Matthew Arnold - Poor Matthias lyrics

Poor Matthias!—Found him lying Fall'n beneath his perch and dying? Found him stiff, you say, though warm— All convulsed his little form? Poor canary! many a year Well he knew his mistress dear; Now in vain you call his name, Vainly raise his rigid frame, Vainly warm him in your breast, Vainly kiss his golden crest, Smooth his ruffled plumage fine, Touch his trembling beak with wine. One more gasp—it is the end! Dead and mute our tiny friend! —Songster thou of many a year, Now thy mistress brings thee here, Says, it fits that I rehearse, Tribute due to thee, a verse, Meed for daily song of yore Silent now for evermore.[489] Poor Matthias! Wouldst thou have More than pity? claim'st a stave? —Friends more near us than a bird We dismiss'd without a word. Rover, with the good brown head, Great Atossa, they are dead; Dead, and neither prose nor rhyme Tells the praises of their prime. Thou didst know them old and grey, Know them in their sad decay. Thou hast seen Atossa sage Sit for hours beside thy cage; Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird, Flutter, chirp—she never stirr'd! What were now these toys to her? Down she sank amid her fur; Eyed thee with a soul resign'd— And thou deemedst cats were kind! —Cruel, but composed and bland, Dumb, inscrutable and grand, So Tiberius might have sat, Had Tiberius been a cat. Rover died—Atossa too. Less than they to us are you! Nearer human were their powers, Closer knit their life with ours. Hands had stroked them, which are cold, Now for years, in churchyard mould; Comrades of our past were they, Of that unreturning day. Changed and aging, they and we Dwelt, it seem'd, in sympathy Alway from their presence broke Somewhat which remembrance woke Of the loved, the lost, the young— Yet they died, and died unsung. Geist came next, our little friend; Geist had verse to mourn his end. Yes, but that enforcement strong Which compell'd for Geist a song— All that gay courageous cheer, All that human pathos dear; Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn, Pain heroically borne, Faithful love in depth divine— Poor Matthias, were they thine? Max and Kaiser we to-day Greet upon the lawn at play; Max a dachshound without blot— Kaiser should be, but is not. Max, with shining yellow coat, Prinking ears and dewlap throat— Kaiser, with his collie face, Penitent for want of race. —Which may be the first to die, Vain to augur, they or I! But, as age comes on, I know, Poet's fire gets faint and low; If so be that travel they First the inevitable way, Much I doubt if they shall have Dirge from me to crown their grave. Yet, poor bird, thy tiny corse Moves me, somehow, to remorse; Something haunts my conscience, brings Sad, compunctious visitings. Other favourites, dwelling here, Open lived to us, and near; Well we knew when they were glad, Plain we saw if they were sad, Joy'd with them when they were gay, Soothed them in their last decay; Sympathy could feel and show Both in weal of theirs and woe. Birds, companions more unknown, Live beside us, but alone; Finding not, do all they can, Pa**age from their souls to man. Kindness we bestow, and praise, Laud their plumage, greet their lays; Still, beneath their feather'd breast, Stirs a history unexpress'd. Wishes there, and feelings strong, Incommunicably throng; What they want, we cannot guess, Fail to track their deep distress— Dull look on when d**h is nigh, Note no change, and let them die. Poor Matthias! couldst thou speak, What a tale of thy last week! Every morning did we pay Stupid salutations gay, Suited well to health, but how Mocking, how incongruous now! Cake we offer'd, sugar, seed, Never doubtful of thy need; Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye, Praised thy golden livery. Gravely thou the while, poor dear! Sat'st upon thy perch to hear, Fixing with a mute regard Us, thy human keepers hard, Troubling, with our chatter vain, Ebb of life, and mortal pain— Us, unable to divine Our companion's dying sign, Or o'erpa** the severing sea Set betwixt ourselves and thee, Till the sand thy feathers smirch Fallen dying off thy perch! Was it, as the Grecian sings, Birds were born the first of things, Before the sun, before the wind, Before the gods, before mankind, Airy, ante-mundane throng— Witness their unworldly song! Proof they give, too, primal powers, Of a prescience more than ours— Teach us, while they come and go, When to sail, and when to sow. Cuckoo calling from the hill, Swallow skimming by the mill, Swallows trooping in the sedge, Starlings swirling from the hedge, Mark the seasons, map our year, As they show and disappear. But, with all this travail sage Brought from that anterior age, Goes an unreversed decree Whereby strange are they and we; Making want of theirs, and plan, Indiscernible by man. No, away with tales like these Stol'n from Aristophanes! Does it, if we miss your mind, Prove us so remote in kind? Birds! we but repeat on you What amongst ourselves we do. Somewhat more or somewhat less, 'Tis the same unskilfulness. What you feel, escapes our ken— Know we more our fellow men? Human suffering at our side, Ah, like yours is undescried! Human longings, human fears, Miss our eyes and miss our ears. Little helping, wounding much, Dull of heart, and hard of touch, Brother man's despairing sign Who may trust us to divine? Who a**ure us, sundering powers Stand not 'twixt his soul and ours? Poor Matthias! See, thy end What a lesson doth it lend! For that lesson thou shalt have, Dead canary bird, a stave! Telling how, one stormy day, Stress of gale and showers of spray Drove my daughter small and me Inland from the rocks and sea. Driv'n inshore, we follow down Ancient streets of Hastings town— Slowly thread them—when behold, French canary-merchant old Shepherding his flock of gold In a low dim-lighted pen Scann'd of tramps and fishermen! There a bird, high-coloured, fat, Proud of port, though something squat— Pursy, play'd-out Philistine— Dazzled Nelly's youthful eyne. But, far in, obscure, there stirr'd On his perch a sprightlier bird, Courteous-eyed, erect and slim; And I whisper'd: "Fix on him!" Home we brought him, young and fair, Songs to trill in Surrey air. Here Matthias sang his fill, Saw the cedars of Pains Hill; Here he pour'd his little soul, Heard the murmur of the Mole. Eight in number now the years He hath pleased our eyes and ears; Other favourites he hath known Go, and now himself is gone. —Fare thee well, companion dear! Fare for ever well, nor fear, Tiny though thou art, to stray Down the uncompanion'd way! We without thee, little friend, Many years have not to spend; What are left, will hardly be Better than we spent with thee.