[These touching stanzas are a translation, or rather adaptation, of Andersen’s story of the “Little Match Girl.” They were originally published in the Boston Transcript.]
LITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen, Wanders up and down the street, The snow is on her yellow hair, The frost is on her feet.
The rows of long dark houses, Without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, By the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses The wind is from the north; But no one cares for Gretchen, And no one looketh forth.
Within those dark damp houses Are merry faces bright, And happy hearts are watching out The old year’s latest night.
The board is spread with plenty, Where the smiling kindred meet, But the frost is on the pavement, And the beggars in the street.
With the little box of matches, She could not sell all day, And the thin, thin tattered mantle, The wind blows every way.
She clingeth to the railing, She shivers in the gloom,— There are parents sitting snugly By firelight in the room:
And groups of busy children, Withdrawing just the tips Of rosy fingers pressed in vain Against their burning lips;
With grave and earnest faces, Are whispering each other, Of presents for the new year, made For father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen, And no one hears her speak, No breath of little whisperers Comes warmly to her cheek:
No little arms are round her, Ah me! that there should be With so much happiness on earth, So much of misery.
Sure they of many blessings, Should scatter blessings round, As laden boughs in Autumn fling Their ripe fruits to the ground.
And the best love man can offer To the God of love, be sure, Is kindness to his little ones, And bounty to his poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen Goes coldly on her way; There's no one looketh out at her, There's no one bids her stay.
Her home is cold and desolate, No smile, no food, no fire; But children clamorous for bread, And an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle, Where two great houses meet, And she curleth up beneath her, For warmth, her little feet.
And she looketh on the cold wall, And on the colder sky, And wonders if the little stars Are bright fires up on high.
She heard a clock strike slowly, Up in a far church tower, With such a sad and solemn tone, Telling the midnight hour.
Then all the bells together, Their merry music poured; They were ringing in the feast, The circumcision of the Lord.
And she thought as she sat lonely, And listened to the chime, Of wondrous things that she had loved To hear in the olden time.
And she remembered her of tales, Her mother used to tell, And the cradle songs she sang, When summer’s twilight fell.
Of good men and of angels, And of the Holy Child, Who was cradled in a manger, When winter was most wild.
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, And desolate and lone; And she thought the song had told, He was ever with his own.
And all the poor and hungry, And forsaken ones are his: “How good of him to look on me, In such a place as this.”
Colder it grows and colder, But she does not feel it now, For the pressure at her heart, And the weight upon her brow.
But she struck one little match On the wall so cold and bare, That she might look around her, And see if He were there.
The single match has kindled, And by the light it threw, It seemed to little Gretchen, The wall was rent in two.
And she could see the room within, The room all warm and bright, With the fire-glow red, and dusky, And the tapers all alight.
And there were kindred gathered, Round the table richly spread, With heaps of goodly viands, Red wine and pleasant bread.
She could smell the fragrant savor, She could hear what they did say, Then all was darkness once again, The match had burned away.
She struck another hastily, And now she seemed to see, Within the same warm chamber, A glorious Christmas tree.
The branches were all laden With such things as children prize, Bright gift for boy and maiden, She saw them with her eyes.
And she almost seemed to touch them, And to join the welcome shout; When darkness fell around her, For the little match was out.
Another, yet another, she Has tried, they will not light, Till all her little store she took, And struck with all her might.
And the whole miserable place Was lighted with the glare, And lo, there hung a little child Before her in the air.
There were blood-drops on his forehead, And a spear-wound in his side, And cruel nail-prints in his feet, And in his hands spread wide.
And he looked upon her gently, And she felt that he had known Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow, Ay, equal to her own.
And he pointed to the laden board, And to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, “Will Gretchen come with me?”
The poor child felt her pulses fail, She felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, Like her dead mother’s hymn.
And she folded both her thin white hands. And turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, “With Thee, with Thee, O Lord.”
The chilly winter morning Breaks up in the dull skies, On the city wrapt in vapor, On the spot where Gretchen lies.
The night was wild and stormy, The morn is cold and gray, And good church bells are ringing, Christ’s circumcision day.
And holy men were praying In many a holy place; And little children’s angels Sing songs before his face.
In her scant and tattered garment, With her back against the wall; She sitteth cold and rigid, She answers not their call;
They have lifted her up fearfully, They shuddered as they said, “It was a bitter, bitter night, The child is frozen dead.”
The angels sang their greeting, For one more redeemed from sin; Men said, “It was a bitter night, Would no one let her in?”
And they shuddered as they spoke of her, And sighed; they could not see, How much of happiness there was, With so much misery.
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