Poems by Andrew Marvell

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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Cromwell's Return

An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return From Ireland

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 unusèd armour's rust:

Removing from the wall

by Andrew Marvell

The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun

The wanton Troopers riding by

Have shot my Faun and it will dye.

Ungentle men! They cannot thrive

To kill thee. Thou neer didst alive

Them any harm: alas nor cou'd

Thy death yet do them any good.

I'me sure I never wisht them ill;

Nor do I for all this; nor will:

by Andrew Marvell

Blake's Victory

On the Victory Obtained by Blake over the Spaniards in the Bay of Santa Cruz, in the Island of Tenerife, 1657

Now does Spain's fleet her spacious wings unfold,

Leaves the New World and hastens for the old:

But though the wind was fair, they slowly swum

Freighted with acted guilt, and guilt to come:

For this rich load, of which so proud they are,

Was raised by tyranny, and raised for war;

Every capacious gallion's womb was filled,

by Andrew Marvell

Daphnis And Chloe

Daphnis must from Chloe part:

Now is come the dismal Hour

That must all his Hopes devour,

All his Labour, all his Art.

Nature, her own Sexes foe,

Long had taught her to be coy:

But she neither knew t' enjoy,

Nor yet let her Lover go.

by Andrew Marvell

A Letter To Doctor Ingelo, then With My Lord Whitlock, Amba

Quid facis Arctoi charissime transfuga coeli,

Ingele, proh sero cognite, rapte cito?

Num satis Hybernum defendis pellibus Astrum,

Qui modo tam mollis nec bene firmus eras?

Quae Gentes Hominum, quae sit Natura Locorum,

Sint Homines, potius dic ibi sintre Loca?

Num gravis horrisono Polus obruit omnia lapsu,

Jungitur & praeceps Mundas utraque nive?

by Andrew Marvell

Hortus

Quisnam adeo, mortale genus, praecordia versat:

Heu Palmae, Laurique furor, vel simplicis Herbae!

Arbor ut indomitos ornet vix una labores;

Tempora nec foliis praecingat tota maglignis.

Dum simud implexi, tranquillae ad ferta Quiaetis,

Omnigeni coeunt Flores, integraque Sylva.

Alma Quies, teneo te! & te Germana Quietis

Simplicitas! Vos ergo diu per Templa, per urbes,

by Andrew Marvell

Clorinda And Damon

Damon come drive thy flocks this way.

No : 'tis too late they went astray.

I have a grassy Scutcheon spy'd,

Where Flora blazons all her pride.

The grass I aim to feast thy Sheep :

by Andrew Marvell

A Dialogue Between The Resolved Soul, And Created Pleasure

Courage my Soul, now learn to wield

The weight of thine immortal Shield.

Close on thy Head thy Helmet bright.

Ballance thy Sword against the Fight.

See where an Army, strong as fair,

With silken Banners spreads the air.

Now, if thou bee'st that thing Divine,

In this day's Combat let it shine:

by Andrew Marvell

Fleckno, an English Priest at Rome

Oblig'd by frequent visits of this man,

Whom as Priest, Poet, and Musician,

I for some branch of Melchizedeck took,

(Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke)

I sought his Lodging; which is at the Sign

Of the sad Pelican; Subject divine

For Poetry: There three Stair Cases high,

Which signifies his triple property,

by Andrew Marvell

Last Instructions to a Painter

After two sittings, now our Lady State

To end her picture does the third time wait.

But ere thou fall'st to work, first, Painter, see

If't ben't too slight grown or too hard for thee.

Canst thou paint without colors? Then 'tis right:

For so we too without a fleet can fight.

Or canst thou daub a signpost, and that ill?

'Twill suit our great debauch and little skill.

by Andrew Marvell

Bermudas

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In th' Oceans bosome unespy'd,

From a small Boat, that row'd along,

The listning Winds receiv'd this Song.

What should we do but sing his Praise

That led us through the watry Maze,

Unto an Isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?

by Andrew Marvell

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.

by Andrew Marvell