ANDREW MARVELL 1620–1678

The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. ’Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour’s rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urged his active star; And, like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide; (For ’tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy, And with such to enclose Is more than to oppose;) Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar’s head at last Did through his laurels blast. ’Tis madness to resist or blame The force of angry heaven’s flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould. Though Justice against Fate complain And plead the ancient rights in vain (But those do hold or break, As men are strong or weak), Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art; Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook’s narrow case, That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn, While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands; He nothing common did, or mean, Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe’s edge did try; Nor called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed. This was that memorable hour, Which first assured the forced power; So, when they did design The capitol’s first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate. And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed; So much one man can do, That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the republic’s hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!) He to the Commons’ feet presents A kingdom for his first year’s rents; And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs; And has his sword and spoil ungirt, To lay them at the Public’s skirt: So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more doth search, But on the next green bough to perch; Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our isle presume, While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear, If thus he crowns each year? As Caesar, he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy a Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-coloured mind, But, from this valour sad, Shrink underneath the plaid; Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect; Beside the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night; The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colours best become them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the gods was born? Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke, and ensigns torn. Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound And parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound; Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid, Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarm; But most procure That violets may a longer age endure.

But O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee.

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 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 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.

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 my 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 wondrous thing how fleet ’Twas on those little silver feet: With what a pretty skipping grace It 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 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 vanished 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.

My love is of a birth as rare As ’tis, for object, strange and high; It was begotten by despair Upon impossibility.

Magnanimous despair alone Could show me so divine a thing, Where feeble hope could ne’er have flown But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.

And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixed; But fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.

For fate with jealous eyes does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close; Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic power depose.

And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant poles have placed (Though Love’s whole world on us doth wheel), Not by themselves to be embraced,

Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear, And, us to join, the world should all Be cramped into a planisphere.

As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of Repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow: Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress’ name: Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties her exceed! Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, No name shall, but your own, be found.

When we have run our passions’ heat Love hither makes his best retreat; The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Stall in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds and other seas; Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises ’twere in one, To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, th’ industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers?