The Nightingale and the Red Rose

"She said she would dance with me if I brought her a red rose" cried the young man, "but in all my garden there is no red rose!"
From his nest in the oak tree the nightingale heard him, and he looked out through the leaves and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wisemen have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for the want of a red rose my life is made wretched."
"Here is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are as red as the rose of his desire, but passion has made his face pale like ivory and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The Prince shall give a ball tomorrow night," mummured the young man, "And my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder and her hand will be clapsed in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers: what is joy to me, is pain to him. Surely love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomergrantes cannot buy it, nor it is set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased, nor can it be bought.
"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young man, "and play upon their stinged instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their handsome clothes will throng around her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked the a little green lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
"Why indeed?" whispered a daffodil to its neighbor, in a soft low voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose" said the Nighingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried "how ridiculous!"
But the nightingale understood the secret of the young man's sorrow, and he sat silent in the oak tree, and thought about the mysteries of Love.
Suddenly he spread his brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. He passed through the grove like a shadow he sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grss plot was standing a beautiful rose tree, and when he saw it he flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
"Give me a red rose" he cried, "and I shall sing you my sweetest song."
But the tree shook its head.
"My roses are but white," it answered; "white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the show on the mountain. But go to my brother who grows aroun the sundial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nighingale flew across to the rose tree that was growing around the sundial.
"Give me a red rose" he cried, "and I shall sing you my sweetest song."
But the tree shook its he's.
"my roses are but yellow" it answered; "yellow as the hair of the mermaid who sits upon an amber throne, and yellowier then the daffodil the blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the young mans window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the rose tree that grew beneath the young mans window.
"Give me a red rose" he cried, "and I shall sing you my sweetest song."
But the tree shook its head.
"My roses are red" it answered; "as red as blood, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean cavern. But winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, so I shall have no roses at all this year."
"One rose is all I want," cried the Nighingale "only one red rose! is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is a way" answered the tree; "but it is sp terrible that I dare not tell you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid"
"If you want a red rose," said the tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your hearts blood. You must sing to me with your heart against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your like blood must flow unto my veins and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the sun that shine like a chariot of gold, and the moon a chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the blue bells that hide in the valley, and the hearther that blows on the hill. Yet love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So he spread his brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. He swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow he sailed through the grove.
The young man was still lying on the grass, where he had left him, and the tears where not yet dry on his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy that you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own hearts blood. All I ask is that you be a true lover, for love is wiser than philosophy, though he be wise, and mightier than power, though he may be mighty. Falme colored are his wings, and colored like the flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey and his breath is like frankincense."
The young man looked up from the grass and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying.
But the oak tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale, who built his nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall be lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the oak tree, his voice was like honey poured over thunder.
When he had finished his song, the student got up, and pulled a note book and pencil from his pocket.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove- "that cannot be denied of her; but has she got feeling? I am not afraid. In fact she is like most artists; she is all style without sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity they do not mean anything, or do any practical good!" And he went into his room, and lay down on his bed, thinking of his love; and after a time he fell asleep.
And when the moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the rose tree, and set his chest against the thorn. All night long he sang, with his chest against the thorn, and the cold crystal moon leaned down and listened. All night long he sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into his chest, and his life blood ebbed away from him.
He sang of he birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top most spray of the rose tree there blossomed a marvelous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it at first, as the mists that hangs over a lake, pale as the feet in the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as shadow of a rose in a waterpool, as was the rose that blossomed on the top most spray of the tree.
But the tree called out to the Nightingale to press his chest closer against the thorn. " Press closer Nightingale," cried the tree, "or dawn will come before the rose is finished."
So the nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew his song, for he sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of a bridegroom when he kiss the lips of his bride. But the thorn had not yet reached the heart, so the roses heart remained yet white, for only the Nightingale's heart blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the tree called out to the Nightingale to press his chest closer against the thorn. " Press closer Nightingale," cried the tree, "or dawn will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and thorn touched his heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through him. Biter, biter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew his song, for he sang of the love that is perfected by death, of the love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvelous rose turned crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and his wings began to beat, and a tear came over his eyes, fainter and fainter grew his song, and he felt something chocking in his throat.
Then he gave one last burst of music. The white moon heard it, and forgot the dawn and lingered in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to his purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams, It floated through the reeds of the lake.
"Look, Look!" cried the tree, "the rose is finished now" ; but the Nightingale made no answer, for he was lying dead in the long grass, with a thorn in his heart.
And at noon the young man woke up, opened his window and looked out
"Why what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seenany rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure that there is no other in the world like it"; and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran to the professor's house with the rose in hand. The daughter of the professor was sitting in the doorway playing with her little puppy.
"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the young man. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next to your heart, and as we dance together I will tell you how much I love you."
But the girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and besides the Mayor's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels costfar more than flowers, be they roses or no."
"Well upon my word, your are most ungrateful," said the young man depressed and angry at the time time, he let the rose drop into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and was run over by people and vehicles passing by.
"Ungrateful!" said the girl, I will tell you what, you are very rude;ad, after all, who are you? Only a student, Why I don't believe you even got a car like the mayors nephew does"; and she got up from her chair and went inside.
"What a silly thing love is!" said the young man as he walked away...



~To kill a Nightingale~