Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE YOUNG HUNTER AND THE FAWN, by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE YOUNG HUNTER AND THE FAWN, by                    
First Line: Far in a wide and silent forest's shade
Last Line: "and every wind doth whisper 'murderer!' "
Subject(s): Animal Rights; Animals; Deer; Forests; Hunting; Murder; Animal Abuse; Vivisection; Woods; Hunters


Far in a wide and silent forest's shade,
Upon a thick and fragrant bed of moss,
Whose thousand tiny, sweet and tangled flowers
Were stained with blood, that from its wounded breast
Did ebb away, a gentle faun did lie;
And from its quivering lips and panting side,
Its short and painful breath came gasping forth,
Blowing sweet incense soft upon the palm
Of a young lad, who, in his tender hand,
Bore up upon his lap its drooping head,—
The author and the pitier of its plight.
For 'twas that hand that but a space before
Had loosed the deadly dart into that breast
Which now lay throbbing 'neath his eye. And yet
'Twas not a wanton hand or cruel eye
That there did kneel; for one in misty dews
Of sweet compassion had dimmed its wonted light;
The while the other from the unslung horn
Had cast its deadly charges to the wind,
And at some sought out spring its hollow curves
Had filled with water cool, the which it now
Unto that bleeding breast did softly lave.
And while he thus did minister, his tongue,
A melancholy sadness sitting there,
Did gently thus the double office do
Of penitent and mourner: "Thou sweet child.
Thou dumb infant of the wood! Alas,
Poor hapless animal, that life so young,
So free, so shy, so fragile as thine own,
Should be so rudely spent! 'Tis pity great,
That here, where Nature doth her store-house make
For all her peace and quiet,—even here
Must busy man intrude, and with his coming
Bring pain and woe where neither was before.
But yet I am not all without defence.
Let those faint, drooping ears hear my poor cause,—
Hear with charity, with mercy judge;
For charity, wide as it is, could ne'er
Cloak up my huge and hideous fault alone.
Nay! turn not up such soft reproachful eyes!
Oh! I would rather meet the flaming eye
Burning above the hungry, armored jaw
Of some fierce beast, with stealthy crouching paw
And lashing tail, watching me for its prey,
Than look into those pure and purple depths
That make me feel so like a murderer.
Alas, had these dim lights that are mine eyes
But burned one half so honest, true and clear,
But owned a power one half so far as these
Possessed ten minutes past, then would they not
Have this unwitting hand so foul betrayed.
For when yon thicket cracked, thither they flew;
And with their truer judgment all o'er thrown
With eager expectation, misled quite
By quick imagination's wish, they saw,
Not what was there but what they would see there,
And bade this foolish, witless hand to shoot
Where through the leaves did shine a golden spot,
Which eagerly they vouched,—oh cruel fraud!
Was sure the tawny skin and shaggy fur
That some great, savage, bloody beast did wear.
And when I thought, in answer to my act,
To hear the forest shake with roar on roar,
See bushes stripped of leaves and rooted up,
The solid ground itself torn up and cast
About in the magnificent mad fury
Of some sore wounded brute, Lo! from the bush,
Rising as if these little hoofs bore wings,
Did'st thou bound forth in air, and here, at my feet,
Camest thou to earth again. There was no roar,
No angry fang gnashing to clutch on me,
No wounded strength destroying in its reach,
Nothing that tricky reason might present
As justifier to accusing conscience;
Only this form of thine that lies so still,
Only these piteous groans that from it yet
Do faintly heave,—alas! I would their tones
Came not so near unto the human voice,
For while my heart doth grieve and weep to hear them,
They make my superstitious soul to quake.
Could things like these make any mortal proud?
They do not me. But they do make me feel
Like a base coward that strikes where he doth fear
No blow returned; like a smooth hypocrite,
That unto one whom he hath grossly wronged
Doth offer the cheap recompense of words.
But words are all I have to give, since that
Which I have taken from thee I cannot,
Nor any man, restore; and yet to thee,
Taught in a simpler, happier school than mine,
These labourings of the heavy human tongue
Are less than nothing. But what, sweet innocence,
Doth mean these kind caressings of my hand
With that soft tongue that scarce possesseth strength
To stretch it from its bed? Thus do thy kind
Attest affectionate good-fellowship.
And verily there seems, in this soft touch,
A lingering gentleness as though thou would'st
Convey a kind assurance of good will
And of thy good forgiveness absolute.
Thus ever doth the kind and generous heart;
Forgives whether pardon be asked or not,
But if 'tis asked, with tears and words that show
The culprit's suffering, it doth itself
Begin to bleed, and its own hurt forgetting,
Pours out its oil of pity and affection
Upon the wounds of him who wounded it,
Both healed and healing in the sweet discharge.
So dies nobility; without a thought
For malice or revenge, its latest breath
Spent but to pardon, soothe, encourage, cheer.
Lie here, thou heavenly spirit! This soft moss,
Nature's best bed in this her roomy house,
Shall be thy couch and bier; for no gross grave
Shall cramp these free-born limbs. Here shalt thou rest,
And gently dissolve into the elements;
But not without mourners. For to this spot
Shall come the creeping tortoise, the soft thrush
And tender dove, the hare and squirrel shy.
The poor toad and wandering whip-poor-will,
Ev'n the dark bat and melancholy owl,—
Whatsoever harmless, gentle things
That dwell about this wood shall here repair
To mourn their common favourite comrade dead.
And others, too, will come to weep for thee,—
Those tender beings, who, in these ancient trees,
Old story says makes each its separate home.
Oh! I do hope that when they look on thee,
And these just ended acts recall,—for they
Have seen each act and heard each speech in this
Sad tragedy,—they will remember how,
With every act that came as near to speech
As dumbness might, thou said'st 'I do forgive thee;
And breasting thee in the courteous, noble race,
Grant, too, to me their pardon for the offence
Of having slain their playmate and best friend.
Then would this solitude again assume
The pleasant, deep and tranquil countenance
Which I do love so well; and wear no more
These present frowns of its stern, sad aspect,
Which to unlucky me,—who wittingly
Would ne'er have been, or be, their cruel cause,—
Seem all directed, till it seems as if
No bough doth bend but it doth point at me,
And every wind doth whisper 'Murderer!' "





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