Many years ago a young composer was
sitting in a garden. All around bloomed beautiful
roses, and through the gentle evening air the swallows
flitted, twittering cheerily. The young composer
neither saw the roses nor heard the evening music
of the swallows; his heart was full of sadness and
his eyes were bent wearily upon the earth before him.
“Why,” said the young
composer, with a sigh, “should I be doomed to
all this bitter disappointment? Learning seems
vain, patience is mocked,-fame is as far
from me as ever.”
The roses heard his complaint.
They bent closer to him and whispered, “Listen
to us,-listen to us.” And the
swallows heard him, too, and they flitted nearer him;
and they, too, twittered, “Listen to us,-listen
to us.” But the young composer was in no
mood to be beguiled by the whisperings of the roses
and the twitterings of the birds; with a heavy heart
and sighing bitterly he arose and went his way.
It came to pass that many times after
that the young composer came at evening and sat in
the garden where the roses bloomed and the swallows
twittered; his heart was always full of disappointment,
and often he cried out in anguish against the cruelty
of fame that it came not to him. And each time
the roses bent closer to him, and the swallows flew
lower, and there in the garden the sweet flowers and
little birds cried, “Listen to us,-listen
to us, and we will help you.”
And one evening the young composer,
hearing their gentle pleadings, smiled sadly, and
said: “Yes, I will listen to you.
What have you to say, pretty roses?”
“Make your songs of us,”
whispered the roses,-“make your songs
of us.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the
composer. “A song of the roses would be
very strange, indeed! No, sweet flowers,-it
is fame I seek, and fame would scorn even the beauty
of your blushes and the subtlety of your perfumes.”
“You are wrong,” twittered
the swallows, flying lower. “You are wrong,
foolish man. Make a song for the heart,-make
a song of the swallows and the roses, and it will
be sung forever, and your fame shall never die.”
But the composer laughed louder than
before; surely there never had been a stranger suggestion
than that of the roses and the swallows! Still,
in his chamber that night the composer thought of what
the swallows had said, and in his dreams he seemed
to hear the soft tones of the roses pleading with
him. Yes, many times thereafter the composer
recalled what the birds and flowers had said, but he
never would ask them as he sat in the garden at evening
how he could make the heart-song of which they chattered.
And the summer sped swiftly by, and one evening when
the composer came into the garden the roses were dead,
and their leaves lay scattered on the ground.
There were no swallows fluttering in the sky, and
the nests under the eaves were deserted. Then
the composer knew his little friends were beyond recall,
and he was oppressed by a feeling of loneliness.
The roses and the swallows had grown to be a solace
to the composer, had stolen into his heart all unawares,-now
that they were gone, he was filled with sadness.
“I will do as they counselled,”
said he; “I will make a song of them,-a
song of the swallows and the roses. I will forget
my greed for fame while I write in memory of my little
friends.”
Then the composer made a song of the
swallows and the roses, and, while he wrote, it seemed
to him that he could hear the twittering of the little
birds all around him, and scent the fragrance of the
flowers, and his soul was warmed with a warmth he
had never felt before, and his tears fell upon his
manuscript.
When the world heard the song which
the composer had made of the swallows and the roses,
it did homage to his genius. Such sentiment,
such delicacy, such simplicity, such melody, such heart,
such soul,-ah, there was no word of rapturous
praise too good for the composer now: fame, the
sweetest and most enduring kind of fame, had come
to him.
And the swallows and the roses had
done it all. Their subtle influences had filled
the composer’s soul with a great inspiration,-by
means like this God loves to speak to the human heart.
“We told you so,” whispered
the roses when they came again in the spring.
“We told you that if you sang of us the world
would love your song.”
Then the swallows, flying back from
the south, twittered: “We told you so;
sing the songs the heart loves, and you shall live
forever.”
“Ah, dear ones,” said
the composer, softly; “you spoke the truth.
He who seeks a fame that is immortal has only to
reach and abide in the human heart.”
The lesson he learned of the swallows
and the roses he never forgot. It was the inspiration
and motive of a long and beautiful life. He
left for others that which some called a loftier ambition.
He was content to sit among the flowers and hear
the twitter of birds and make songs that found an
echo in all breasts. Ah, there was such a beautiful
simplicity,-such a sweet wisdom in his life!
And where’er the swallows flew, and where’er
the roses bloomed, he was famed and revered and beloved,
and his songs were sung.
Then his hair grew white at last,
and his eyes were dim and his steps were slow.
A mortal illness came upon him, and he knew that death
was nigh.
“The winter has been long,”
said he, wearily. “Open the window and
raise me up that I may see the garden, for it must
be that spring is come.”
It was indeed spring, but the roses
had not yet bloomed. The swallows were chattering
in their nests under the eaves or flitting in the mild,
warm sky.
“Hear them,” he said faintly.
“How sweetly they sing. But alas! where
are the roses?”
Where are the roses? Heaped
over thee, dear singing heart; blooming on thy quiet
grave in the Fatherland, and clustered and entwined
all in and about thy memory, which with thy songs
shall go down from heart to heart to immortality.