Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.

The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn

Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)

THE WANTON troopers riding by

Have shot my fawn, and it will die.

Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

Who killed thee. Thou ne’er didst alive

Them any harm, alas! nor could

Thy death yet do them any good.

I’m sure I never wished them ill;

Nor do I for all this, nor will:

But, if my simple prayers may yet

Prevail with Heaven to forget

Thy murder, I will join my tears,

Rather than fail. But, O my fears!

It cannot die so. Heaven’s king

Keeps register of everything,

And nothing may we use in vain;

Even beasts must be with justice slain;

Else men are made their deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands

In this warm life-blood which doth part

From thine, and wound me to the heart,

Yet could they not be clean; their stain

Is dyed in such a purple grain.

There is not such another in

The world, to offer for their sin.

Unconstant Sylvio, when yet

I had not found him counterfeit,

One morning (I remember well),

Tied in this silver chain and bell,

Gave it to me: nay, and I know

What he said then, I’m sure I do:

Said he, ‘Look how your huntsman here

Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.’

But Sylvio soon had me beguiled;

This waxèd tame, while he grew wild,

And quite regardless of my smart,

Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play

My solitary time away

With this; and, very well content,

Could so mine idle life have spent;

For it was full of sport, and light

Of foot and heart, and did invite

Me to its game: it seemed to bless

Itself in me; how could I less

Than love it? O, I cannot be

Unkind to a beast that loveth me.

Had it lived long, I do not know

Whether it too might have done so

As Sylvio did; his gifts might be

Perhaps as false, or more, than he;

But I am sure, for aught that I

Could in so short a time espy,

Thy love was far more better then

The love of false and cruel men.

With sweetest milk and sugar first

I it at my own fingers nursed;

And as it grew, so every day

It waxed more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a breath! And oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft

And white, shall I say than my hand?

Nay, any lady’s of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet

’Twas on those little silver feet;

With what a pretty skipping grace

It would oft challenge me the race;

And, when ’t had left me far away,

’Twould stay, and run again, and stay;

For it was nimbler much than hinds.

And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown,

And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year

It only lovèd to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie,

Yet could not, till itself would rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes;

For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade,

It like a bank of lilies laid.

Upon the roses it would feed,

Until its lips e’en seem to bleed

And then to me ’twould boldly trip,

And print there roses on my lip,

But all its chief delight was still

On roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold;

Had it lived long, it would have been

Lilies without, roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint

And die as calmly as a saint!

See how it weeps! the tears do come

Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.

So weeps the wounded balsam; so

The holy frankincense doth flow;

The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in golden vial will

Keep these two crystal tears, and fill,

It till it do o’erflow with mine,

Then place it in Diana’s shrine.

Now my sweet faun is vanished to

Whither the swans and turtles go;

In fair Elysium to endure,

With milk-like lambs, and ermines pure.

O do not run too fast: for I

Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First, my unhappy statue shall

Be cut in marble; and withal,

Let it be weeping too; but there

The engraver sure his art may spare;

For I so truly thee bemoan,

That I shall weep, though I be stone,

Until my tears, still dropping, wear

My breast, themselves engraving there;

There at my feet shalt thou be laid,

Of purest alabaster made;

For I would have thine image be

White as I can, though not as thee.