The Nymph Complaining of the Death of Her Fawn
THE wanton troopers riding byHave shot my fawn, and it will die.Ungentle men! they cannot thriveWho killed thee. Thou ne’er didst, alive,Them any harm, alas! nor couldThy death yet ever do them good.I’m sure I never wished them ill,Nor do I for all this, nor will.But if my simple prayers may yetPrevail with heaven to forgetThy murder, I will join my tearsRather than fail. But O my fears!It cannot die so. Heaven’s KingKeeps 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 handsIn this warm life-blood which doth partFrom thine, and wound me to the heart,Yet could they not be clean, their stainIs dyed in such a purple grain.There is not such another inThe world, to offer for their sin.
Inconstant Sylvio, when yetI had not found him counterfeit,One morning (I remember well),Tied in this silver chain and bell,Gave it to me; nay, and I knowWhat he said then, I’m sure I do:Said he, ‘Look how your huntsman hereHath 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 smartLeft me his fawn, but took my heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to playMy solitary time awayWith this; and, very well content,Could so mine idle life have spent;For it was full of sport, and lightOf foot and heart, and did inviteMe to its game; it seemed to blessItself in me; how could I lessThan love it? O, I cannot beUnkind to a beast that loveth me!
Had it lived long, I do not knowWhether it too might have done soAs Sylvio did; his gifts might bePerhaps as false, or more, than he.But I am sure, for aught that ICould in so short a time espy,Thy love was far more better thanThe love of false and cruel man.
With sweetest milk and sugar firstI it at my own fingers nursed;And as it grew, so every dayIt waxed more white and sweet than they—It had so sweet a breath! and oftI blushed to see its foot more softAnd 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 graceIt oft would 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 overgrownAnd lilies, that you would it guessTo be a little wilderness:And all the spring-time of the yearIt only loved to be there.Among the beds of lilies IHave 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’ shadeIt 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 stillOn roses thus itself to fill,And its pure virgin limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of lilies cold:—Had it lived long, it would have beenLilies without—roses within.
O help! O help! I see it faintAnd die as calmly as a saint!See how it weeps! the tears do comeSad, slowly, dropping like a gum.So weeps the wounded balsam; soThe holy frankincense doth flow;The brotherless HeliadesMelt in such amber tears as these.
I in a golden vial willKeep these two crystal tears, and fillIt, till it doth o’erflow, with mine,Then place it in Diana’s shrine.
Now my sweet fawn is vanished toWhither the swans and turtles go;In fair Elysium to endureWith milk-white lambs and ermines pure.O, do not run too fast, for IWill but bespeak thy grave, and die.First my unhappy statue shallBe cut in marble; and withalLet it be weeping too; but thereThe engraver sure his art may spare;For I so truly thee bemoanThat I shall weep though I be stone,Until my tears, still dropping, wearMy breast, themselves engraving there;Then at my feet shalt thou be laid,Of purest alabaster made;For I would have thine image beWhite as I can, though not as thee.