夜莺与玫瑰英文原文

王尔德《夜莺与玫瑰》的林徽因所译版本及英文原文~

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE
《夜莺与玫瑰》原文节选：
"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student, "but in all my garden there is no red rose。"
“她说如果我给她带来红玫瑰，她会和我跳舞的，”年轻的学生喊道，“但我的花园里没有红玫瑰。”
From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves and wondered。
夜莺从橡树的巢穴里听到了他的声音，她透过树叶向外望去，感到奇怪。
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend！
“我的花园里没有红玫瑰！”他哭了，他那双美丽的眼睛里充满了泪水。”啊，幸福取决于什么小事！
I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want (没有) of a red rose is my life made wretched。"
我读过智者所写的一切，哲学的一切秘密都是我的，然而，由于缺少一朵红玫瑰，我的生活就变得悲惨。”
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him。
“终于有了一个真正的情人，”夜莺说。我夜以继日地歌颂他。
though I knew him not：night after night have I told his story to the stars and now I see him。
虽然我不认识他；我夜以继日地向星空讲述他的故事，现在我看见了他。
His hair is dark as the hyacinth（风信子）-- blossom，and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory；
他的头发黑得像风信子一样开放，他的嘴唇红得像他渴望的玫瑰；
and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow。"
但是激情使他的脸像苍白的象牙，悲伤使她的印记印在他的额头上。

扩展资料

创作背景
王尔德生活在19世纪的维多利亚时代，工业革命正在英国如火如荼地进行。整个社会发生了前所未有的剧变，物欲横流金钱至上，“唯利是图”之风弥漫了大不列颠的各个角落。自19世纪初资本主义制度在西欧确立后的数十年间，给社会心理造成了巨大影响。
人们的世界观、价值观发生了很大的变化。在那种社会里资产阶级抹去了所有一切最被尊崇的职业上面的神圣光彩。它把医生、律师、牧师、诗人和学者变成了它拿钱雇佣的仆役”。
王尔德面对当时社会的拜金主义风气、市侩哲学和虚伪的道德，在童话《夜莺与玫瑰》中描绘了一个虚构的故事．以此来揭示了英国资本主义社会中人与人之间赤裸裸的金钱关系和由此产生的种种丑恶现象。追求心灵的唯美世界，以艺术之美来对抗庸俗的社会现实。
参考资料来源：百度百科-夜莺与玫瑰

(1)意象美
作者对《夜莺与玫瑰》这篇童话故事在象征意象的选择上可谓良苦用心。一个是会唱歌的夜莺，一个是代表爱情的玫瑰。且不说故事的悲壮和凄美，单看意象，就已经令我们心驰神往。再看夜莺为浇灌玫瑰，将刺深深刺进自己的心脏，玫瑰感恩，开出如血般艳丽的花朵。这两个意象所呈现的美是让人心痛，虽然我们不能亲身体会他们的痛，但是毅然被他们深深打动。
(2)意境美
意境就是作品的生命力折射，是主观和客观的统一。在《夜莺与玫瑰》这篇作品里，白色的玫瑰像大海的浪花;黄色的玫瑰如美人鱼的金发;红色玫瑰则像鸽子的脚。这一连串不同颜色的玫瑰与自然世界的现象和生物联结并形成对照，使作品中形成了一幅幅妙趣横生的图景，这就是作者在作品中创造出来的意境。而一个好的意境就像指路明灯，带着我们穿梭于作品这一座神奇的迷宫，而不至于让我们迷失探索的方向。
(3)心灵美
心灵美，才是真的美，才是永恒不变的美。如果心灵不美，那么再华丽的外表也不能掩盖住龌龊的灵魂。《夜莺与玫瑰》的主角是“夜莺”，她生性善良，为帮助别人，成全别人，宁可叫一根利刺刺破自己的身体，依然不改初衷。即使喉咙被划破，鲜血直流，毅然高声唱着生命的赞歌
(4)悲剧美
从《夜莺与玫瑰》的结局我们可以看出夜莺的牺牲，并不能换来真正的爱情，这种爱情本身就是悲剧的种子，就像玫瑰花所说“冬天冻僵了我的叶子，严霜摧残了我的花苞，风雪吹折了我的枝干，今年我不会再有玫瑰花了”。又如年轻学生心心念念想着心爱的女孩，因为女孩的一句话就想尽办法去做一件根本不可能的事情，即使得到夜莺的帮助，
找到红玫瑰却最终还是遭到了女孩的拒绝。在这些事件的背后，其实悲剧的种子早就已经深深埋下，不管玫瑰花怎么生根发芽，不管学生如何努力付出，它依旧逃不开命运的现实。
这是我对《夜莺与玫瑰》这部作品的一些比较浅显的看法。然而，每次读王尔德的《夜莺与玫瑰》，我总有一种被重新洗礼的感觉。我喜欢“夜莺”这个形象，她善良而富有同情心，虽然最终爱情的理想破灭，但是她却依然唱响这凄美的爱情赞歌。她就像一颗划过天际的流星，转瞬即逝，却留下一连串的痕迹，证明自己切身的存在;她就像绚烂一时的烟火，在燃尽生命的最后一刻，也不忘奋力灿烂。

《夜莺与玫瑰》

"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student, "but in all my garden there is no red rose。"

“她说如果我给她带来红玫瑰，她会和我跳舞的，”年轻的学生喊道，“但我的花园里没有红玫瑰。”

From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves and wondered。

夜莺从橡树的巢穴里听到了他的声音，她透过树叶向外望去，感到奇怪。

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend！

“我的花园里没有红玫瑰！”他哭了，他那双美丽的眼睛里充满了泪水。”啊，幸福取决于什么小事！

I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want (没有) of a red rose is my life made wretched。"

我读过智者所写的一切，哲学的一切秘密都是我的，然而，由于缺少一朵红玫瑰，我的生活就变得悲惨。”

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him。

“终于有了一个真正的情人，”夜莺说。我夜以继日地歌颂他。

though I knew him not：night after night have I told his story to the stars and now I see him。

虽然我不认识他；我夜以继日地向星空讲述他的故事，现在我看见了他。

His hair is dark as the hyacinth（风信子）-- blossom，and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory；

他的头发黑得像风信子一样开放，他的嘴唇红得像他渴望的玫瑰；

and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow。"

但是激情使他的脸像苍白的象牙，悲伤使她的印记印在他的额头上。

《夜莺与玫瑰》中的主人公是体态孱弱的夜莺，它以极其微小的力量，为了素不相识者的幸福以无畏的精神做了智者、强者都办不到的“惊天动地”的事，发人深省。作品中王尔德别出心裁地把它的巢安放在高达25米的栋树的枝叶中，为其避风躲雨。喻义是弱小的它是需要强者呵护的。

可是，就是这位尚需他人呵护的弱小者，当它看到学子因无法得到一朵红玫瑰，将失掉爱情而悲泣时，深为其对爱情的“至诚”而感动。当得知不得不用心脏抵着锋利的玫瑰刺唱一夜动听的歌方才得到这只玫瑰时，它义无反顾地说：“死亡的代价是巨大的，然而爱情比生命更珍贵。”

心甘情愿地为“爱情”献出了宝贵的生命，用一腔热血染红雪白的玫瑰。王尔德在作品中用了约四分之一的篇幅着力描绘夜莺倾注全部心力，忍着极度的痛苦制作红玫瑰的过程，特别是此段情节发展到高潮时的情景更是扣人心弦。

“当它奄奄一息时急促地唱出了最后一节音符。皎洁的月亮听到它那凄楚动人的歌声，感动地徘徊在天际，忘却了黎明。它用心血培育的这朵红玫瑰听到这歌声，在寒冷的凌晨中销魂得通体震颤了起来，勿速地打开了花蕾”。

此刻，玫瑰树急切地喊叫着：“看啊，看啊！玫瑰花开了。”但是夜莺却没有回答，荆棘刺穿透胸膛的它已经躺在草丛中死去了——这就是王尔德所讴歌的那种为了别人的幸福而甘愿牺牲自己的高贵情操。他认为纯美的品格是能感动天地的——月亮的运行停滞，红玫瑰在严冬绽放。

相形之下，当夜莺迫不及待地赶回去把这一喜讯告知了学子时，受庸俗世风影响的学子却认为：“它像大多数艺术家一样，仅有其假相不合有诚意，更不可能为他人而牺牲自己。”在这里，王尔德再次嘲讽了当时的所谓上流社会的“有识之士”们。

　　THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE

　　"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student, "but in all my garden there is no red rose."

　　From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she 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 wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want (没有) of a red rose is my life made wretched."

　　"Here at last 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(风信子)-- blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."

　　"The Prince gives a ball (舞会) to-morrow night," murmured the young student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I should hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped 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 the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds (翡翠), and dearer than fine opals (蛋白石). Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

　　"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed 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 gay dresses will throng round 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 a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

　　"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

　　"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

　　"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

　　"For a red rose?" they cried: "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic (愤世嫉俗者), laughed outright.

　　But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

　　Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

　　In the center of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

　　"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

　　But the Tree shook its head.

　　"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial (一种玫瑰), and perhaps he will give you what you want."

　　So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

　　"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

　　But the Tree shook its head.

　　"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden (美人鱼) who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil (黄水仙) that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window (一种玫瑰), and perhaps he will give you what you want."

　　So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window.

　　"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

　　But the Tree shook its head.

　　"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped (摧残) my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."

　　"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

　　"There is a way," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to 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 own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into me 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 in his chariot (战车) of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather 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 she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

　　The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

　　"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy (哲学), though he is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as homey, and his breath is like frankincense."

　　The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

　　But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale, who had built her nest in his branches.

　　"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel lonely when you are gone."

　　So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

　　When she had finished her song, the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

　　"She had form," her said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style without any 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 it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good!" And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think 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 her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

　　She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvelous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

　　But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

　　So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she 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 the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

　　And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

　　So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

　　And the marvelous rose became crimson (猩红), like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby (红宝石) was the heart.

　　But the Nightingale’ voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

　　Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on 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 her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

　　"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now;" but the Nightingale made not answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

　　And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

　　"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" He cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;" and he leaned down and plucked it.

　　Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand.

　　The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

　　"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."

　　But he girl frowned.

　　"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew had sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

　　"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose onto he street, where it fell into the gutter (阴沟), and a cartwheel went over it.

　　"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I dont believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has;" and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

　　"What a silly thing Love is!" said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics (玄学)."

　　So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

The Nightingale and the Rose

"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she 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 wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."

"Here at last 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 red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. 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 clasped 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 the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers - what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed 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 gay dresses will throng round 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 a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to 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 own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into 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 in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather 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 she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any 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 it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think 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 her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the 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 marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she 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 the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvellous rose became 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 her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on 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 her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

.end.

---

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