We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.
A Rose from Homer’s Grave
The nightingale’s love for the rose pervades all the songs of the East; in those silent starlit nights the winged songster invariably brings a serenade to his scented flower.
Not far from Smyrna, under the stately plantain trees where the merchant drives his laden camels, which tread heavily on hallowed ground, and carry their long necks proudly, I saw a blooming hedge of roses. Wild doves fluttered from branch to branch of the tall trees, and where the sunbeams caught their wings they shone like mother of pearl. There was one flower on the rose hedge more beautiful than all the rest, and to this one the nightingale poured out all the yearning of its love. But the rose was silent, not a single dewdrop lay like a tear of compassion upon its petals, while it bent its head towards a heap of stones.
“Here rests the greatest singer the world has ever known!” said the rose. “I will scent his grave and strew my petals over it when the storms tear them off. The singer of the Iliad returned to earth here, this earth whence I sprang!—I, a rose from Homer’s grave, am too sacred to bloom for a mere nightingale!”
And the nightingale sang till from very grief his heart broke.
The camel driver came with his laden camels, and his black slaves; his little boy found the dead bird, and buried the little songster in Homer’s grave. The rose trembled in the wind. Night came; the rose folded her petals tightly and dreamt that it was a beautiful sunny day, and that a crowd of strange Frankish men came on a pilgrimage to Homer’s grave.