Damon The Mower
Heark
how
the
Mower
Damon
Sung,
With
love
of
Juliana
stung!
While
ev'ry
thing
did
seem
to
paint
The
Scene
more
fit
for
his
complaint.
Like
her
fair
Eyes
the
day
was
fair;
But
scorching
like
his
am'rous
Care.
Sharp
like
his
Sythe
his
Sorrow
was,
And
wither'd
like
his
Hopes
the
Grass.
Oh
what
unusual
Heats
are
here,
Which
thus
our
Sun-burn'd
Meadows
sear!
The
Grass-hopper
its
pipe
gives
ore;
And
hamstring'd
Frogs
can
dance
no
more.
But
in
the
brook
the
green
Frog
wades;
And
Grass-hoppers
seek
out
the
shades.
Only
the
Snake,
that
kept
within,
Now
glitters
in
its
second
skin.
This
heat
the
Sun
could
never
raise,
Nor
Dog-star
so
inflame's
the
dayes.
It
from
an
higher
Beauty
grow'th,
Which
burns
the
Fields
and
Mower
both:
Which
made
the
Dog,
and
makes
the
Sun
Hotter
then
his
own
Phaeton.
Not
July
causeth
these
Extremes,
But
Juliana's
scorching
beams.
Tell
me
where
I
may
pass
the
Fires
Of
the
hot
day,
or
hot
desires.
To
what
cool
Cave
shall
I
descend,
Or
to
what
gelid
Fountain
bend?
Alas!
I
look
for
Ease
in
vain,
When
Remedies
themselves
complain.
No
moisture
but
my
Tears
do
rest,
Nor
Cold
but
in
her
Icy
Breast.
How
long
wilt
Thou,
fair
Shepheardess,
Esteem
me,
and
my
Presents
less?
To
Thee
the
harmless
Snake
I
bring,
Disarmed
of
its
teeth
and
sting.
To
Thee
Chameleons
changing-hue,
And
Oak
leaves
tipt
with
hony
due.
Yet
Thou
ungrateful
hast
not
sought
Nor
what
they
are,
nor
who
them
brought.
I
am
the
Mower
Damon,
known
Through
all
the
Meadows
I
have
mown.
On
me
the
Morn
her
dew
distills
Before
her
darling
Daffadils.
And,
if
at
Noon
my
toil
me
heat,
The
Sun
himself
licks
off
my
Sweat.
While,
going
home,
the
Ev'ning
sweet
In
cowslip-water
bathes
my
feet.
What,
though
the
piping
Shepherd
stock
The
plains
with
an
unnum'red
Flock,
This
Sithe
of
mine
discovers
wide
More
ground
then
all
his
Sheep
do
hide.
With
this
the
golden
fleece
I
shear
Of
all
these
Closes
ev'ry
Year.
And
though
in
Wooll
more
poor
then
they,
Yet
am
I
richer
far
in
Hay.
Nor
am
I
so
deform'd
to
sight,
If
in
my
Sithe
I
looked
right;
In
which
I
see
my
Picture
done,
As
in
a
crescent
Moon
the
Sun.
The
deathless
Fairyes
take
me
oft
To
lead
them
in
their
Danses
soft:
And,
when
I
tune
my
self
to
sing,
About
me
they
contract
their
Ring.
How
happy
might
I
still
have
mow'd,
Had
not
Love
here
his
Thistles
sow'd!
But
now
I
all
the
day
complain,
Joyning
my
Labour
to
my
Pain;
And
with
my
Sythe
cut
down
the
Grass,
Yet
still
my
Grief
is
where
it
was:
But,
when
the
Iron
blunter
grows,
Sighing
I
whet
my
Sythe
and
Woes.
While
thus
he
threw
his
Elbow
round,
Depopulating
all
the
Ground,
And,
with
his
whistling
Sythe,
does
cut
Each
stroke
between
the
Earth
and
Root,
The
edged
Stele
by
careless
chance
Did
into
his
own
Ankle
glance;
And
there
among
the
Grass
fell
down,
By
his
own
Sythe,
the
Mower
mown.
Alas!
said
He,
these
hurts
are
slight
To
those
that
dye
by
Loves
despight.
With
Shepherds-purse,
and
Clowns-all-heal,
The
Blood
I
stanch,
and
Wound
I
seal.
Only
for
him
no
Cure
is
found,
Whom
Julianas
Eyes
do
wound.
'Tis
death
alone
that
this
must
do:
For
Death
thou
art
a
Mower
too.
Andrew Marvell
Andrew Marvell, (born March 31, 1621, Winestead, Yorkshire, England—died August 18, 1678, London), English poet whose political reputation overshadowed that of his poetry until the 20th century. He is now considered to be one of the best Metaphysical poets. Marvell spent most of the 1650s working as a tutor, first for Mary Fairfax, daughter of a retired Cromwellian general, then for one of Oliver Cromwell’s wards. Scholars believe that Marvell’s greatest lyrics were written during this time. In 1657, due to John Milton’s efforts on his behalf, Marvell was appointed Milton’s Latin secretary, a post Marvell held until his election to Parliament in 1660.