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.