The Hunted Deer

Pulter’s description of Jane as a hunted deer is echoed in several contemporary poems. In the first edition of “Cooper’s Hill” (1642), John Denham begins by describing a specific landscape, that of Cooper’s Hill at his family estate in Surrey. He then ruminates on English politics from the perspective of a Royalist at the beginning of a civil war. The following poem is an excerpt from the first edition of “Cooper’s Hill,” line 263 to end.

John Denham, Cooper’s Hill

Here have I seen our Charles, when great affairs
Give leave to slacken, and unbend his cares,
Chasing the royal Stag, the gallant beast,
Roused with the noise ‘twixt hope and fear distressed,
Resolves ‘tis better to avoid, then meet
His danger, trusting to his winged feet:
But when he sees the dogs, now by the view
Now by the scent his speed with speed pursue,
He tries his friends, amongst the lesser Herd,
Where he but lately was obeyed, and feared,
Safety he seeks, the herd unkindly wise,
Or chases him from thence, or from him flies,
Like a declining Statesman, left forlorn
To his friends’ pity, and pursuers’ scorn.
Wearied, forsaken, and pursued at last
All safety in despair of safety placed.
Courage he thence assumes, resolved to bear
All their assaults, since ‘tis in vain to fear,
But when he sees the eager chase renewed
Himself by dogs, the dogs by men pursued.
When neither speed, nor art, nor friends, nor force
Could help him towards the stream he bends his course.
Hoping those lesser beasts would not assay
An element, more merciless than they.
But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood
Quench their dire thirst (alas) they thirst for blood:
As some brave Hero, whom his baser foes
In troops surround, now these assail, now those
Though prodigal of life, disdains to die
By vulgar hands, but if he can descry
Some Nobler foes approach, to him he calls
And begs his fate, and then contented falls:
So the tall Stag, amidst the lesser hounds
Repels their force, and wounds return for wounds,
Till Charles from his unerring hand lets fly
A mortal shaft, then glad, and proud to die
By such a Wound he falls, the Crystal flood
Dying he dies, and purples with his blood:
This a more Innocent, and happy chase
Than when of old, but in the self-same place,
Fair liberty pursued, and meant a Prey
To tyranny, here turned, and stood at bay.
When in that remedy all hope was placed
Which was, or should have been at least the last.
For armed subjects can have no pretense
Against their Princes, but their just defense,
And whether then, or no, I leave to them
To justify, who else themselves condemn:
Yet might the fact be just, if we may guess
The justness of an action from success
Here was that Charter sealed, wherein the Crown
All marks of Arbitrary power lays down:
Tyrant and Slave, those names of hate and fear,
The happier style of King and Subject bear:
Happy when both to the same Center move,
When Kings give liberty, and Subjects love.
Therefore not long in force this Charter stood
Wanting that seal, it must be sealed in blood.
The Subjects armed, the more their Princes gave,
But this advantage took, the more to crave:
Till Kings by giving, give themselves away.
And even that power, that should deny, betray,
“Who gives constrained, but his own fear reviles
Not thanked, but scorned, nor are they gifts, but spoils.”
And they, whom no denial can withstand,
Seem but to ask, while they indeed command.
Thus all to limit Royalty conspire,
While each forgets to limit his desire.
Till Kings like old Antaeus by their fall,
Being forced, their courage from despair recall.
When a calm River raised with sudden rains,
Or Snows dissolved o’erflows th’ adjoining Plains
The Husbandmen with high raised banks secure
Their greedy hopes, and this he can endure,
But if with Bogs, and Dams they strive to force,
His channel to a new, or narrow course,
No longer then within his banks he dwells,
First to a Torrent, then a Deluge swells
Stronger, and fiercer by restraint he roars,
And knows no bound, but makes his powers his shores:
Thus Kings by grasping more than they can hold,
First made their Subjects by oppressions bold,
And popular sway by forcing Kings to give
More, than was fit for Subjects to receive,
Ran to the same extreme, and one excess
Made both by stirring to be greater, less.
Nor any way, but seeking to have more
Makes either lose, what each possessed before.
Therefore their boundless power tell Princes draw
Within the Channel, and the shores of Law,
And may that Law, which teaches Kings to sway
Their Scepters, teach their Subjects to obey.

Source: Denham, Coopers Hill: A Poeme (1642), with spelling modernized by Elizabeth Kolkovich.

Andrew Marvell,
The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn

The wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive
Them any harm, alas, nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I’m sure I never wish’d them ill,
Nor do I for all this, nor will;
But if my simple pray’rs may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears
Rather than fail. But oh, my fears!
It cannot die so. Heaven’s King
Keeps register of everything,
And nothing may we use in vain.
Ev’n 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 dear.”
But Sylvio soon had me beguil’d,
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 seem’d to bless
Itself in me. How could I less
Than love it? Oh, I cannot be
Unkind t’ a beast that loveth me.
Had it liv’d 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 men.
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at mine own fingers nurst;
And as it grew, so every day
It wax’d more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! And oft
I blush’d 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 ’t had left me far away,
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay,
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod, as 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 ev’n 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 liv’d 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 do 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
Th’ 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.

Source: PoetryFoundation.org