墓上的玫瑰，身份太高贵了，不能为一只夜莺绽放。”于是，夜莺歌唱至死。一位赶骆驼的人经过，带着他满载的骆驼和黑奴；他的小儿子发现了死去的鸟儿，将这位可爱的歌手埋葬在伟大的荷马的墓中，而玫瑰在风中颤抖。
夜晚降临，玫瑰将她的叶片更紧地包裹着自己，进入了梦乡：这便是她的梦。
那是一个晴朗明媚的日子；一群陌生人走近，他们前来朝拜荷马的墓地。陌生人中有一位来自北方的吟游诗人，那里是云朵和绚烂极光的故乡。他摘下玫瑰，夹在一本书里，带往世界遥远的一角——他的祖国。玫瑰因悲伤而凋谢，躺在书页之间。当他在家中翻开书页时，说道：“这是一朵来自荷马墓上的玫瑰。”
随后，花儿从梦中醒来，在风中颤抖。一滴露水从叶片上滴落到歌者的墓上。太阳升起，花儿绽放得比以往任何时候都更加美丽。天气炎热，她依然在她温暖的亚洲故土。这时，脚步声临近，一群陌生人走来，正如玫瑰在梦中见过的那样，其中有一位来自北方的诗人；他摘下玫瑰，在她鲜嫩的花瓣上印下一吻，将她带往云朵和北极光的故乡。如今，这朵花像木乃伊一样，安息在他的《伊利亚特》中，并且，正如她的梦境，她听到他翻开书时说道：“这是一朵来自荷马墓上的玫瑰。”