Thursday, December 4, 2008

The Mower's Song


The Mower's Song
By Andrew Marvell


My Mind was once the true survey
Of all these Meadows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the Grass
Did see its Hopes as in a Glass;
When Juliana came, and she

What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But these, while I with Sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine;

That not one Blade of Grass you spy'd,
But had a Flower on either side;

When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

Unthankful Meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gawdy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When Juliana came , and She

What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But what you in Compassion ought,
Shall now by my Revenge be wrought:
And Flow'rs, and Grass, and I and all,

Will in one common Ruine fall.
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the Heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my Tomb;

For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.






My Mind was once the true survey
Of all these Medows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the Grass
Did see its Hopes as in a Glass;
When Juliana came, and she
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.


Green is the color of hope, and the glass is a mirror. I believe that to mean that when he looks inside himself, he sees hope for his future with Juliana. This is his overconfidence of his place in the natural order of things. His innocence can be better seen as ignorance. The last two lines say that what he does to the grass, cut it down with his scythe, is the same as what she does to his thoughts and self when she comes. This means that his yearning for her is truly tearing him apart.


But these, while I with Sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine;
That not one Blade of Grass you spy'd,
But had a Flower on either side;
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and
Me.

This stanza is saying that while he laments his sorrow, the grass grows more and more abundant. His sorrow is that he is not the center of the world and that it does not revolve around him. He then says that the flowers are not growing, perhaps signifying that their love is not blossoming as the mower would have hoped.


Unthankful Meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gawdy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When Juliana came , and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

This stanza is possibly saying that nature is ungrateful for the service Damon provides. The mower sees nature in his own narrow view of what is and what is not right in the world. He blames nature for being unnatural, but in all actuality, it is doing precisely what it is supposed to do. The line about gaudy may-games is said to be a reference to “The excessive zeal of the Puritan consciousness with which Marvell and other moderates had to contend.”


But what you in Compassion ought,
Shall now by my Revenge be wrought:
And Flow'rs, and Grass, and I and all,

Will in one common Ruine fall.
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

In the fourth stanza, the human nature of revenge becomes Damon’s motivation in life. He is saying that as he cuts the grass, so too will he fall. He says this because he is not with Juliana.


And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the Heraldry become

With which I shall adorn my Tomb;
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.


The last stanza here is about the Mower’s acceptance of his fate. He will not be with Juliana but he can still be with his meadow. It’s said that in this stanza, the mower is somewhat self-accepting, but only to a certain extent. The lines about heraldry and tombs suggest a lavish, aristocratic burial, yet Damon is a rural mower. It ends with him perhaps still not fully understanding how the world truly works.






Pastoral and Lyric Poems 1681

By Andrew Marvell, David Ormerod, Christopher Wortham


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