安徒生童話故事第19篇：荷馬墓上的一朵玫瑰
安徒生童話故事第19篇：荷馬墓上的一朵玫瑰
引導語：我們一起來閱讀與學習荷馬墓上的一朵玫瑰這篇簡短的安徒生童話故事，還有英文版的。
東方所有的歌曲都歌誦著夜鶯對玫瑰花的愛情。在星星閃耀著的靜夜裡，這隻有翼的歌手就為他芬芳的花兒唱一支情歌。
離士麥那②不遠，在一株高大的梧桐樹下，商人趕著一群馱著東西的駱駝。這群牲口驕傲地昂其它們的長脖子，笨重地在這神聖的土地上行進。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。當太陽射到它們身上的時候，它們的翅膀發著光，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。它只是面對著幾塊大石頭垂下枝子。
“這兒躺著世界上一個最偉大的.歌手!”玫瑰花說。“我在他的墓上散發出香氣;當暴風雨襲來的時候，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，我從這塵土中發芽和生長!我是荷馬墓上長出的一朵玫瑰。我是太神聖了，我不能為一個平凡的夜鶯開出花來。”
於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隻死鳥。他把這隻小小的歌手埋到偉大的荷馬的墓裡。那朵玫瑰花在風中發著抖。黃昏到來了。玫瑰花緊緊地收斂其它的花瓣，做了一個夢。
它夢見一個美麗的、陽光普照的日子。一群異國人——佛蘭克人——來參拜荷馬的墳墓。在這些異國人之中有一位歌手;他來自北國，來自雲塊和北極光的故鄉③。他摘下這朵玫瑰，把它夾在一本書裡，然後把它帶到世界的另一部分——他的遼遠的祖國裡來。這朵玫瑰在悲哀中萎謝了，靜靜地躺在這本小書裡。他在家裡把這本書開啟，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夢。她驚醒起來，在風中發抖。於是一顆露珠從她的花瓣上滾到這位歌手的墓上去。太陽昇起來了，天氣漸漸溫暖起來，玫瑰花開得比以前還要美麗。她是生長在溫暖的亞洲。這時有腳步聲音響起來了。玫瑰花在夢裡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，然後把它帶到雲塊和北極光的故鄉去。
這朵花的軀體像木乃伊一樣，現在躺在他的《依里亞特》裡面。它像在做夢一樣，聽到他開啟這本書，說：“這是荷馬墓上的一朵玫瑰。”
①荷馬(Homer)是公元前1000年希臘的一個偉大詩人。他的兩部馳名的史詩《依里亞特》(Iliad)和《奧德賽》(Odyssey)是描寫希臘人遠征特洛伊城(Troy)的故事。此城在小亞細亞的西北部。
②士麥那(Smyrna)是土耳其西部的一個海口。
③指丹麥、挪威和瑞典。
荷馬墓上的一朵玫瑰英文版：
A Rose from Homer’s Grave
LL 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.”