University of Virginia Library

A POOR MAN

OR THE MATCHMAKER AND THE BIRD.

I knew a man, the world call'd poor
Because he barely paid the price
Of leave to live. I pass'd his door,
I think, once daily, twice or thrice.
A little door in the long street,
Left open to let in the sun
Which, warmly its old friend to greet,
Into the house did laughing run.
For there was that in this man's face
Which made you feel the sun was bound
To come and shine on any place
Where such a face was to be found.
He barely earn'd the bread of life
By making little wooden matches:
He shaped them neatly with a knife
And tied them up in tiny batches:
The labour of his life was this.
Perhaps, if I could feel quite sure
Mine were as innocent as his,
I should not mourn to be as poor.
Because, whene'er I chanced to meet
That man's face, I perceived it smiled
A smile as innocent, and sweet,
And simple, as a little child,
Smiling at all things. I suppose
His soul was in its infancy,
Life's smiling-time, which most men lose
By living. Else, I wonder why
I felt so sure he smiled thus too,
When neither I, nor any one,
Was there to see him. Think! how few
There are, that smile when quite alone!
And from a cage upon the wall
A bird sang to him all day long,
So sweet and merry a madrigal
That all who, passing, heard that song
Felt younger, therefore better; just
As tho' the times were back again,
Which man's growth buries in the dust
It drops from its own branches, when
We yet could hear, from the blue sky,
In accents clearly understood,
Our Father saying to us ‘Try,
My children, to be glad and good.’
So I felt: so felt all that heard:
Till, pleased, the neighbours each began
To pray ‘God bless the singing bird,
‘That sings to bless the working man!’
For in the work of the man's hand,
As in the song of the bird's heart,
There was, we all could understand,
A unison. Each seem'd a part
O' the other: and, still, both, as 't were,
Of something higher,—since both praised it.
The joy of labour, not the care:
‘The Poetry of Life,’ some phrased it.
The world (whatever that word means,
That means so little, or so much,
According as our humour leans)
Holds rich, or poor, whom good things, such
As fetch the world's good price, belong
Or lack to. What's the value which
God sets on Labour and on Song?
This poor man had them. Was he rich?
The old watchmaker (still his shop
Stands yonder, where the town buys watches)
Used daily, passing here, to stop
And greet my poor friend of the matches.
And, day by day, that rich man offer'd
To buy this poor man's bird away.
Ten gulden . . . twelve . . . fifteen . . . he proffer'd:
And still the poor man answer'd Nay.
Ten gulden? twelve? fifteen? a fortune
Undream'd of by a man so poor!
And still that rich man, to importune
This poor man, daily seeks his door:
And, day by day, the silver pieces
Before the poor man's eyes are spread
And, day by day, the sum increases:
And still the poor man shakes his head.
I watch'd this bargain, day by day.
We poets, in dark corners peeping
‘For subjects’, as you people say,
Have cat's eyes that when closed, and sleeping
As you might think, are most awake.
I, with this friendly fellow-creature,
Had bargains of my own to make;
My business being with Human Nature;
Whose ins and outs if we would turn to,
We men of verse must not be nice.
And I would have you people learn, too,
For what we learn we pay the price.
All these things happen'd, you may know,
In old Vienna, famed ('tis said there)
As now it is, in years ago,
For wooden matches which are made there.
Next time he came, the mechanician
Here, in his crafty hand, did bring
(The wary, wicked, old magician!)
An instrument, a marvellous thing!
And, quoth the wealthy man of watches
‘Good morrow, friend! and, good friend, pray
How many dozen wooden matches
Do you suppose you make a-day?’
‘Some twenty dozen. Sometimes more,
It may be.’ ‘Twenty dozen, say you?
And, good friend, for each dozen score
How much may your employers pay you?’
‘For every dozen kreutzers five.’
‘The paltry fellows! Only that?
A beggarman, as I'm alive,
Gets more by holding out his hat.’
Therewith, triumphant, up he takes
A block of wood that's lying by,
Sets to it his instrument, and makes
Some twenty hundred matches fly
All neatly shaved across the table.
‘Magic! why here, in half a second,
Are matches more than I am able
To make in twenty days well reckon'd,’
The poor man shouts in wonderment.
‘Just so, friend. Here your fortune see.
Keep you the cunning instrument,
And give the singing bird to me.’
Amazed, subdued, bewilder'd, lost,
The poor man render'd up the song,
The labour, of his life. Almost
I hoped that rich man, for the wrong
He did this poor man, might be stricken
In time by some avenging twinge;
And something in me seem'd to sicken,
As when a sudden sallow tinge,
For all the flaring of the sun,
Shows the first sign of sure decay
In Summer's glorious green begun.
For when I heard my poor friend say
‘'Tis magic! devilcraft!’ I thought
He had good cause for saying this,
And that the Devil might have bought
God's gift away—that smile of his.
But now he flourish'd and grew rich,
Gain'd money, spent it, throve in trade,
Retired, and lived at ease. All which
Was cause for smiling—so folks said.
And yet they say he smiled no more
(And I believe the thing they say)
That smile he used to smile of yore,
When he was poor, and work'd all day.
How should he smile so? when the song,
The labour, of his life were gone?
Said I, just now, that all day long
He used to smile, when quite alone?
Error! Who less alone than he
With work and song, then? It was now
The man was quite alone, you see.
And now he smiled no more, I know:
Because this difference rests between
Man's work—which Nature cheers meanwhile,
And the mere work of a machine:—
One smiles, the other hath no smile.
So still about my mind will lurk
The question . . . There's some value, sure,
God's Will assigns to Song and Work:
This rich man lack'd them. Was he poor?