Beasts of C/iase. 223 



When it dies the poets weep with it If it is a fawn no 

 Lesbia sheds such tears over her sparrow. Read, for instance, 

 Marvell's dainty poem. But it is a pity that he, so true, 

 as a rule, to Nature, should err (with many other poets) in 

 making fawns " white." 



" I have a garden of my own. 

 And all the spring-time of the year 

 It only loved to be there. 

 Among the bed of lillies I 

 Have sought it oft where it should lye. 

 But could not, till itself should rise, 

 Find it, although before mine eyes ; 

 For in the flaxen iillies' shade 

 It like a bunch of iillies 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 the wanton troopers riding by shot the fawn, and it 

 died — 



" Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 

 WTao killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive 

 Them any harm : a'as ! nor could 

 Thy death yet do them any good. 



And nothing may we use in vain ; 

 Even beasts must be with justice slain; 

 Eise men are made their deodands." 



Nor, when full-grown and antlered, does sympathy cease. 

 Thus in Phineas Fletcher's poem — 



'•' Look as a stagge pierced with a fatal blow, 

 As by a wood he walks securely feeding — 

 In coverts thick conceals his deadly blow. 

 And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding, 



His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding 



Bids woods adieu, so sinks into his grave ; 



Green brakes and primrose sweet his seemly herse embrave. 



In the actual chase itself the poets' sympathies are never 



