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 every thing,
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.
Inconstant 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 waxed 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 than
The love of false and cruel man.
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 wond'rous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And, when it 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 loved 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 seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those 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 a golden vial will
Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
It till it doth o’erflow with mine,
Then place it in Diana’s shrine.
Now my sweet fawn is vanish’d to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elysium to endure,
With milk-white 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;
Then 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.
Andrew Marvell’s The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn is a poignant and multi-layered poem that explores themes of innocence, betrayal, grief, and the transient nature of earthly beauty. Written in the 17th century, the poem reflects the pastoral tradition while also engaging with deeper philosophical and theological questions. Through the lament of a nymph mourning her slain fawn, Marvell crafts a work that is at once tender and tragic, blending classical mythology with Christian imagery to create a meditation on love, loss, and the inevitability of suffering.
Marvell wrote during a period of immense political and religious upheaval in England—the mid-17th century—marked by the English Civil War, the execution of Charles I, and the rise of Puritan rule under Oliver Cromwell. While Marvell is often associated with metaphysical poetry, alongside John Donne and George Herbert, his work also engages with pastoral conventions, albeit with a distinctive intellectual and sometimes ironic twist.
The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn fits within the pastoral elegy tradition, akin to works like Milton’s Lycidas or Shelley’s Adonais, though on a smaller, more intimate scale. Unlike traditional pastorals, which often idealize rural life, Marvell’s poem introduces a note of melancholy and disillusionment, suggesting that even the most idyllic existence is vulnerable to violence and betrayal.
The poem opens with a stark contrast between innocence and brutality: the fawn, a symbol of purity and gentleness, is killed by “wanton troopers” who show no remorse. The nymph’s grief is compounded by the senselessness of the act—the fawn had done no harm, and its death serves no purpose. This introduces a theme of arbitrary violence, a reflection perhaps of the political chaos of Marvell’s time, where innocent lives were often destroyed in the conflicts between opposing factions.
The nymph’s condemnation of the killers—“Ungentle men! they cannot thrive / Who killed thee”—carries a moral weight, suggesting that such acts of cruelty disrupt the natural order. The reference to “deodands” (a legal term for objects forfeited to the crown because they had caused a person’s death) underscores the idea that unjust killing taints the perpetrators irrevocably. The blood of the fawn stains them in a “purple grain,” an image that evokes both royalty (purple dye being historically associated with nobility) and sin, recalling the biblical notion of bloodguilt.
The nymph’s sorrow is deepened by the memory of Sylvio, the unfaithful lover who gave her the fawn before abandoning her. The fawn thus becomes a substitute for lost love, a companion in her solitude. Sylvio’s betrayal is framed in terms of domestication and wildness: “This waxed tame, while he grew wild,” suggesting that human affections are fickle, whereas the fawn’s loyalty was constant.
This dynamic invites a comparison between human and animal nature, a recurring theme in pastoral literature. The nymph’s reflection—“Thy love was far more better than / The love of false and cruel man”—echoes a long literary tradition that idealizes animal fidelity as purer than human relationships. Yet there is also an undercurrent of doubt: had the fawn lived longer, might it too have betrayed her? The poem leaves this question unresolved, hinting at the fragility of all earthly bonds.
The fawn’s beauty is described in terms of ethereal whiteness and sweetness—its breath, its soft feet, its playfulness—all of which evoke an almost divine purity. The nymph’s garden, overgrown with roses and lilies, becomes a paradise where the fawn roams freely, a symbol of unfallen innocence. Yet this Edenic imagery is shattered by the fawn’s death, reinforcing the transient nature of beauty and happiness.
The nymph’s desire to memorialize the fawn—through tears preserved in a “golden vial” and a marble statue that weeps—suggests an attempt to transcend mortality through art. Yet even this gesture is tinged with irony: the statue will weep until its tears erode its own breast, a metaphor for the consuming nature of grief. The final image of the fawn in Elysium, among “milk-white lambs, and ermines pure,” offers a consoling vision of an afterlife, yet the nymph’s own fate—to “bespeak thy grave, and die”—underscores the inescapability of human sorrow.
Marvell’s poem engages with both classical and Christian traditions. The nymph’s lament recalls the myths of grieving goddesses (such as Diana mourning her hunted nymphs), while the imagery of sacrificial innocence resonates with Christian themes of martyrdom and redemption. The fawn’s death, though unjust, is framed in terms of divine justice: “Heaven’s king / Keeps register of every thing,” suggesting that even the smallest suffering is accounted for in a cosmic moral order.
The reference to “Diana’s shrine” further blends pagan and Christian elements. Diana, the virgin huntress, symbolizes chastity and the natural world, yet the nymph’s grief also evokes the Virgin Mary’s sorrow at Christ’s crucifixion. This syncretism allows Marvell to explore grief as both a personal and universal experience, transcending specific religious frameworks.
The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn is a masterful exploration of loss, weaving together pastoral beauty, personal betrayal, and metaphysical reflection. The fawn’s death is not merely the loss of a pet but a symbol of broader existential sorrow—the recognition that love, innocence, and beauty are fleeting in a world marked by violence and inconstancy.
Marvell’s delicate imagery—the fawn’s “silver feet,” the roses and lilies, the weeping statue—creates a poignant contrast between idealized beauty and the harshness of reality. The nymph’s grief is both deeply personal and universally resonant, inviting readers to reflect on their own experiences of love and loss.
Ultimately, the poem’s power lies in its ability to evoke profound emotion while engaging with complex philosophical questions. It is a testament to Marvell’s skill that a seemingly simple lament can contain such depth, making The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn a timeless meditation on the fragility of life and the enduring pain of loss.
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