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Published: 05 April 2022

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50 BC

ON THE NATURE OF THINGS

by Titus Lucretius Carus Translated by William Ellery Leonard BOOK I

		PROEM

  Mother of Rome, delight of Gods and men,
  Dear Venus that beneath the gliding stars
  Makest to teem the many-voyaged main
  And fruitful lands- for all of living things
  Through thee alone are evermore conceived,
  Through thee are risen to visit the great sun-
  Before thee, Goddess, and thy coming on,
  Flee stormy wind and massy cloud away,
  For thee the daedal Earth bears scented flowers,
  For thee waters of the unvexed deep
  Smile, and the hollows of the serene sky
  Glow with diffused radiance for thee!
  For soon as comes the springtime face of day,
  And procreant gales blow from the West unbarred,
  First fowls of air, smit to the heart by thee,
  Foretoken thy approach, O thou Divine,
  And leap the wild herds round the happy fields
  Or swim the bounding torrents. Thus amain,
  Seized with the spell, all creatures follow thee
  Whithersoever thou walkest forth to lead,
  And thence through seas and mountains and swift streams,
  Through leafy homes of birds and greening plains,
  Kindling the lure of love in every breast,
  Thou bringest the eternal generations forth,
  Kind after kind. And since 'tis thou alone
  Guidest the Cosmos, and without thee naught
  Is risen to reach the shining shores of light,
  Nor aught of joyful or of lovely born,
  Thee do I crave co-partner in that verse
  Which I presume on Nature to compose
  For Memmius mine, whom thou hast willed to be
  Peerless in every grace at every hour-
  Wherefore indeed, Divine one, give my words
  Immortal charm. Lull to a timely rest
  O'er sea and land the savage works of war,
  For thou alone hast power with public peace
  To aid mortality; since he who rules
  The savage works of battle, puissant Mars,
  How often to thy bosom flings his strength
  O'ermastered by the eternal wound of love-
  And there, with eyes and full throat backward thrown,
  Gazing, my Goddess, open-mouthed at thee,
  Pastures on love his greedy sight, his breath
  Hanging upon thy lips. Him thus reclined
  Fill with thy holy body, round, above!
  Pour from those lips soft syllables to win
  Peace for the Romans, glorious Lady, peace!
  For in a season troublous to the state
  Neither may I attend this task of mine
  With thought untroubled, nor mid such events
  The illustrious scion of the Memmian house
  Neglect the civic cause.
                           Whilst human kind
  Throughout the lands lay miserably crushed
  Before all eyes beneath Religion- who
  Would show her head along the region skies,
  Glowering on mortals with her hideous face-
  A Greek it was who first opposing dared
  Raise mortal eyes that terror to withstand,
  Whom nor the fame of Gods nor lightning's stroke
  Nor threatening thunder of the ominous sky
  Abashed; but rather chafed to angry zest
  His dauntless heart to be the first to rend
  The crossbars at the gates of Nature old.
  And thus his will and hardy wisdom won;
  And forward thus he fared afar, beyond
  The flaming ramparts of the world, until
  He wandered the unmeasurable All.
  Whence he to us, a conqueror, reports
  What things can rise to being, what cannot,
  And by what law to each its scope prescribed,
  Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time.
  Wherefore Religion now is under foot,
  And us his victory now exalts to heaven.
    I know how hard it is in Latian verse
  To tell the dark discoveries of the Greeks,
  Chiefly because our pauper-speech must find
  Strange terms to fit the strangeness of the thing;
  Yet worth of thine and the expected joy
  Of thy sweet friendship do persuade me on
  To bear all toil and wake the clear nights through,
  Seeking with what of words and what of song
  I may at last most gloriously uncloud
  For thee the light beyond, wherewith to view
  The core of being at the centre hid.
  And for the rest, summon to judgments true,
  Unbusied ears and singleness of mind
  Withdrawn from cares; lest these my gifts, arranged
  For thee with eager service, thou disdain
  Before thou comprehendest: since for thee
  I prove the supreme law of Gods and sky,
  And the primordial germs of things unfold,
  Whence Nature all creates, and multiplies
  And fosters all, and whither she resolves
  Each in the end when each is overthrown.
  This ultimate stock we have devised to name
  Procreant atoms, matter, seeds of things,
  Or primal bodies, as primal to the world.

    I fear perhaps thou deemest that we fare
  An impious road to realms of thought profane;
  But 'tis that same religion oftener far
  Hath bred the foul impieties of men:
  As once at Aulis, the elected chiefs,
  Foremost of heroes, Danaan counsellors,
  Defiled Diana's altar, virgin queen,
  With Agamemnon's daughter, foully slain.
  She felt the chaplet round her maiden locks
  And fillets, fluttering down on either cheek,
  And at the altar marked her grieving sire,
  The priests beside him who concealed the knife,
  And all the folk in tears at sight of her.
  With a dumb terror and a sinking knee
  She dropped; nor might avail her now that first
  'Twas she who gave the king a father's name.
  They raised her up, they bore the trembling girl
  On to the altar- hither led not now
  With solemn rites and hymeneal choir,
  But sinless woman, sinfully foredone,
  A parent felled her on her bridal day,
  Making his child a sacrificial beast
  To give the ships auspicious winds for Troy:
  Such are the crimes to which Religion leads.

    And there shall come the time when even thou,
  Forced by the soothsayer's terror-tales, shalt seek
  To break from us. Ah, many a dream even now
  Can they concoct to rout thy plans of life,
  And trouble all thy fortunes with base fears.
  I own with reason: for, if men but knew
  Some fixed end to ills, they would be strong
  By some device unconquered to withstand
  Religions and the menacings of seers.
  But now nor skill nor instrument is theirs,
  Since men must dread eternal pains in death.
  For what the soul may be they do not know,
  Whether 'tis born, or enter in at birth,
  And whether, snatched by death, it die with us,
  Or visit the shadows and the vasty caves
  Of Orcus, or by some divine decree
  Enter the brute herds, as our Ennius sang,
  Who first from lovely Helicon brought down
  A laurel wreath of bright perennial leaves,
  Renowned forever among the Italian clans.
  Yet Ennius too in everlasting verse
  Proclaims those vaults of Acheron to be,
  Though thence, he said, nor souls nor bodies fare,
  But only phantom figures, strangely wan,
  And tells how once from out those regions rose
  Old Homer's ghost to him and shed salt tears
  And with his words unfolded Nature's source.
  Then be it ours with steady mind to clasp
  The purport of the skies- the law behind
  The wandering courses of the sun and moon;
  To scan the powers that speed all life below;
  But most to see with reasonable eyes
  Of what the mind, of what the soul is made,
  And what it is so terrible that breaks
  On us asleep, or waking in disease,
  Until we seem to mark and hear at hand
  Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago.
                SUBSTANCE IS ETERNAL

  This terror, then, this darkness of the mind,
  Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light,
  Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse,
  But only Nature's aspect and her law,
  Which, teaching us, hath this exordium:
  Nothing from nothing ever yet was born.
  Fear holds dominion over mortality
  Only because, seeing in land and sky
  So much the cause whereof no wise they know,
  Men think Divinities are working there.
  Meantime, when once we know from nothing still
  Nothing can be create, we shall divine
  More clearly what we seek: those elements
  From which alone all things created are,
  And how accomplished by no tool of Gods.
  Suppose all sprang from all things: any kind
  Might take its origin from any thing,
  No fixed seed required. Men from the sea
  Might rise, and from the land the scaly breed,
  And, fowl full fledged come bursting from the sky;
  The horned cattle, the herds and all the wild
  Would haunt with varying offspring tilth and waste;
  Nor would the same fruits keep their olden trees,
  But each might grow from any stock or limb
  By chance and change. Indeed, and were there not
  For each its procreant atoms, could things have
  Each its unalterable mother old?
  But, since produced from fixed seeds are all,
  Each birth goes forth upon the shores of light
  From its own stuff, from its own primal bodies.
  And all from all cannot become, because
  In each resides a secret power its own.
  Again, why see we lavished o'er the lands
  At spring the rose, at summer heat the corn,
  The vines that mellow when the autumn lures,
  If not because the fixed seeds of things
  At their own season must together stream,
  And new creations only be revealed
  When the due times arrive and pregnant earth
  Safely may give unto the shores of light
  Her tender progenies? But if from naught
  Were their becoming, they would spring abroad
  Suddenly, unforeseen, in alien months,
  With no primordial germs, to be preserved
  From procreant unions at an adverse hour.
  Nor on the mingling of the living seeds
  Would space be needed for the growth of things
  Were life an increment of nothing: then
  The tiny babe forthwith would walk a man,
  And from the turf would leap a branching tree-
  Wonders unheard of; for, by Nature, each
  Slowly increases from its lawful seed,
  And through that increase shall conserve its kind.
  Whence take the proof that things enlarge and feed
  From out their proper matter. Thus it comes
  That earth, without her seasons of fixed rains,
  Could bear no produce such as makes us glad,
  And whatsoever lives, if shut from food,
  Prolongs its kind and guards its life no more.
  Thus easier 'tis to hold that many things
  Have primal bodies in common (as we see
  The single letters common to many words)
  Than aught exists without its origins.
  Moreover, why should Nature not prepare
  Men of a bulk to ford the seas afoot,
  Or rend the mighty mountains with their hands,
  Or conquer Time with length of days, if not
  Because for all begotten things abides
  The changeless stuff, and what from that may spring
  Is fixed forevermore? Lastly we see
  How far the tilled surpass the fields untilled
  And to the labour of our hands return
  Their more abounding crops; there are indeed
  Within the earth primordial germs of things,
  Which, as the ploughshare turns the fruitful clods
  And kneads the mould, we quicken into birth.
  Else would ye mark, without all toil of ours,
  Spontaneous generations, fairer forms.
  Confess then, naught from nothing can become,
  Since all must have their seeds, wherefrom to grow,
  Wherefrom to reach the gentle fields of air.
    Hence too it comes that Nature all dissolves
  Into their primal bodies again, and naught
  Perishes ever to annihilation.
  For, were aught mortal in its every part,
  Before our eyes it might be snatched away
  Unto destruction; since no force were needed
  To sunder its members and undo its bands.
  Whereas, of truth, because all things exist,
  With seed imperishable, Nature allows
  Destruction nor collapse of aught, until
  Some outward force may shatter by a blow,
  Or inward craft, entering its hollow cells,
  Dissolve it down. And more than this, if Time,
  That wastes with eld the works along the world,
  Destroy entire, consuming matter all,
  Whence then may Venus back to light of life
  Restore the generations kind by kind?
  Or how, when thus restored, may daedal Earth
  Foster and plenish with her ancient food,
  Which, kind by kind, she offers unto each?
  Whence may the water-springs, beneath the sea,
  Or inland rivers, far and wide away,
  Keep the unfathomable ocean full?
  And out of what does Ether feed the stars?
  For lapsed years and infinite age must else
  Have eat all shapes of mortal stock away:
  But be it the Long Ago contained those germs,
  By which this sum of things recruited lives,
  Those same infallibly can never die,
  Nor nothing to nothing evermore return.
  And, too, the selfsame power might end alike
  All things, were they not still together held
  By matter eternal, shackled through its parts,
  Now more, now less. A touch might be enough
  To cause destruction. For the slightest force
  Would loose the weft of things wherein no part
  Were of imperishable stock. But now
  Because the fastenings of primordial parts
  Are put together diversely and stuff
  Is everlasting, things abide the same
  Unhurt and sure, until some power comes on
  Strong to destroy the warp and woof of each:
  Nothing returns to naught; but all return
  At their collapse to primal forms of stuff.
  Lo, the rains perish which Ether-father throws
  Down to the bosom of Earth-mother; but then
  Upsprings the shining grain, and boughs are green
  Amid the trees, and trees themselves wax big
  And lade themselves with fruits; and hence in turn
  The race of man and all the wild are fed;
  Hence joyful cities thrive with boys and girls;
  And leafy woodlands echo with new birds;
  Hence cattle, fat and drowsy, lay their bulk
  Along the joyous pastures whilst the drops
  Of white ooze trickle from distended bags;
  Hence the young scamper on their weakling joints
  Along the tender herbs, fresh hearts afrisk
  With warm new milk. Thus naught of what so seems
  Perishes utterly, since Nature ever
  Upbuilds one thing from other, suffering naught
  To come to birth but through some other's death.

  And now, since I have taught that things cannot
  Be born from nothing, nor the same, when born,
  To nothing be recalled, doubt not my words,
  Because our eyes no primal germs perceive;
  For mark those bodies which, though known to be
  In this our world, are yet invisible:
  The winds infuriate lash our face and frame,
  Unseen, and swamp huge ships and rend the clouds,
  Or, eddying wildly down, bestrew the plains
  With mighty trees, or scour the mountain tops
  With forest-crackling blasts. Thus on they rave
  With uproar shrill and ominous moan. The winds,
  'Tis clear, are sightless bodies sweeping through
  The sea, the lands, the clouds along the sky,
  Vexing and whirling and seizing all amain;
  And forth they flow and pile destruction round,
  Even as the water's soft and supple bulk
  Becoming a river of abounding floods,
  Which a wide downpour from the lofty hills
  Swells with big showers, dashes headlong down
  Fragments of woodland and whole branching trees;
  Nor can the solid bridges bide the shock
  As on the waters whelm: the turbulent stream,
  Strong with a hundred rains, beats round the piers,
  Crashes with havoc, and rolls beneath its waves
  Down-toppled masonry and ponderous stone,
  Hurling away whatever would oppose.
  Even so must move the blasts of all the winds,
  Which, when they spread, like to a mighty flood,
  Hither or thither, drive things on before
  And hurl to ground with still renewed assault,
  Or sometimes in their circling vortex seize
  And bear in cones of whirlwind down the world:
  The winds are sightless bodies and naught else-
  Since both in works and ways they rival well
  The mighty rivers, the visible in form.
  Then too we know the varied smells of things
  Yet never to our nostrils see them come;
  With eyes we view not burning heats, nor cold,
  Nor are we wont men's voices to behold.
  Yet these must be corporeal at the base,
  Since thus they smite the senses: naught there is
  Save body, having property of touch.
  And raiment, hung by surf-beat shore, grows moist,
  The same, spread out before the sun, will dry;
  Yet no one saw how sank the moisture in,
  Nor how by heat off-driven. Thus we know,
  That moisture is dispersed about in bits
  Too small for eyes to see. Another case:
  A ring upon the finger thins away
  Along the under side, with years and suns;
  The drippings from the eaves will scoop the stone;
  The hooked ploughshare, though of iron, wastes
  Amid the fields insidiously. We view
  The rock-paved highways worn by many feet;
  And at the gates the brazen statues show
  Their right hands leaner from the frequent touch
  Of wayfarers innumerable who greet.
  We see how wearing-down hath minished these,
  But just what motes depart at any time,
  The envious nature of vision bars our sight.
  Lastly whatever days and nature add
  Little by little, constraining things to grow
  In due proportion, no gaze however keen
  Of these our eyes hath watched and known. No more
  Can we observe what's lost at any time,
  When things wax old with eld and foul decay,
  Or when salt seas eat under beetling crags.
  Thus Nature ever by unseen bodies works.
                       THE VOID

    But yet creation's neither crammed nor blocked
  About by body: there's in things a void-
  Which to have known will serve thee many a turn,
  Nor will not leave thee wandering in doubt,
  Forever searching in the sum of all,
  And losing faith in these pronouncements mine.
  There's place intangible, a void and room.
  For were it not, things could in nowise move;
  Since body's property to block and check
  Would work on all and at an times the same.
  Thus naught could evermore push forth and go,
  Since naught elsewhere would yield a starting place.
  But now through oceans, lands, and heights of heaven
  By divers causes and in divers modes,
  Before our eyes we mark how much may move,
  Which, finding not a void, would fail deprived
  Of stir and motion; nay, would then have been
  Nowise begot at all, since matter, then,
  Had staid at rest, its parts together crammed.
  Then too, however solid objects seem,
  They yet are formed of matter mixed with void:
  In rocks and caves the watery moisture seeps,
  And beady drops stand out like plenteous tears;
  And food finds way through every frame that lives;
  The trees increase and yield the season's fruit
  Because their food throughout the whole is poured,
  Even from the deepest roots, through trunks and boughs;
  And voices pass the solid walls and fly
  Reverberant through shut doorways of a house;
  And stiffening frost seeps inward to our bones.
  Which but for voids for bodies to go through
  'Tis clear could happen in nowise at all.
  Again, why see we among objects some
  Of heavier weight, but of no bulkier size:
  Indeed, if in a ball of wool there be
  As much of body as in lump of lead,
  The two should weigh alike, since body tends
  To load things downward, while the void abides,
  By contrary nature, the imponderable.
  Therefore, an object just as large but lighter
  Declares infallibly its more of void;
  Even as the heavier more of matter shows,
  And how much less of vacant room inside.
  That which we're seeking with sagacious quest
  Exists, infallibly, commixed with things-
  The void, the invisible inane.
                                 Right here
  I am compelled a question to expound,
  Forestalling something certain folk suppose,
  Lest it avail to lead thee off from truth:
  Waters (they say) before the shining breed
  Of the swift scaly creatures somehow give,
  And straightway open sudden liquid paths,
  Because the fishes leave behind them room
  To which at once the yielding billows stream.
  Thus things among themselves can yet be moved,
  And change their place, however full the Sum-
  Received opinion, wholly false forsooth.
  For where can scaly creatures forward dart,
  Save where the waters give them room? Again,
  Where can the billows yield a way, so long
  As ever the fish are powerless to go?
  Thus either all bodies of motion are deprived,
  Or things contain admixture of a void
  Where each thing gets its start in moving on.
    Lastly, where after impact two broad bodies
  Suddenly spring apart, the air must crowd
  The whole new void between those bodies formed;
  But air, however it stream with hastening gusts,
  Can yet not fill the gap at once- for first
  It makes for one place, ere diffused through all.
  And then, if haply any think this comes,
  When bodies spring apart, because the air
  Somehow condenses, wander they from truth:
  For then a void is formed, where none before;
  And, too, a void is filled which was before.
  Nor can air be condensed in such a wise;
  Nor, granting it could, without a void, I hold,
  It still could not contract upon itself
  And draw its parts together into one.
  Wherefore, despite demur and counter-speech,
  Confess thou must there is a void in things.

    And still I might by many an argument
  Here scrape together credence for my words.
  But for the keen eye these mere footprints serve,
  Whereby thou mayest know the rest thyself.
  As dogs full oft with noses on the ground,
  Find out the silent lairs, though hid in brush,
  Of beasts, the mountain-rangers, when but once
  They scent the certain footsteps of the way,
  Thus thou thyself in themes like these alone
  Can hunt from thought to thought, and keenly wind
  Along even onward to the secret places
  And drag out truth. But, if thou loiter loth
  Or veer, however little, from the point,
  This I can promise, Memmius, for a fact:
  Such copious drafts my singing tongue shall pour
  From the large well-springs of my plenished breast
  That much I dread slow age will steal and coil
  Along our members, and unloose the gates
  Of life within us, ere for thee my verse
  Hath put within thine ears the stores of proofs
  At hand for one soever question broached.
         NOTHING EXISTS per se EXCEPT ATOMS
                   AND THE VOID

    But, now again to weave the tale begun,
  All nature, then, as self-sustained, consists
  Of twain of things: of bodies and of void
  In which they're set, and where they're moved around.
  For common instinct of our race declares
  That body of itself exists: unless
  This primal faith, deep-founded, fail us not,
  Naught will there be whereunto to appeal
  On things occult when seeking aught to prove
  By reasonings of mind. Again, without
  That place and room, which we do call the inane,
  Nowhere could bodies then be set, nor go
  Hither or thither at all- as shown before.
  Besides, there's naught of which thou canst declare
  It lives disjoined from body, shut from void-
  A kind of third in nature. For whatever
  Exists must be a somewhat; and the same,
  If tangible, however fight and slight,
  Will yet increase the count of body's sum,
  With its own augmentation big or small;
  But, if intangible and powerless ever
  To keep a thing from passing through itself
  On any side, 'twill be naught else but that
  Which we do call the empty, the inane.
  Again, whate'er exists, as of itself,
  Must either act or suffer action on it.
  Or else be that wherein things move and be:
  Naught, saving body, acts, is acted on;
  Naught but the inane can furnish room. And thus,
  Beside the inane and bodies, is no third
  Nature amid the number of all things-
  Remainder none to fall at any time
  Under our senses, nor be seized and seen
  By any man through reasonings of mind.
  Name o'er creation with what names thou wilt,
  Thou'lt find but properties of those first twain,
  Or see but accidents those twain produce.

    A property is that which not at all
  Can be disjoined and severed from a thing
  Without a fatal dissolution: such,
  Weight to the rocks, heat to the fire, and flow
  To the wide waters, touch to corporal things,
  Intangibility to the viewless void.
  But state of slavery, pauperhood, and wealth,
  Freedom, and war, and concord, and all else
  Which come and go whilst Nature stands the same,
  We're wont, and rightly, to call accidents.
  Even time exists not of itself; but sense
  Reads out of things what happened long ago,
  What presses now, and what shall follow after:
  No man, we must admit, feels time itself,
  Disjoined from motion and repose of things.
  Thus, when they say there "is" the ravishment
  Of Princess Helen, "is" the siege and sack
  Of Trojan Town, look out, they force us not
  To admit these acts existent by themselves,
  Merely because those races of mankind
  (Of whom these acts were accidents) long since
  Irrevocable age has borne away:
  For all past actions may be said to be
  But accidents, in one way, of mankind,-
  In other, of some region of the world.
  Add, too, had been no matter, and no room
  Wherein all things go on, the fire of love
  Upblown by that fair form, the glowing coal
  Under the Phrygian Alexander's breast,
  Had ne'er enkindled that renowned strife
  Of savage war, nor had the wooden horse
  Involved in flames old Pergama, by a birth
  At midnight of a brood of the Hellenes.
  And thus thou canst remark that every act
  At bottom exists not of itself, nor is
  As body is, nor has like name with void;
  But rather of sort more fitly to be called
  An accident of body, and of place
  Wherein all things go on.
              CHARACTER OF THE ATOMS

                          Bodies, again,
  Are partly primal germs of things, and partly
  Unions deriving from the primal germs.
  And those which are the primal germs of things
  No power can quench; for in the end they conquer
  By their own solidness; though hard it be
  To think that aught in things has solid frame;
  For lightnings pass, no less than voice and shout,
  Through hedging walls of houses, and the iron
  White-dazzles in the fire, and rocks will burn
  With exhalations fierce and burst asunder.
  Totters the rigid gold dissolved in heat;
  The ice of bronze melts conquered in the flame;
  Warmth and the piercing cold through silver seep,
  Since, with the cups held rightly in the hand,
  We oft feel both, as from above is poured
  The dew of waters between their shining sides:
  So true it is no solid form is found.
  But yet because true reason and nature of things
  Constrain us, come, whilst in few verses now
  I disentangle how there still exist
  Bodies of solid, everlasting frame-
  The seeds of things, the primal germs we teach,
  Whence all creation around us came to be.
  First since we know a twofold nature exists,
  Of things, both twain and utterly unlike-
  Body, and place in which an things go on-
  Then each must be both for and through itself,
  And all unmixed: where'er be empty space,
  There body's not; and so where body bides,
  There not at an exists the void inane.
  Thus primal bodies are solid, without a void.
  But since there's void in all begotten things,
  All solid matter must be round the same;
  Nor, by true reason canst thou prove aught hides
  And holds a void within its body, unless
  Thou grant what holds it be a solid. Know,
  That which can hold a void of things within
  Can be naught else than matter in union knit.
  Thus matter, consisting of a solid frame,
  Hath power to be eternal, though all else,
  Though all creation, be dissolved away.
  Again, were naught of empty and inane,
  The world were then a solid; as, without
  Some certain bodies to fill the places held,
  The world that is were but a vacant void.
  And so, infallibly, alternate-wise
  Body and void are still distinguished,
  Since nature knows no wholly full nor void.
  There are, then, certain bodies, possessed of power
  To vary forever the empty and the full;
  And these can nor be sundered from without
  By beats and blows, nor from within be torn
  By penetration, nor be overthrown
  By any assault soever through the world-
  For without void, naught can be crushed, it seems,
  Nor broken, nor severed by a cut in twain,
  Nor can it take the damp, or seeping cold
  Or piercing fire, those old destroyers three;
  But the more void within a thing, the more
  Entirely it totters at their sure assault.
  Thus if first bodies be, as I have taught,
  Solid, without a void, they must be then
  Eternal; and, if matter ne'er had been
  Eternal, long ere now had all things gone
  Back into nothing utterly, and all
  We see around from nothing had been born-
  But since I taught above that naught can be
  From naught created, nor the once begotten
  To naught be summoned back, these primal germs
  Must have an immortality of frame.
  And into these must each thing be resolved,
  When comes its supreme hour, that thus there be
  At hand the stuff for plenishing the world.

  So primal germs have solid singleness
  Nor otherwise could they have been conserved
  Through aeons and infinity of time
  For the replenishment of wasted worlds.

    Once more, if Nature had given a scope for things
  To be forever broken more and more,
  By now the bodies of matter would have been
  So far reduced by breakings in old days
  That from them nothing could, at season fixed,
  Be born, and arrive its prime and of life.
  For, lo, each thing is quicker marred than made;
  And so what'er the long infinitude
  Of days and all fore-passed time would now
  By this have broken and ruined and dissolved,
  That same could ne'er in all remaining time
  Be builded up for plenishing the world.
  But mark: infallibly a fixed bound
  Remaineth stablished 'gainst their breaking down;
  Since we behold each thing soever renewed,
  And unto all, their seasons, after their kind,
  Wherein they arrive the flower of their age.

    Again, if bounds have not been set against
  The breaking down of this corporeal world,
  Yet must all bodies of whatever things
  Have still endured from everlasting time
  Unto this present, as not yet assailed
  By shocks of peril. But because the same
  Are, to thy thinking, of a nature frail,
  It ill accords that thus they could remain
  (As thus they do) through everlasting time,
  Vexed through the ages (as indeed they are)
  By the innumerable blows of chance.

    So in our programme of creation, mark
  How 'tis that, though the bodies of all stuff
  The ways whereby some things are fashioned soft-
  Air, water, earth, and fiery exhalations-
  And by what force they function and go on:
  The fact is founded in the void of things.
  But if the primal germs themselves be soft,
  Reason cannot be brought to bear to show
  The ways whereby may be created these
  Great crags of basalt and the during iron;
  For their whole nature will profoundly lack
  The first foundations of a solid frame.
  But powerful in old simplicity,
  Abide the solid, the primeval germs;
  And by their combinations more condensed,
  All objects can be tightly knit and bound
  And made to show unconquerable strength.
  Again, since all things kind by kind obtain
  Fixed bounds of growing and conserving life;
  Since Nature hath inviolably decreed
  What each can do, what each can never do;
  Since naught is changed, but all things so abide
  That ever the variegated birds reveal
  The spots or stripes peculiar to their kind,
  Spring after spring: thus surely all that is
  Must be composed of matter immutable.
  For if the primal germs in any wise
  Were open to conquest and to change, 'twould be
  Uncertain also what could come to birth
  And what could not, and by what law to each
  Its scope prescribed, its boundary stone that clings
  So deep in Time. Nor could the generations
  Kind after kind so often reproduce
  The nature, habits, motions, ways of life,
  Of their progenitors.
                                And then again,
  Since there is ever an extreme bounding point

  Of that first body which our senses now
  Cannot perceive: That bounding point indeed
  Exists without all parts, a minimum
  Of nature, nor was e'er a thing apart,
  As of itself,- nor shall hereafter be,
  Since 'tis itself still parcel of another,
  A first and single part, whence other parts
  And others similar in order lie
  In a packed phalanx, filling to the full
  The nature of first body: being thus
  Not self-existent, they must cleave to that
  From which in nowise they can sundered be.
  So primal germs have solid singleness,
  Which tightly packed and closely joined cohere
  By virtue of their minim particles-
  No compound by mere union of the same;
  But strong in their eternal singleness,
  Nature, reserving them as seeds for things,
  Permitteth naught of rupture or decrease.

    Moreover, were there not a minimum,
  The smallest bodies would have infinites,
  Since then a half-of-half could still be halved,
  With limitless division less and less.
  Then what the difference 'twixt the sum and least?
  None: for however infinite the sum,
  Yet even the smallest would consist the same
  Of infinite parts. But since true reason here
  Protests, denying that the mind can think it,
  Convinced thou must confess such things there are
  As have no parts, the minimums of nature.
  And since these are, likewise confess thou must
  That primal bodies are solid and eterne.
  Again, if Nature, creatress of all things,
  Were wont to force all things to be resolved
  Unto least parts, then would she not avail
  To reproduce from out them anything;
  Because whate'er is not endowed with parts
  Cannot possess those properties required
  Of generative stuff- divers connections,
  Weights, blows, encounters, motions, whereby things
  Forevermore have being and go on.
          CONFUTATION OF OTHER PHILOSOPHERS

    And on such grounds it is that those who held
  The stuff of things is fire, and out of fire
  Alone the cosmic sum is formed, are seen
  Mightily from true reason to have lapsed.
  Of whom, chief leader to do battle, comes
  That Heraclitus, famous for dark speech
  Among the silly, not the serious Greeks
  Who search for truth. For dolts are ever prone
  That to bewonder and adore which hides
  Beneath distorted words, holding that true
  Which sweetly tickles in their stupid ears,
  Or which is rouged in finely finished phrase.
  For how, I ask, can things so varied be,
  If formed of fire, single and pure? No whit
  'Twould help for fire to be condensed or thinned,
  If all the parts of fire did still preserve
  But fire's own nature, seen before in gross.
  The heat were keener with the parts compressed,
  Milder, again when severed or dispersed-
  And more than this thou canst conceive of naught
  That from such causes could become; much less
  Might earth's variety of things be born
  From any fires soever, dense or rare.
  This too: if they suppose a void in things,
  Then fires can be condensed and still left rare;
  But since they see such opposites of thought
  Rising against them, and are loath to leave
  An unmixed void in things, they fear the steep
  And lose the road of truth. Nor do they see,
  That, if from things we take away the void,
  All things are then condensed, and out of all
  One body made, which has no power to dart
  Swiftly from out itself not anything-
  As throws the fire its light and warmth around,
  Giving thee proof its parts are not compact.
  But if perhaps they think, in other wise,
  Fires through their combinations can be quenched
  And change their substance, very well: behold,
  If fire shall spare to do so in no part,
  Then heat will perish utterly and all,
  And out of nothing would the world be formed.
  For change in anything from out its bounds
  Means instant death of that which was before;
  And thus a somewhat must persist unharmed
  Amid the world, lest all return to naught,
  And, born from naught, abundance thrive anew.
  Now since indeed there are those surest bodies
  Which keep their nature evermore the same,
  Upon whose going out and coming in
  And changed order things their nature change,
  And all corporeal substances transformed,
  'Tis thine to know those primal bodies, then,
  Are not of fire. For 'twere of no avail
  Should some depart and go away, and some
  Be added new, and some be changed in order,
  If still all kept their nature of old heat:
  For whatsoever they created then
  Would still in any case be only fire.
  The truth, I fancy, this: bodies there are
  Whose clashings, motions, order, posture, shapes
  Produce the fire and which, by order changed,
  Do change the nature of the thing produced,
  And are thereafter nothing like to fire
  Nor whatso else has power to send its bodies
  With impact touching on the senses' touch.

    Again, to say that all things are but fire
  And no true thing in number of all things
  Exists but fire, as this same fellow says,
  Seems crazed folly. For the man himself
  Against the senses by the senses fights,
  And hews at that through which is all belief,
  Through which indeed unto himself is known
  The thing he calls the fire. For, though he thinks
  The senses truly can perceive the fire,
  He thinks they cannot as regards all else,
  Which still are palpably as clear to sense-
  To me a thought inept and crazy too.
  For whither shall we make appeal? for what
  More certain than our senses can there be
  Whereby to mark asunder error and truth?
  Besides, why rather do away with all,
  And wish to allow heat only, then deny
  The fire and still allow all else to be?-
  Alike the madness either way it seems.
  Thus whosoe'er have held the stuff of things
  To be but fire, and out of fire the sum,
  And whosoever have constituted air
  As first beginning of begotten things,
  And all whoever have held that of itself
  Water alone contrives things, or that earth
  Createth all and changes things anew
  To divers natures, mightily they seem
  A long way to have wandered from the truth.

    Add, too, whoever make the primal stuff
  Twofold, by joining air to fire, and earth
  To water; add who deem that things can grow
  Out of the four- fire, earth, and breath, and rain;
  As first Empedocles of Acragas,
  Whom that three-cornered isle of all the lands
  Bore on her coasts, around which flows and flows
  In mighty bend and bay the Ionic seas,
  Splashing the brine from off their gray-green waves.
  Here, billowing onward through the narrow straits,
  Swift ocean cuts her boundaries from the shores
  Of the Italic mainland. Here the waste
  Charybdis; and here Aetna rumbles threats
  To gather anew such furies of its flames
  As with its force anew to vomit fires,
  Belched from its throat, and skyward bear anew
  Its lightnings' flash. And though for much she seem
  The mighty and the wondrous isle to men,
  Most rich in all good things, and fortified
  With generous strength of heroes, she hath ne'er
  Possessed within her aught of more renown,
  Nor aught more holy, wonderful, and dear
  Than this true man. Nay, ever so far and pure
  The lofty music of his breast divine
  Lifts up its voice and tells of glories found,
  That scarce he seems of human stock create.

    Yet he and those forementioned (known to be
  So far beneath him, less than he in all),
  Though, as discoverers of much goodly truth,
  They gave, as 'twere from out of the heart's own shrine,
  Responses holier and soundlier based
  Than ever the Pythia pronounced for men
  From out the tripod and the Delphian laurel,
  Have still in matter of first-elements
  Made ruin of themselves, and, great men, great
  Indeed and heavy there for them the fall:
  First, because, banishing the void from things,
  They yet assign them motion, and allow
  Things soft and loosely textured to exist,
  As air, dew, fire, earth, animals, and grains,
  Without admixture of void amid their frame.
  Next, because, thinking there can be no end
  In cutting bodies down to less and less
  Nor pause established to their breaking up,
  They hold there is no minimum in things;
  Albeit we see the boundary point of aught
  Is that which to our senses seems its least,
  Whereby thou mayst conjecture, that, because
  The things thou canst not mark have boundary points,
  They surely have their minimums. Then, too,
  Since these philosophers ascribe to things
  Soft primal germs, which we behold to be
  Of birth and body mortal, thus, throughout,
  The sum of things must be returned to naught,
  And, born from naught, abundance thrive anew-
  Thou seest how far each doctrine stands from truth.
  And, next, these bodies are among themselves
  In many ways poisons and foes to each,
  Wherefore their congress will destroy them quite
  Or drive asunder as we see in storms
  Rains, winds, and lightnings all asunder fly.
    Thus too, if all things are create of four,
  And all again dissolved into the four,
  How can the four be called the primal germs
  Of things, more than all things themselves be thought,
  By retroversion, primal germs of them?
  For ever alternately are both begot,
  With interchange of nature and aspect
  From immemorial time. But if percase
  Thou think'st the frame of fire and earth, the air,
  The dew of water can in such wise meet
  As not by mingling to resign their nature,
  From them for thee no world can be create-
  No thing of breath, no stock or stalk of tree:
  In the wild congress of this varied heap
  Each thing its proper nature will display,
  And air will palpably be seen mixed up
  With earth together, unquenched heat with water.
  But primal germs in bringing things to birth
  Must have a latent, unseen quality,
  Lest some outstanding alien element
  Confuse and minish in the thing create
  Its proper being.
                       But these men begin
  From heaven, and from its fires; and first they feign
  That fire will turn into the winds of air,
  Next, that from air the rain begotten is,
  And earth created out of rain, and then
  That all, reversely, are returned from earth-
  The moisture first, then air thereafter heat-
  And that these same ne'er cease in interchange,
  To go their ways from heaven to earth, from earth
  Unto the stars of the ethereal world-
  Which in no wise at all the germs can do.
  Since an immutable somewhat still must be,
  Lest all things utterly be sped to naught;
  For change in anything from out its bounds
  Means instant death of that which was before.
  Wherefore, since those things, mentioned heretofore,
  Suffer a changed state, they must derive
  From others ever unconvertible,
  Lest an things utterly return to naught.
  Then why not rather presuppose there be
  Bodies with such a nature furnished forth
  That, if perchance they have created fire,
  Can still (by virtue of a few withdrawn,
  Or added few, and motion and order changed)
  Fashion the winds of air, and thus all things
  Forevermore be interchanged with all?
    "But facts in proof are manifest;" thou sayest,
  "That all things grow into the winds of air
  And forth from earth are nourished, and unless
  The season favour at propitious hour
  With rains enough to set the trees a-reel
  Under the soak of bulking thunderheads,
  And sun, for its share, foster and give heat,
  No grains, nor trees, nor breathing things can grow."
  True- and unless hard food and moisture soft
  Recruited man, his frame would waste away,
  And life dissolve from out his thews and bones;
  For out of doubt recruited and fed are we
  By certain things, as other things by others.
  Because in many ways the many germs
  Common to many things are mixed in things,
  No wonder 'tis that therefore divers things
  By divers things are nourished. And, again,
  Often it matters vastly with what others,
  In what positions the primordial germs
  Are bound together, and what motions, too,
  They give and get among themselves; for these
  Same germs do put together sky, sea, lands,
  Rivers, and sun, grains, trees, and breathing things,
  But yet commixed they are in divers modes
  With divers things, forever as they move.
  Nay, thou beholdest in our verses here
  Elements many, common to many worlds,
  Albeit thou must confess each verse, each word
  From one another differs both in sense
  And ring of sound- so much the elements
  Can bring about by change of order alone.
  But those which are the primal germs of things
  Have power to work more combinations still,
  Whence divers things can be produced in turn.

    Now let us also take for scrutiny
  The homeomeria of Anaxagoras,
  So called by Greeks, for which our pauper-speech
  Yieldeth no name in the Italian tongue,
  Although the thing itself is not o'erhard
  For explanation. First, then, when he speaks
  Of this homeomeria of things, he thinks
  Bones to be sprung from littlest bones minute,
  And from minute and littlest flesh all flesh,
  And blood created out of drops of blood,
  Conceiving gold compact of grains of gold,
  And earth concreted out of bits of earth,
  Fire made of fires, and water out of waters,
  Feigning the like with all the rest of stuff.
  Yet he concedes not an void in things,
  Nor any limit to cutting bodies down.
  Wherefore to me he seems on both accounts
  To err no less than those we named before.
  Add too: these germs he feigns are far too frail-
  If they be germs primordial furnished forth
  With but same nature as the things themselves,
  And travail and perish equally with those,
  And no rein curbs therm from annihilation.
  For which will last against the grip and crush
  Under the teeth of death? the fire? the moist?
  Or else the air? which then? the blood? the bones?
  No one, methinks, when every thing will be
  At bottom as mortal as whate'er we mark
  To perish by force before our gazing eyes.
  But my appeal is to the proofs above
  That things cannot fall back to naught, nor yet
  From naught increase. And now again, since food
  Augments and nourishes the human frame,
  'Tis thine to know our veins and blood and bones
  And thews are formed of particles unlike
  To them in kind; or if they say all foods
  Are of mixed substance having in themselves
  Small bodies of thews, and bones, and also veins
  And particles of blood, then every food,
  Solid or liquid, must itself be thought
  As made and mixed of things unlike in kind-
  Of bones, of thews, of ichor and of blood.
  Again, if all the bodies which upgrow
  From earth, are first within the earth, then earth
  Must be compound of alien substances earth.
  Which spring and bloom abroad from out the earth.
  Transfer the argument, and thou may'st use
  The selfsame words: if flame and smoke and ash
  Still lurk unseen within the wood, the wood
  Must be compound of alien substances
  Which spring from out the wood.
                              Right here remains
  A certain slender means to skulk from truth,
  Which Anaxagoras takes unto himself,
  Who holds that all things lurk commixed with all
  While that one only comes to view, of which
  The bodies exceed in number all the rest,
  And lie more close to hand and at the fore-
  A notion banished from true reason far.
  For then 'twere meet that kernels of the grains
  Should oft, when crunched between the might of stones,
  Give forth a sign of blood, or of aught else
  Which in our human frame is fed; and that
  Rock rubbed on rock should yield a gory ooze.
  Likewise the herbs ought oft to give forth drops
  Of sweet milk, flavoured like the uddered sheep's;
  Indeed we ought to find, when crumbling up
  The earthy clods, there herbs, and grains, and leaves,
  All sorts dispersed minutely in the soil;
  Lastly we ought to find in cloven wood
  Ashes and smoke and bits of fire there hid.
  But since fact teaches this is not the case,
  'Tis thine to know things are not mixed with things
  Thuswise; but seeds, common to many things,
  Commixed in many ways, must lurk in things.
    "But often it happens on skiey hills" thou sayest,
  "That neighbouring tops of lofty trees are rubbed
  One against other, smote by the blustering south,
  Till all ablaze with bursting flower of flame."
  Good sooth- yet fire is not ingraft in wood,
  But many are the seeds of heat, and when
  Rubbing together they together flow,
  They start the conflagrations in the forests.
  Whereas if flame, already fashioned, lay
  Stored up within the forests, then the fires
  Could not for any time be kept unseen,
  But would be laying all the wildwood waste
  And burning all the boscage. Now dost see
  (Even as we said a little space above)
  How mightily it matters with what others,
  In what positions these same primal germs
  Are bound together? And what motions, too,
  They give and get among themselves? how, hence,
  The same, if altered 'mongst themselves, can body
  Both igneous and ligneous objects forth-
  Precisely as these words themselves are made
  By somewhat altering their elements,
  Although we mark with name indeed distinct
  The igneous from the ligneous. Once again,
  If thou suppose whatever thou beholdest,
  Among all visible objects, cannot be,
  Unless thou feign bodies of matter endowed
  With a like nature,- by thy vain device
  For thee will perish all the germs of things:
  'Twill come to pass they'll laugh aloud, like men,
  Shaken asunder by a spasm of mirth,
  Or moisten with salty tear-drops cheeks and chins.
             THE INFINITY OF THE UNIVERSE

    Now learn of what remains! More keenly hear!
  And for myself, my mind is not deceived
  How dark it is: But the large hope of praise
  Hath strook with pointed thyrsus through my heart;
  On the same hour hath strook into my breast
  Sweet love of the Muses, wherewith now instinct,
  I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought,
  Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides,
  Trodden by step of none before. I joy
  To come on undefiled fountains there,
  To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers,
  To seek for this my head a signal crown
  From regions where the Muses never yet
  Have garlanded the temples of a man:
  First, since I teach concerning mighty things,
  And go right on to loose from round the mind
  The tightened coils of dread religion;
  Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame
  Songs so pellucid, touching all throughout
  Even with the Muses' charm- which, as 'twould seem,
  Is not without a reasonable ground:
  But as physicians, when they seek to give
  Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch
  The brim around the cup with the sweet juice
  And yellow of the boney, in order that
  The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled
  As far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow down
  The wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled
  Be yet not merely duped, but rather thus
  Grow strong again with recreated health:
  So now I too (since this my doctrine seems
  In general somewhat woeful unto those
  Who've had it not in hand, and since the crowd
  Starts back from it in horror) have desired
  To expound our doctrine unto thee in song
  Soft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere,
  To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse-
  If by such method haply I might hold
  The mind of thee upon these lines of ours,
  Till thou see through the nature of all things,
  And how exists the interwoven frame.

    But since I've taught that bodies of matter, made
  Completely solid, hither and thither fly
  Forevermore unconquered through all time,
  Now come, and whether to the sum of them
  There be a limit or be none, for thee
  Let us unfold; likewise what has been found
  To be the wide inane, or room, or space
  Wherein all things soever do go on,
  Let us examine if it finite be
  All and entire, or reach unmeasured round
  And downward an illimitable profound.

    Thus, then, the All that is is limited
  In no one region of its onward paths,
  For then 'tmust have forever its beyond.
  And a beyond 'tis seen can never be
  For aught, unless still further on there be
  A somewhat somewhere that may bound the same-
  So that the thing be seen still on to where
  The nature of sensation of that thing
  Can follow it no longer. Now because
  Confess we must there's naught beside the sum,
  There's no beyond, and so it lacks all end.
  It matters nothing where thou post thyself,
  In whatsoever regions of the same;
  Even any place a man has set him down
  Still leaves about him the unbounded all
  Outward in all directions; or, supposing
  moment the all of space finite to be,
  If some one farthest traveller runs forth
  Unto the extreme coasts and throws ahead
  A flying spear, is't then thy wish to think
  It goes, hurled off amain, to where 'twas sent
  And shoots afar, or that some object there
  Can thwart and stop it? For the one or other
  Thou must admit; and take. Either of which
  Shuts off escape for thee, and does compel
  That thou concede the all spreads everywhere,
  Owning no confines. Since whether there be
  Aught that may block and check it so it comes
  Not where 'twas sent, nor lodges in its goal,
  Or whether borne along, in either view
  'Thas started not from any end. And so
  I'll follow on, and whereso'er thou set
  The extreme coasts, I'll query, "what becomes
  Thereafter of thy spear?" 'Twill come to pass
  That nowhere can a world's-end be, and that
  The chance for further flight prolongs forever
  The flight itself. Besides, were all the space
  Of the totality and sum shut in
  With fixed coasts, and bounded everywhere,
  Then would the abundance of world's matter flow
  Together by solid weight from everywhere
  Still downward to the bottom of the world,
  Nor aught could happen under cope of sky,
  Nor could there be a sky at all or sun-
  Indeed, where matter all one heap would lie,
  By having settled during infinite time.
  But in reality, repose is given
  Unto no bodies 'mongst the elements,
  Because there is no bottom whereunto
  They might, as 'twere, together flow, and where
  They might take up their undisturbed abodes.
  In endless motion everything goes on
  Forevermore; out of all regions, even
  Out of the pit below, from forth the vast,
  Are hurtled bodies evermore supplied.
  The nature of room, the space of the abyss
  Is such that even the flashing thunderbolts
  Can neither speed upon their courses through,
  Gliding across eternal tracts of time,
  Nor, further, bring to pass, as on they run,
  That they may bate their journeying one whit:
  Such huge abundance spreads for things around-
  Room off to every quarter, without end.
  Lastly, before our very eyes is seen
  Thing to bound thing: air hedges hill from hill,
  And mountain walls hedge air; land ends the sea,
  And sea in turn all lands; but for the All
  Truly is nothing which outside may bound.
  That, too, the sum of things itself may not
  Have power to fix a measure of its own,
  Great Nature guards, she who compels the void
  To bound all body, as body all the void,
  Thus rendering by these alternates the whole
  An infinite; or else the one or other,
  Being unbounded by the other, spreads,
  Even by its single nature, ne'ertheless
  Immeasurably forth....
  Nor sea, nor earth, nor shining vaults of sky,
  Nor breed of mortals, nor holy limbs of gods
  Could keep their place least portion of an hour:
  For, driven apart from out its meetings fit,
  The stock of stuff, dissolved, would be borne
  Along the illimitable inane afar,
  Or rather, in fact, would never have once combined
  And given a birth to aught, since, scattered wide,
  It could not be united. For of truth
  Neither by counsel did the primal germs
  'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind,
  Each in its proper place; nor did they make,
  Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move;
  But since, being many and changed in many modes
  Along the All, they're driven abroad and vexed
  By blow on blow, even from all time of old,
  They thus at last, after attempting all
  The kinds of motion and conjoining, come
  Into those great arrangements out of which
  This sum of things established is create,
  By which, moreover, through the mighty years,
  It is preserved, when once it has been thrown
  Into the proper motions, bringing to pass
  That ever the streams refresh the greedy main
  With river-waves abounding, and that earth,
  Lapped in warm exhalations of the sun,
  Renews her broods, and that the lusty race
  Of breathing creatures bears and blooms, and that
  The gliding fires of ether are alive-
  What still the primal germs nowise could do,
  Unless from out the infinite of space
  Could come supply of matter, whence in season
  They're wont whatever losses to repair.
  For as the nature of breathing creatures wastes,
  Losing its body, when deprived of food:
  So all things have to be dissolved as soon
  As matter, diverted by what means soever
  From off its course, shall fail to be on hand.
  Nor can the blows from outward still conserve,
  On every side, whatever sum of a world
  Has been united in a whole. They can
  Indeed, by frequent beating, check a part,
  Till others arriving may fulfil the sum;
  But meanwhile often are they forced to spring
  Rebounding back, and, as they spring, to yield,
  Unto those elements whence a world derives,
  Room and a time for flight, permitting them
  To be from off the massy union borne
  Free and afar. Wherefore, again, again:
  Needs must there come a many for supply;
  And also, that the blows themselves shall be
  Unfailing ever, must there ever be
  An infinite force of matter all sides round.

    And in these problems, shrink, my Memmius, far
  From yielding faith to that notorious talk:
  That all things inward to the centre press;
  And thus the nature of the world stands firm
  With never blows from outward, nor can be
  Nowhere disparted- since all height and depth
  Have always inward to the centre pressed
  (If thou art ready to believe that aught
  Itself can rest upon itself ); or that
  The ponderous bodies which be under earth
  Do all press upwards and do come to rest
  Upon the earth, in some ways upside down,
  Like to those images of things we see
  At present through the waters. They contend,
  With like procedure, that all breathing things
  Head downward roam about, and yet cannot
  Tumble from earth to realms of sky below,
  No more than these our bodies wing away
  Spontaneously to vaults of sky above;
  That, when those creatures look upon the sun,
  We view the constellations of the night;
  And that with us the seasons of the sky
  They thus alternately divide, and thus
  Do pass the night coequal to our days,
  But a vain error has given these dreams to fools,
  What they've embraced with reasoning perverse
  For centre none can be where world is still
  Boundless, nor yet, if now a centre were,
  Could aught take there a fixed position more
  Than for some other cause 'tmight be dislodged.
  For all of room and space we call the void
  Must both through centre and non-centre yield
  Alike to weights where'er their motions tend.
  Nor is there any place, where, when they've come,
  Bodies can be at standstill in the void,
  Deprived of force of weight; nor yet may void
  Furnish support to any,- nay, it must,
  True to its bent of nature, still give way.
  Thus in such manner not all can things
  Be held in union, as if overcome
  By craving for a centre.
                                 But besides,
  Seeing they feign that not all bodies press
  To centre inward, rather only those
  Of earth and water (liquid of the sea,
  And the big billows from the mountain slopes,
  And whatsoever are encased, as 'twere,
  In earthen body), contrariwise, they teach
  How the thin air, and with it the hot fire,
  Is borne asunder from the centre, and how,
  For this all ether quivers with bright stars,
  And the sun's flame along the blue is fed
  (Because the heat, from out the centre flying,
  All gathers there), and how, again, the boughs
  Upon the tree-tops could not sprout their leaves,
  Unless, little by little, from out the earth
  For each were nutriment...

  Lest, after the manner of the winged flames,
  The ramparts of the world should flee away,
  Dissolved amain throughout the mighty void,
  And lest all else should likewise follow after,
  Aye, lest the thundering vaults of heaven should burst
  And splinter upward, and the earth forthwith
  Withdraw from under our feet, and all its bulk,
  Among its mingled wrecks and those of heaven,
  With slipping asunder of the primal seeds,
  Should pass, along the immeasurable inane,
  Away forever, and, that instant, naught
  Of wrack and remnant would be left, beside
  The desolate space, and germs invisible.
  For on whatever side thou deemest first
  The primal bodies lacking, lo, that side
  Will be for things the very door of death:
  Wherethrough the throng of matter all will dash,
  Out and abroad.
                   These points, if thou wilt ponder,
  Then, with but paltry trouble led along...

  For one thing after other will grow clear,
  Nor shall the blind night rob thee of the road,
  To hinder thy gaze on Nature's Farthest-forth.
  Thus things for things shall kindle torches new.
                                    BOOK II
                        PROEM

  'Tis sweet, when, down the mighty main, the winds
  Roll up its waste of waters, from the land
  To watch another's labouring anguish far,
  Not that we joyously delight that man
  Should thus be smitten, but because 'tis sweet
  To mark what evils we ourselves be spared;
  'Tis sweet, again, to view the mighty strife
  Of armies embattled yonder o'er the plains,
  Ourselves no sharers in the peril; but naught
  There is more goodly than to hold the high
  Serene plateaus, well fortressed by the wise,
  Whence thou may'st look below on other men
  And see them ev'rywhere wand'ring, all dispersed
  In their lone seeking for the road of life;
  Rivals in genius, or emulous in rank,
  Pressing through days and nights with hugest toil
  For summits of power and mastery of the world.
  O wretched minds of men! O blinded hearts!
  In how great perils, in what darks of life
  Are spent the human years, however brief!-
  O not to see that Nature for herself
  Barks after nothing, save that pain keep off,
  Disjoined from the body, and that mind enjoy
  Delightsome feeling, far from care and fear!
  Therefore we see that our corporeal life
  Needs little, altogether, and only such
  As takes the pain away, and can besides
  Strew underneath some number of delights.
  More grateful 'tis at times (for Nature craves
  No artifice nor luxury), if forsooth
  There be no golden images of boys
  Along the halls, with right hands holding out
  The lamps ablaze, the lights for evening feasts,
  And if the house doth glitter not with gold
  Nor gleam with silver, and to the lyre resound
  No fretted and gilded ceilings overhead,
  Yet still to lounge with friends in the soft grass
  Beside a river of water, underneath
  A big tree's boughs, and merrily to refresh
  Our frames, with no vast outlay- most of all
  If the weather is laughing and the times of the year
  Besprinkle the green of the grass around with flowers.
  Nor yet the quicker will hot fevers go,
  If on a pictured tapestry thou toss,
  Or purple robe, than if 'tis thine to lie
  Upon the poor man's bedding. Wherefore, since
  Treasure, nor rank, nor glory of a reign
  Avail us naught for this our body, thus
  Reckon them likewise nothing for the mind:
  Save then perchance, when thou beholdest forth
  Thy legions swarming round the Field of Mars,
  Rousing a mimic warfare- either side
  Strengthened with large auxiliaries and horse,
  Alike equipped with arms, alike inspired;
  Or save when also thou beholdest forth
  Thy fleets to swarm, deploying down the sea:
  For then, by such bright circumstance abashed,
  Religion pales and flees thy mind; O then
  The fears of death leave heart so free of care.
  But if we note how all this pomp at last
  Is but a drollery and a mocking sport,
  And of a truth man's dread, with cares at heels,
  Dreads not these sounds of arms, these savage swords
  But among kings and lords of all the world
  Mingles undaunted, nor is overawed
  By gleam of gold nor by the splendour bright
  Of purple robe, canst thou then doubt that this
  Is aught, but power of thinking?- when, besides
  The whole of life but labours in the dark.
  For just as children tremble and fear all
  In the viewless dark, so even we at times
  Dread in the light so many things that be
  No whit more fearsome than what children feign,
  Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark.
  This terror then, this darkness of the mind,
  Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light,
  Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse,
  But only Nature's aspect and her law.
                 ATOMIC MOTIONS

    Now come: I will untangle for thy steps
  Now by what motions the begetting bodies
  Of the world-stuff beget the varied world,
  And then forever resolve it when begot,
  And by what force they are constrained to this,
  And what the speed appointed unto them
  Wherewith to travel down the vast inane:
  Do thou remember to yield thee to my words.
  For truly matter coheres not, crowds not tight,
  Since we behold each thing to wane away,
  And we observe how all flows on and off,
  As 'twere, with age-old time, and from our eyes
  How eld withdraws each object at the end,
  Albeit the sum is seen to bide the same,
  Unharmed, because these motes that leave each thing
  Diminish what they part from, but endow
  With increase those to which in turn they come,
  Constraining these to wither in old age,
  And those to flower at the prime (and yet
  Biding not long among them). Thus the sum
  Forever is replenished, and we live
  As mortals by eternal give and take.
  The nations wax, the nations wane away;
  In a brief space the generations pass,
  And like to runners hand the lamp of life
  One unto other.
                         But if thou believe
  That the primordial germs of things can stop,
  And in their stopping give new motions birth,
  Afar thou wanderest from the road of truth.
  For since they wander through the void inane,
  All the primordial germs of things must needs
  Be borne along, either by weight their own,
  Or haply by another's blow without.
  For, when, in their incessancy so oft
  They meet and clash, it comes to pass amain
  They leap asunder, face to face: not strange-
  Being most hard, and solid in their weights,
  And naught opposing motion, from behind.
  And that more clearly thou perceive how all
  These mites of matter are darted round about,
  Recall to mind how nowhere in the sum
  Of All exists a bottom,- nowhere is
  A realm of rest for primal bodies; since
  (As amply shown and proved by reason sure)
  Space has no bound nor measure, and extends
  Unmetered forth in all directions round.
  Since this stands certain, thus 'tis out of doubt
  No rest is rendered to the primal bodies
  Along the unfathomable inane; but rather,
  Inveterately plied by motions mixed,
  Some, at their jamming, bound aback and leave
  Huge gaps between, and some from off the blow
  Are hurried about with spaces small between.
  And all which, brought together with slight gaps,
  In more condensed union bound aback,
  Linked by their own all intertangled shapes,-
  These form the irrefragable roots of rocks
  And the brute bulks of iron, and what else
  Is of their kind...
  The rest leap far asunder, far recoil,
  Leaving huge gaps between: and these supply
  For us thin air and splendour-lights of the sun.
  And many besides wander the mighty void-
  Cast back from unions of existing things,
  Nowhere accepted in the universe,
  And nowise linked in motions to the rest.
  And of this fact (as I record it here)
  An image, a type goes on before our eyes
  Present each moment; for behold whenever
  The sun's light and the rays, let in, pour down
  Across dark halls of houses: thou wilt see
  The many mites in many a manner mixed
  Amid a void in the very light of the rays,
  And battling on, as in eternal strife,
  And in battalions contending without halt,
  In meetings, partings, harried up and down.
  From this thou mayest conjecture of what sort
  The ceaseless tossing of primordial seeds
  Amid the mightier void- at least so far
  As small affair can for a vaster serve,
  And by example put thee on the spoor
  Of knowledge. For this reason too 'tis fit
  Thou turn thy mind the more unto these bodies
  Which here are witnessed tumbling in the light:
  Namely, because such tumblings are a sign
  That motions also of the primal stuff
  Secret and viewless lurk beneath, behind.
  For thou wilt mark here many a speck, impelled
  By viewless blows, to change its little course,
  And beaten backwards to return again,
  Hither and thither in all directions round.
  Lo, all their shifting movement is of old,
  From the primeval atoms; for the same
  Primordial seeds of things first move of self,
  And then those bodies built of unions small
  And nearest, as it were, unto the powers
  Of the primeval atoms, are stirred up
  By impulse of those atoms' unseen blows,
  And these thereafter goad the next in size;
  Thus motion ascends from the primevals on,
  And stage by stage emerges to our sense,
  Until those objects also move which we
  Can mark in sunbeams, though it not appears
  What blows do urge them.
                            Herein wonder not
  How 'tis that, while the seeds of things are all
  Moving forever, the sum yet seems to stand
  Supremely still, except in cases where
  A thing shows motion of its frame as whole.
  For far beneath the ken of senses lies
  The nature of those ultimates of the world;
  And so, since those themselves thou canst not see,
  Their motion also must they veil from men-
  For mark, indeed, how things we can see, oft
  Yet hide their motions, when afar from us
  Along the distant landscape. Often thus,
  Upon a hillside will the woolly flocks
  Be cropping their goodly food and creeping about
  Whither the summons of the grass, begemmed
  With the fresh dew, is calling, and the lambs
  Well filled, are frisking, locking horns in sport:
  Yet all for us seem blurred and blent afar-
  A glint of white at rest on a green hill.
  Again, when mighty legions, marching round,
  Fill all the quarters of the plains below,
  Rousing a mimic warfare, there the sheen
  Shoots up the sky, and all the fields about
  Glitter with brass, and from beneath, a sound
  Goes forth from feet of stalwart soldiery,
  And mountain walls, smote by the shouting, send
  The voices onward to the stars of heaven,
  And hither and thither darts the cavalry,
  And of a sudden down the midmost fields
  Charges with onset stout enough to rock
  The solid earth: and yet some post there is
  Up the high mountains, viewed from which they seem
  To stand- a gleam at rest along the plains.

     Now what the speed to matter's atoms given
  Thou mayest in few, my Memmius, learn from this:
  When first the dawn is sprinkling with new light
  The lands, and all the breed of birds abroad
  Flit round the trackless forests, with liquid notes
  Filling the regions along the mellow air,
  We see 'tis forthwith manifest to man
  How suddenly the risen sun is wont
  At such an hour to overspread and clothe
  The whole with its own splendour; but the sun's
  Warm exhalations and this serene light
  Travel not down an empty void; and thus
  They are compelled more slowly to advance,
  Whilst, as it were, they cleave the waves of air;
  Nor one by one travel these particles
  Of the warm exhalations, but are all
  Entangled and enmassed, whereby at once
  Each is restrained by each, and from without
  Checked, till compelled more slowly to advance.
  But the primordial atoms with their old
  Simple solidity, when forth they travel
  Along the empty void, all undelayed
  By aught outside them there, and they, each one
  Being one unit from nature of its parts,
  Are borne to that one place on which they strive
  Still to lay hold, must then, beyond a doubt,
  Outstrip in speed, and be more swiftly borne
  Than light of sun, and over regions rush,
  Of space much vaster, in the self-same time
  The sun's effulgence widens round the sky.

  Nor to pursue the atoms one by one,
  To see the law whereby each thing goes on.
  But some men, ignorant of matter, think,
  Opposing this, that not without the gods,
  In such adjustment to our human ways,
  Can Nature change the seasons of the years,
  And bring to birth the grains and all of else
  To which divine Delight, the guide of life,
  Persuades mortality and leads it on,
  That, through her artful blandishments of love,
  It propagate the generations still,
  Lest humankind should perish. When they feign
  That gods have stablished all things but for man,
  They seem in all ways mightily to lapse
  From reason's truth: for ev'n if ne'er I knew
  What seeds primordial are, yet would I dare
  This to affirm, ev'n from deep judgment based
  Upon the ways and conduct of the skies-
  This to maintain by many a fact besides-
  That in no wise the nature of the world
  For us was builded by a power divine-
  So great the faults it stands encumbered with:
  The which, my Memmius, later on, for thee
  We will clear up. Now as to what remains
  Concerning motions we'll unfold our thought.
    Now is the place, meseems, in these affairs
  To prove for thee this too: nothing corporeal
  Of its own force can e'er be upward borne,
  Or upward go- nor let the bodies of flames
  Deceive thee here: for they engendered are
  With urge to upwards, taking thus increase,
  Whereby grow upwards shining grains and trees,
  Though all the weight within them downward bears.
  Nor, when the fires will leap from under round
  The roofs of houses, and swift flame laps up
  Timber and beam, 'tis then to be supposed
  They act of own accord, no force beneath
  To urge them up. 'Tis thus that blood, discharged
  From out our bodies, spurts its jets aloft
  And spatters gore. And hast thou never marked
  With what a force the water will disgorge
  Timber and beam? The deeper, straight and down,
  We push them in, and, many though we be,
  The more we press with main and toil, the more
  The water vomits up and flings them back,
  That, more than half their length, they there emerge,
  Rebounding. Yet we never doubt, meseems,
  That all the weight within them downward bears
  Through empty void. Well, in like manner, flames
  Ought also to be able, when pressed out,
  Through winds of air to rise aloft, even though
  The weight within them strive to draw them down.
  Hast thou not seen, sweeping so far and high,
  The meteors, midnight flambeaus of the sky,
  How after them they draw long trails of flame
  Wherever Nature gives a thoroughfare?
  How stars and constellations drop to earth,
  Seest not? Nay, too, the sun from peak of heaven
  Sheds round to every quarter its large heat,
  And sows the new-ploughed intervales with light:
  Thus also sun's heat downward tends to earth.
  Athwart the rain thou seest the lightning fly;
  Now here, now there, bursting from out the clouds,
  The fires dash zig-zag- and that flaming power
  Falls likewise down to earth.
                                In these affairs
  We wish thee also well aware of this:
  The atoms, as their own weight bears them down
  Plumb through the void, at scarce determined times,
  In scarce determined places, from their course
  Decline a little- call it, so to speak,
  Mere changed trend. For were it not their wont
  Thuswise to swerve, down would they fall, each one,
  Like drops of rain, through the unbottomed void;
  And then collisions ne'er could be nor blows
  Among the primal elements; and thus
  Nature would never have created aught.

    But, if perchance be any that believe
  The heavier bodies, as more swiftly borne
  Plumb down the void, are able from above
  To strike the lighter, thus engendering blows
  Able to cause those procreant motions, far
  From highways of true reason they retire.
  For whatsoever through the waters fall,
  Or through thin air, must their descent,
  Each after its weight- on this account, because
  Both bulk of water and the subtle air
  By no means can retard each thing alike,
  But give more quick before the heavier weight;
  But contrariwise the empty void cannot,
  On any side, at any time, to aught
  Oppose resistance, but will ever yield,
  True to its bent of nature. Wherefore all,
  With equal speed, though equal not in weight,
  Must rush, borne downward through the still inane.
  Thus ne'er at all have heavier from above
  Been swift to strike the lighter, gendering strokes
  Which cause those divers motions, by whose means
  Nature transacts her work. And so I say,
  The atoms must a little swerve at times-
  But only the least, lest we should seem to feign
  Motions oblique, and fact refute us there.
  For this we see forthwith is manifest:
  Whatever the weight, it can't obliquely go,
  Down on its headlong journey from above,
  At least so far as thou canst mark; but who
  Is there can mark by sense that naught can swerve
  At all aside from off its road's straight line?

    Again, if ev'r all motions are co-linked,
  And from the old ever arise the new
  In fixed order, and primordial seeds
  Produce not by their swerving some new start
  Of motion to sunder the covenants of fate,
  That cause succeed not cause from everlasting,
  Whence this free will for creatures o'er the lands,
  Whence is it wrested from the fates,- this will
  Whereby we step right forward where desire
  Leads each man on, whereby the same we swerve
  In motions, not as at some fixed time,
  Nor at some fixed line of space, but where
  The mind itself has urged? For out of doubt
  In these affairs 'tis each man's will itself
  That gives the start, and hence throughout our limbs
  Incipient motions are diffused. Again,
  Dost thou not see, when, at a point of time,
  The bars are opened, how the eager strength
  Of horses cannot forward break as soon
  As pants their mind to do? For it behooves
  That all the stock of matter, through the frame,
  Be roused, in order that, through every joint,
  Aroused, it press and follow mind's desire;
  So thus thou seest initial motion's gendered
  From out the heart, aye, verily, proceeds
  First from the spirit's will, whence at the last
  'Tis given forth through joints and body entire.
  Quite otherwise it is, when forth we move,
  Impelled by a blow of another's mighty powers
  And mighty urge; for then 'tis clear enough
  All matter of our total body goes,
  Hurried along, against our own desire-
  Until the will has pulled upon the reins
  And checked it back, throughout our members all;
  At whose arbitrament indeed sometimes
  The stock of matter's forced to change its path,
  Throughout our members and throughout our joints,
  And, after being forward cast, to be
  Reined up, whereat it settles back again.
  So seest thou not, how, though external force
  Drive men before, and often make them move,
  Onward against desire, and headlong snatched,
  Yet is there something in these breasts of ours
  Strong to combat, strong to withstand the same?-
  Wherefore no less within the primal seeds
  Thou must admit, besides all blows and weight,
  Some other cause of motion, whence derives
  This power in us inborn, of some free act.-
  Since naught from nothing can become, we see.
  For weight prevents all things should come to pass
  Through blows, as 'twere, by some external force;
  But that man's mind itself in all it does
  Hath not a fixed necessity within,
  Nor is not, like a conquered thing, compelled
  To bear and suffer,- this state comes to man
  From that slight swervement of the elements
  In no fixed line of space, in no fixed time.
    Nor ever was the stock of stuff more crammed,
  Nor ever, again, sundered by bigger gaps:
  For naught gives increase and naught takes away;
  On which account, just as they move to-day,
  The elemental bodies moved of old
  And shall the same hereafter evermore.
  And what was wont to be begot of old
  Shall be begotten under selfsame terms
  And grow and thrive in power, so far as given
  To each by Nature's changeless, old decrees.
  The sum of things there is no power can change,
  For naught exists outside, to which can flee
  Out of the world matter of any kind,
  Nor forth from which a fresh supply can spring,
  Break in upon the founded world, and change
  Whole nature of things, and turn their motions about.
                ATOMIC FORMS AND THEIR
                     COMBINATIONS

    Now come, and next hereafter apprehend
  What sorts, how vastly different in form,
  How varied in multitudinous shapes they are-
  These old beginnings of the universe;
  Not in the sense that only few are furnished
  With one like form, but rather not at all
  In general have they likeness each with each,
  No marvel: since the stock of them's so great
  That there's no end (as I have taught) nor sum,
  They must indeed not one and all be marked
  By equal outline and by shape the same.

  Moreover, humankind, and the mute flocks
  Of scaly creatures swimming in the streams,
  And joyous herds around, and all the wild,
  And all the breeds of birds- both those that teem
  In gladsome regions of the water-haunts,
  About the river-banks and springs and pools,
  And those that throng, flitting from tree to tree,
  Through trackless woods- Go, take which one thou wilt,
  In any kind: thou wilt discover still
  Each from the other still unlike in shape.
  Nor in no other wise could offspring know
  Mother, nor mother offspring- which we see
  They yet can do, distinguished one from other,
  No less than human beings, by clear signs.
  Thus oft before fair temples of the gods,
  Beside the incense-burning altars slain,
  Drops down the yearling calf, from out its breast
  Breathing warm streams of blood; the orphaned mother,
  Ranging meanwhile green woodland pastures round,
  Knows well the footprints, pressed by cloven hoofs,
  With eyes regarding every spot about,
  For sight somewhere of youngling gone from her;
  And, stopping short, filleth the leafy lanes
  With her complaints; and oft she seeks again
  Within the stall, pierced by her yearning still.
  Nor tender willows, nor dew-quickened grass,
  Nor the loved streams that glide along low banks,
  Can lure her mind and turn the sudden pain;
  Nor other shapes of calves that graze thereby
  Distract her mind or lighten pain the least-
  So keen her search for something known and hers.
  Moreover, tender kids with bleating throats
  Do know their horned dams, and butting lambs
  The flocks of sheep, and thus they patter on,
  Unfailingly each to its proper teat,
  As Nature intends. Lastly, with any grain,
  Thou'lt see that no one kernel in one kind
  Is so far like another, that there still
  Is not in shapes some difference running through.
  By a like law we see how earth is pied
  With shells and conchs, where, with soft waves, the sea
  Beats on the thirsty sands of curving shores.
  Wherefore again, again, since seeds of things
  Exist by nature, nor were wrought with hands
  After a fixed pattern of one other,
  They needs must flitter to and fro with shapes
  In types dissimilar to one another.

  Easy enough by thought of mind to solve
  Why fires of lightning more can penetrate
  Than these of ours from pitch-pine born on earth.
  For thou canst say lightning's celestial fire,
  So subtle, is formed of figures finer far,
  And passes thus through holes which this our fire,
  Born from the wood, created from the pine,
  Cannot. Again, light passes through the horn
  On the lantern's side, while rain is dashed away.
  And why?- unless those bodies of light should be
  Finer than those of water's genial showers.
  We see how quickly through a colander
  The wines will flow; how, on the other hand,
  The sluggish olive-oil delays: no doubt,
  Because 'tis wrought of elements more large,
  Or else more crook'd and intertangled. Thus
  It comes that the primordials cannot be
  So suddenly sundered one from other, and seep,
  One through each several hole of anything.

    And note, besides, that liquor of honey or milk
  Yields in the mouth agreeable taste to tongue,
  Whilst nauseous wormwood, pungent centaury,
  With their foul flavour set the lips awry;
  Thus simple 'tis to see that whatsoever
  Can touch the senses pleasingly are made
  Of smooth and rounded elements, whilst those
  Which seem the bitter and the sharp, are held
  Entwined by elements more crook'd, and so
  Are wont to tear their ways into our senses,
  And rend our body as they enter in.
  In short all good to sense, all bad to touch,
  Being up-built of figures so unlike,
  Are mutually at strife- lest thou suppose
  That the shrill rasping of a squeaking saw
  Consists of elements as smooth as song
  Which, waked by nimble fingers, on the strings
  The sweet musicians fashion; or suppose
  That same-shaped atoms through men's nostrils pierce
  When foul cadavers burn, as when the stage
  Is with Cilician saffron sprinkled fresh,
  And the altar near exhales Panchaean scent;
  Or hold as of like seed the goodly hues
  Of things which feast our eyes, as those which sting
  Against the smarting pupil and draw tears,
  Or show, with gruesome aspect, grim and vile.
  For never a shape which charms our sense was made
  Without some elemental smoothness; whilst
  Whate'er is harsh and irksome has been framed
  Still with some roughness in its elements.
  Some, too, there are which justly are supposed
  To be nor smooth nor altogether hooked,
  With bended barbs, but slightly angled-out,
  To tickle rather than to wound the sense-
  And of which sort is the salt tartar of wine
  And flavours of the gummed elecampane.
  Again, that glowing fire and icy rime
  Are fanged with teeth unlike whereby to sting
  Our body's sense, the touch of each gives proof.
  For touch- by sacred majesties of gods!-
  Touch is indeed the body's only sense-
  Be't that something in-from-outward works,
  Be't that something in the body born
  Wounds, or delighteth as it passes out
  Along the procreant paths of Aphrodite;
  Or be't the seeds by some collision whirl
  Disordered in the body and confound
  By tumult and confusion all the sense-
  As thou mayst find, if haply with the hand
  Thyself thou strike thy body's any part.
  On which account, the elemental forms
  Must differ widely, as enabled thus
  To cause diverse sensations.
                               And, again,
  What seems to us the hardened and condensed
  Must be of atoms among themselves more hooked,
  Be held compacted deep within, as 'twere
  By branch-like atoms- of which sort the chief
  Are diamond stones, despisers of all blows,
  And stalwart flint and strength of solid iron,
  And brazen bars, which, budging hard in locks,
  Do grate and scream. But what are liquid, formed
  Of fluid body, they indeed must be
  Of elements more smooth and round- because
  Their globules severally will not cohere:
  To suck the poppy-seeds from palm of hand
  Is quite as easy as drinking water down,
  And they, once struck, roll like unto the same.
  But that thou seest among the things that flow
  Some bitter, as the brine of ocean is,
  Is not the least a marvel...
  For since 'tis fluid, smooth its atoms are
  And round, with painful rough ones mixed therein;
  Yet need not these be held together hooked:
  In fact, though rough, they're globular besides,
  Able at once to roll, and rasp the sense.
  And that the more thou mayst believe me here,
  That with smooth elements are mixed the rough
  (Whence Neptune's salt astringent body comes),
  There is a means to separate the twain,
  And thereupon dividedly to see
  How the sweet water, after filtering through
  So often underground, flows freshened forth
  Into some hollow; for it leaves above
  The primal germs of nauseating brine,
  Since cling the rough more readily in earth.
  Lastly, whatso thou markest to disperse
  Upon the instant- smoke, and cloud, and flame-
  Must not (even though not all of smooth and round)
  Be yet co-linked with atoms intertwined,
  That thus they can, without together cleaving,
  So pierce our body and so bore the rocks.
  Whatever we see...
  Given to senses, that thou must perceive
  They're not from linked but pointed elements.

    The which now having taught, I will go on
  To bind thereto a fact to this allied
  And drawing from this its proof: these primal germs
  Vary, yet only with finite tale of shapes.
  For were these shapes quite infinite, some seeds
  Would have a body of infinite increase.
  For in one seed, in one small frame of any,
  The shapes can't vary from one another much.
  Assume, we'll say, that of three minim parts
  Consist the primal bodies, or add a few:
  When, now, by placing all these parts of one
  At top and bottom, changing lefts and rights,
  Thou hast with every kind of shift found out
  What the aspect of shape of its whole body
  Each new arrangement gives, for what remains,
  If thou percase wouldst vary its old shapes,
  New parts must then be added; 'twill follow next,
  If thou percase wouldst vary still its shapes,
  That by like logic each arrangement still
  Requires its increment of other parts.
  Ergo, an augmentation of its frame
  Follows upon each novelty of forms.
  Wherefore, it cannot be thou'lt undertake
  That seeds have infinite differences in form,
  Lest thus thou forcest some indeed to be
  Of an immeasurable immensity-
  Which I have taught above cannot be proved.

  And now for thee barbaric robes, and gleam
  Of Meliboean purple, touched with dye
  Of the Thessalian shell...
  The peacock's golden generations, stained
  With spotted gaieties, would lie o'erthrown
  By some new colour of new things more bright;
  The odour of myrrh and savours of honey despised;
  The swan's old lyric, and Apollo's hymns,
  Once modulated on the many chords,
  Would likewise sink o'ermastered and be mute:
  For, lo, a somewhat, finer than the rest,
  Would be arising evermore. So, too,
  Into some baser part might all retire,
  Even as we said to better might they come:
  For, lo, a somewhat, loathlier than the rest
  To nostrils, ears, and eyes, and taste of tongue,
  Would then, by reasoning reversed, be there.
  Since 'tis not so, but unto things are given
  Their fixed limitations which do bound
  Their sum on either side, 'tmust be confessed
  That matter, too, by finite tale of shapes
  Does differ. Again, from earth's midsummer heats
  Unto the icy hoar-frosts of the year
  The forward path is fixed, and by like law
  O'ertravelled backwards at the dawn of spring.
  For each degree of hat, and each of cold,
  And the half-warm, all filling up the sum
  In due progression, lie, my Memmius, there
  Betwixt the two extremes: the things create
  Must differ, therefore, by a finite change,
  Since at each end marked off they ever are
  By fixed point- on one side plagued by flames
  And on the other by congealing frosts.

    The which now having taught, I will go on
  To bind thereto a fact to this allied
  And drawing from this its proof: those primal germs
  Which have been fashioned all of one like shape
  Are infinite in tale; for, since the forms
  Themselves are finite in divergences,
  Then those which are alike will have to be
  Infinite, else the sum of stuff remains
  A finite- what I've proved is not the fact,
  Showing in verse how corpuscles of stuff,
  From everlasting and to-day the same,
  Uphold the sum of things, all sides around
  By old succession of unending blows.
  For though thou view'st some beasts to be more rare,
  And mark'st in them a less prolific stock,
  Yet in another region, in lands remote,
  That kind abounding may make up the count;
  Even as we mark among the four-foot kind
  Snake-handed elephants, whose thousands wall
  With ivory ramparts India about,
  That her interiors cannot entered be-
  So big her count of brutes of which we see
  Such few examples. Or suppose, besides,
  We feign some thing, one of its kind and sole
  With body born, to which is nothing like
  In all the lands: yet now unless shall be
  An infinite count of matter out of which
  Thus to conceive and bring it forth to life,
  It cannot be created and- what's more-
  It cannot take its food and get increase.
  Yea, if through all the world in finite tale
  Be tossed the procreant bodies of one thing,
  Whence, then, and where in what mode, by what power,
  Shall they to meeting come together there,
  In such vast ocean of matter and tumult strange?-
  No means they have of joining into one.
  But, just as, after mighty shipwrecks piled,
  The mighty main is wont to scatter wide
  The rowers' banks, the ribs, the yards, the prow,
  The masts and swimming oars, so that afar
  Along all shores of lands are seen afloat
  The carven fragments of the rended poop,
  Giving a lesson to mortality
  To shun the ambush of the faithless main,
  The violence and the guile, and trust it not
  At any hour, however much may smile
  The crafty enticements of the placid deep:
  Exactly thus, if once thou holdest true
  That certain seeds are finite in their tale,
  The various tides of matter, then, must needs
  Scatter them flung throughout the ages all,
  So that not ever can they join, as driven
  Together into union, nor remain
  In union, nor with increment can grow-
  But facts in proof are manifest for each:
  Things can be both begotten and increase.
  'Tis therefore manifest that primal germs,
  Are infinite in any class thou wilt-
  From whence is furnished matter for all things.

    Nor can those motions that bring death prevail
  Forever, nor eternally entomb
  The welfare of the world; nor, further, can
  Those motions that give birth to things and growth
  Keep them forever when created there.
  Thus the long war, from everlasting waged,
  With equal strife among the elements
  Goes on and on. Now here, now there, prevail
  The vital forces of the world- or fall.
  Mixed with the funeral is the wildered wail
  Of infants coming to the shores of light:
  No night a day, no dawn a night hath followed
  That heard not, mingling with the small birth-cries,
  The wild laments, companions old of death
  And the black rites.
                          This, too, in these affairs
  'Tis fit thou hold well sealed, and keep consigned
  With no forgetting brain: nothing there is
  Whose nature is apparent out of hand
  That of one kind of elements consists-
  Nothing there is that's not of mixed seed.
  And whatsoe'er possesses in itself
  More largely many powers and properties
  Shows thus that here within itself there are
  The largest number of kinds and differing shapes
  Of elements. And, chief of all, the earth
  Hath in herself first bodies whence the springs,
  Rolling chill waters, renew forevermore
  The unmeasured main; hath whence the fires arise-
  For burns in many a spot her flamed crust,
  Whilst the impetuous Aetna raves indeed
  From more profounder fires- and she, again,
  Hath in herself the seed whence she can raise
  The shining grains and gladsome trees for men;
  Whence, also, rivers, fronds, and gladsome pastures
  Can she supply for mountain-roaming beasts.
  Wherefore great mother of gods, and mother of beasts,
  And parent of man hath she alone been named.
    Her hymned the old and learned bards of Greece

  Seated in chariot o'er the realms of air
  To drive her team of lions, teaching thus
  That the great earth hangs poised and cannot lie
  Resting on other earth. Unto her car
  They've yoked the wild beasts, since a progeny,
  However savage, must be tamed and chid
  By care of parents. They have girt about
  With turret-crown the summit of her head,
  Since, fortressed in her goodly strongholds high,
  'Tis she sustains the cities; now, adorned
  With that same token, to-day is carried forth,
  With solemn awe through many a mighty land,
  The image of that mother, the divine.
  Her the wide nations, after antique rite,
  Do name Idaean Mother, giving her
  Escort of Phrygian bands, since first, they say,
  From out those regions 'twas that grain began
  Through all the world. To her do they assign
  The Galli, the emasculate, since thus
  They wish to show that men who violate
  The majesty of the mother and have proved
  Ingrate to parents are to be adjudged
  Unfit to give unto the shores of light
  A living progeny. The Galli come:
  And hollow cymbals, tight-skinned tambourines
  Resound around to bangings of their hands;
  The fierce horns threaten with a raucous bray;
  The tubed pipe excites their maddened minds
  In Phrygian measures; they bear before them knives,
  Wild emblems of their frenzy, which have power
  The rabble's ingrate heads and impious hearts
  To panic with terror of the goddess' might.
  And so, when through the mighty cities borne,
  She blesses man with salutations mute,
  They strew the highway of her journeyings
  With coin of brass and silver, gifting her
  With alms and largesse, and shower her and shade
  With flowers of roses falling like the snow
  Upon the Mother and her companion-bands.
  Here is an armed troop, the which by Greeks
  Are called the Phrygian Curetes. Since
  Haply among themselves they use to play
  In games of arms and leap in measure round
  With bloody mirth and by their nodding shake
  The terrorizing crests upon their heads,
  This is the armed troop that represents
  The arm'd Dictaean Curetes, who, in Crete,
  As runs the story, whilom did out-drown
  That infant cry of Zeus, what time their band,
  Young boys, in a swift dance around the boy,
  To measured step beat with the brass on brass,
  That Saturn might not get him for his jaws,
  And give its mother an eternal wound
  Along her heart. And it is on this account
  That armed they escort the mighty Mother,
  Or else because they signify by this
  That she, the goddess, teaches men to be
  Eager with armed valour to defend
  Their motherland, and ready to stand forth,
  The guard and glory of their parents' years.
  A tale, however beautifully wrought,
  That's wide of reason by a long remove:
  For all the gods must of themselves enjoy
  Immortal aeons and supreme repose,
  Withdrawn from our affairs, detached, afar:
  Immune from peril and immune from pain,
  Themselves abounding in riches of their own,
  Needing not us, they are not touched by wrath
  They are not taken by service or by gift.
  Truly is earth insensate for all time;
  But, by obtaining germs of many things,
  In many a way she brings the many forth
  Into the light of sun. And here, whoso
  Decides to call the ocean Neptune, or
  The grain-crop Ceres, and prefers to abuse
  The name of Bacchus rather than pronounce
  The liquor's proper designation, him
  Let us permit to go on calling earth
  Mother of Gods, if only he will spare
  To taint his soul with foul religion.

   So, too, the wooly flocks, and horned kine,
   And brood of battle-eager horses, grazing
  Often together along one grassy plain,
  Under the cope of one blue sky, and slaking
  From out one stream of water each its thirst,
  All live their lives with face and form unlike,
  Keeping the parents' nature, parents' habits,
  Which, kind by kind, through ages they repeat.
  So great in any sort of herb thou wilt,
  So great again in any river of earth
  Are the distinct diversities of matter.
  Hence, further, every creature- any one
  From out them all- compounded is the same
  Of bones, blood, veins, heat, moisture, flesh, and thews-
  All differing vastly in their forms, and built
  Of elements dissimilar in shape.
  Again, all things by fire consumed ablaze,
  Within their frame lay up, if naught besides,
  At least those atoms whence derives their power
  To throw forth fire and send out light from under,
  To shoot the sparks and scatter embers wide.
  If, with like reasoning of mind, all else
  Thou traverse through, thou wilt discover thus
  That in their frame the seeds of many things
  They hide, and divers shapes of seeds contain.
  Further, thou markest much, to which are given
  Along together colour and flavour and smell,
  Among which, chief, are most burnt offerings.

  Thus must they be of divers shapes composed.
  A smell of scorching enters in our frame
  Where the bright colour from the dye goes not;
  And colour in one way, flavour in quite another
  Works inward to our senses- so mayst see
  They differ too in elemental shapes.
  Thus unlike forms into one mass combine,
  And things exist by intermixed seed.

    But still 'tmust not be thought that in all ways
  All things can be conjoined; for then wouldest view
  Portents begot about thee every side:
  Hulks of mankind half brute astarting up,
  At times big branches sprouting from man's trunk,
  Limbs of a sea-beast to a land-beast knit,
  And Nature along the all-producing earth
  Feeding those dire Chimaeras breathing flame
  From hideous jaws- Of which 'tis simple fact
  That none have been begot; because we see
  All are from fixed seed and fixed dam
  Engendered and so function as to keep
  Throughout their growth their own ancestral type.
  This happens surely by a fixed law:
  For from all food-stuff, when once eaten down,
  Go sundered atoms, suited to each creature,
  Throughout their bodies, and, conjoining there,
  Produce the proper motions; but we see
  How, contrariwise, Nature upon the ground
  Throws off those foreign to their frame; and many
  With viewless bodies from their bodies fly,
  By blows impelled- those impotent to join
  To any part, or, when inside, to accord
  And to take on the vital motions there.
  But think not, haply, living forms alone
  Are bound by these laws: they distinguished all.

  For just as all things of creation are,
  In their whole nature, each to each unlike,
  So must their atoms be in shape unlike-
  Not since few only are fashioned of like form,
  But since they all, as general rule, are not
  The same as all. Nay, here in these our verses,
  Elements many, common to many words,
  Thou seest, though yet 'tis needful to confess
  The words and verses differ, each from each,
  Compounded out of different elements-
  Not since few only, as common letters, run
  Through all the words, or no two words are made,
  One and the other, from all like elements,
  But since they all, as general rule, are not
  The same as all. Thus, too, in other things,
  Whilst many germs common to many things
  There are, yet they, combined among themselves,
  Can form new who to others quite unlike.
  Thus fairly one may say that humankind,
  The grains, the gladsome trees, are all made up
  Of different atoms. Further, since the seeds
  Are different, difference must there also be
  In intervening spaces, thoroughfares,
  Connections, weights, blows, clashings, motions, all
  Which not alone distinguish living forms,
  But sunder earth's whole ocean from the lands,
  And hold all heaven from the lands away.
             ABSENCE OF SECONDARY QUALITIES

    Now come, this wisdom by my sweet toil sought
  Look thou perceive, lest haply thou shouldst guess
  That the white objects shining to thine eyes
  Are gendered of white atoms, or the black
  Of a black seed; or yet believe that aught
  That's steeped in any hue should take its dye
  From bits of matter tinct with hue the same.
  For matter's bodies own no hue the least-
  Or like to objects or, again, unlike.
  But, if percase it seem to thee that mind
  Itself can dart no influence of its own
  Into these bodies, wide thou wand'rest off.
  For since the blind-born, who have ne'er surveyed
  The light of sun, yet recognise by touch
  Things that from birth had ne'er a hue for them,
  'Tis thine to know that bodies can be brought
  No less unto the ken of our minds too,
  Though yet those bodies with no dye be smeared.
  Again, ourselves whatever in the dark
  We touch, the same we do not find to be
  Tinctured with any colour.
                            Now that here
  I win the argument, I next will teach

  Now, every colour changes, none except,
  And every...
  Which the primordials ought nowise to do.
  Since an immutable somewhat must remain,
  Lest all things utterly be brought to naught.
  For change of anything from out its bounds
  Means instant death of that which was before.
  Wherefore be mindful not to stain with colour
  The seeds of things, lest things return for thee
  All utterly to naught.
                           But now, if seeds
  Receive no property of colour, and yet
  Be still endowed with variable forms
  From which all kinds of colours they beget
  And vary (by reason that ever it matters much
  With, what seeds, and in what positions joined,
  And what the motions that they give and get),
  Forthwith most easily thou mayst devise
  Why what was black of hue an hour ago
  Can of a sudden like the marble gleam,-
  As ocean, when the high winds have upheaved
  Its level plains, is changed to hoary waves
  Of marble whiteness: for, thou mayst declare,
  That, when the thing we often see as black
  Is in its matter then commixed anew,
  Some atoms rearranged, and some withdrawn,
  And added some, 'tis seen forthwith to turn
  Glowing and white. But if of azure seeds
  Consist the level waters of the deep,
  They could in nowise whiten: for however
  Thou shakest azure seeds, the same can never
  Pass into marble hue. But, if the seeds-
  Which thus produce the ocean's one pure sheen-
  Be now with one hue, now another dyed,
  As oft from alien forms and divers shapes
  A cube's produced all uniform in shape,
  'Twould be but natural, even as in the cube
  We see the forms to be dissimilar,
  That thus we'd see in brightness of the deep
  (Or in whatever one pure sheen thou wilt)
  Colours diverse and all dissimilar.
  Besides, the unlike shapes don't thwart the least
  The whole in being externally a cube;
  But differing hues of things do block and keep
  The whole from being of one resultant hue.
  Then, too, the reason which entices us
  At times to attribute colours to the seeds
  Falls quite to pieces, since white things are not
  Create from white things, nor are black from black,
  But evermore they are create from things
  Of divers colours. Verily, the white
  Will rise more readily, is sooner born
  Out of no colour, than of black or aught
  Which stands in hostile opposition thus.

    Besides, since colours cannot be, sans light,
  And the primordials come not forth to light,
  'Tis thine to know they are not clothed with colour-
  Truly, what kind of colour could there be
  In the viewless dark? Nay, in the light itself
  A colour changes, gleaming variedly,
  When smote by vertical or slanting ray.
  Thus in the sunlight shows the down of doves
  That circles, garlanding, the nape and throat:
  Now it is ruddy with a bright gold-bronze,
  Now, by a strange sensation it becomes
  Green-emerald blended with the coral-red.
  The peacock's tail, filled with the copious light,
  Changes its colours likewise, when it turns.
  Wherefore, since by some blow of light begot,
  Without such blow these colours can't become.

    And since the pupil of the eye receives
  Within itself one kind of blow, when said
  To feel a white hue, then another kind,
  When feeling a black or any other hue,
  And since it matters nothing with what hue
  The things thou touchest be perchance endowed,
  But rather with what sort of shape equipped,
  'Tis thine to know the atoms need not colour,
  But render forth sensations, as of touch,
  That vary with their varied forms.
                                     Besides,
  Since special shapes have not a special colour,
  And all formations of the primal germs
  Can be of any sheen thou wilt, why, then,
  Are not those objects which are of them made
  Suffused, each kind with colours of every kind?
  For then 'twere meet that ravens, as they fly,
  Should dartle from white pinions a white sheen,
  Or swans turn black from seed of black, or be
  Of any single varied dye thou wilt.

    Again, the more an object's rent to bits,
  The more thou see its colour fade away
  Little by little till 'tis quite extinct;
  As happens when the gaudy linen's picked
  Shred after shred away: the purple there,
  Phoenician red, most brilliant of all dyes,
  Is lost asunder, ravelled thread by thread;
  Hence canst perceive the fragments die away
  From out their colour, long ere they depart
  Back to the old primordials of things.
  And, last, since thou concedest not all bodies
  Send out a voice or smell, it happens thus
  That not to all thou givest sounds and smells.
  So, too, since we behold not all with eyes,
  'Tis thine to know some things there are as much
  Orphaned of colour, as others without smell,
  And reft of sound; and those the mind alert
  No less can apprehend than it can mark
  The things that lack some other qualities.

    But think not haply that the primal bodies
  Remain despoiled alone of colour: so,
  Are they from warmth dissevered and from cold
  And from hot exhalations; and they move,
  Both sterile of sound and dry of juice; and throw
  Not any odour from their proper bodies.
  Just as, when undertaking to prepare
  A liquid balm of myrrh and marjoram,
  And flower of nard, which to our nostrils breathes
  Odour of nectar, first of all behooves
  Thou seek, as far as find thou may and can,
  The inodorous olive-oil (which never sends
  One whiff of scent to nostrils), that it may
  The least debauch and ruin with sharp tang
  The odorous essence with its body mixed
  And in it seethed. And on the same account
  The primal germs of things must not be thought
  To furnish colour in begetting things,
  Nor sound, since pow'rless they to send forth aught
  From out themselves, nor any flavour, too,
  Nor cold, nor exhalation hot or warm.

  The rest; yet since these things are mortal all-
  The pliant mortal, with a body soft;
  The brittle mortal, with a crumbling frame;
  The hollow with a porous-all must be
  Disjoined from the primal elements,
  If still we wish under the world to lay
  Immortal ground-works, whereupon may rest
  The sum of weal and safety, lest for thee
  All things return to nothing utterly.
    Now, too: whate'er we see possessing sense
  Must yet confessedly be stablished all
  From elements insensate. And those signs,
  So clear to all and witnessed out of hand,
  Do not refute this dictum nor oppose;
  But rather themselves do lead us by the hand,
  Compelling belief that living things are born
  Of elements insensate, as I say.
  Sooth, we may see from out the stinking dung
  Live worms spring up, when, after soaking rains,
  The drenched earth rots; and all things change the same:
  Lo, change the rivers, the fronds, the gladsome pastures
  Into the cattle, the cattle their nature change
  Into our bodies, and from our body, oft
  Grow strong the powers and bodies of wild beasts
  And mighty-winged birds. Thus Nature changes
  All foods to living frames, and procreates
  From them the senses of live creatures all,
  In manner about as she uncoils in flames
  Dry logs of wood and turns them all to fire.
  And seest not, therefore, how it matters much
  After what order are set the primal germs,
  And with what other germs they all are mixed,
  And what the motions that they give and get?

    But now, what is't that strikes thy sceptic mind,
  Constraining thee to sundry arguments
  Against belief that from insensate germs
  The sensible is gendered?- Verily,
  'Tis this: that liquids, earth, and wood, though mixed,
  Are yet unable to gender vital sense.
  And, therefore, 'twill be well in these affairs
  This to remember: that I have not said
  Senses are born, under conditions all,
  From all things absolutely which create
  Objects that feel; but much it matters here
  Firstly, how small the seeds which thus compose
  The feeling thing, then, with what shapes endowed,
  And lastly what they in positions be,
  In motions, in arrangements. Of which facts
  Naught we perceive in logs of wood and clods;
  And yet even these, when sodden by the rains,
  Give birth to wormy grubs, because the bodies
  Of matter, from their old arrangements stirred
  By the new factor, then combine anew
  In such a way as genders living things.

    Next, they who deem that feeling objects can
  From feeling objects be create, and these,
  In turn, from others that are wont to feel

  When soft they make them; for all sense is linked
  With flesh, and thews, and veins- and such, we see,
  Are fashioned soft and of a mortal frame.
  Yet be't that these can last forever on:
  They'll have the sense that's proper to a part,
  Or else be judged to have a sense the same
  As that within live creatures as a whole.
  But of themselves those parts can never feel,
  For all the sense in every member back
  To something else refers- a severed hand,
  Or any other member of our frame,
  Itself alone cannot support sensation.
  It thus remains they must resemble, then,
  Live creatures as a whole, to have the power
  Of feeling sensation concordant in each part
  With the vital sense; and so they're bound to feel
  The things we feel exactly as do we.
  If such the case, how, then, can they be named
  The primal germs of things, and how avoid
  The highways of destruction?- since they be
  Mere living things and living things be all
  One and the same with mortal. Grant they could,
  Yet by their meetings and their unions all,
  Naught would result, indeed, besides a throng
  And hurly-burly all of living things-
  Precisely as men, and cattle, and wild beasts,
  By mere conglomeration each with each
  Can still beget not anything of new.
  But if by chance they lose, inside a body,
  Their own sense and another sense take on,
  What, then, avails it to assign them that
  Which is withdrawn thereafter? And besides,
  To touch on proof that we pronounced before,
  Just as we see the eggs of feathered fowls
  To change to living chicks, and swarming worms
  To bubble forth when from the soaking rains
  The earth is sodden, sure, sensations all
  Can out of non-sensations be begot.

    But if one say that sense can so far rise
  From non-sense by mutation, or because
  Brought forth as by a certain sort of birth,
  'Twill serve to render plain to him and prove
  There is no birth, unless there be before
  Some formed union of the elements,
  Nor any change, unless they be unite.

    In first place, senses can't in body be
  Before its living nature's been begot,-
  Since all its stuff, in faith, is held dispersed
  About through rivers, air, and earth, and all
  That is from earth created, nor has met
  In combination, and, in proper mode,
  Conjoined into those vital motions which
  Kindle the all-perceiving senses- they
  That keep and guard each living thing soever.

    Again, a blow beyond its nature's strength
  Shatters forthwith each living thing soe'er,
  And on it goes confounding all the sense
  Of body and mind. For of the primal germs
  Are loosed their old arrangements, and, throughout,
  The vital motions blocked,- until the stuff,
  Shaken profoundly through the frame entire,
  Undoes the vital knots of soul from body
  And throws that soul, to outward wide-dispersed,
  Through all the pores. For what may we surmise
  A blow inflicted can achieve besides
  Shaking asunder and loosening all apart?
  It happens also, when less sharp the blow,
  The vital motions which are left are wont
  Oft to win out- win out, and stop and still
  The uncouth tumults gendered by the blow,
  And call each part to its own courses back,
  And shake away the motion of death which now
  Begins its own dominion in the body,
  And kindle anew the senses almost gone.
  For by what other means could they the more
  Collect their powers of thought and turn again
  From very doorways of destruction
  Back unto life, rather than pass whereto
  They be already well-nigh sped and so
  Pass quite away?
                     Again, since pain is there
  Where bodies of matter, by some force stirred up,
  Through vitals and through joints, within their seats
  Quiver and quake inside, but soft delight,
  When they remove unto their place again:
  'Tis thine to know the primal germs can be
  Assaulted by no pain, nor from themselves
  Take no delight; because indeed they are
  Not made of any bodies of first things,
  Under whose strange new motions they might ache
  Or pluck the fruit of any dear new sweet.
  And so they must be furnished with no sense.

    Once more, if thus, that every living thing
  May have sensation, needful 'tis to assign
  Sense also to its elements, what then
  Of those fixed elements from which mankind
  Hath been, by their peculiar virtue, formed?
  Of verity, they'll laugh aloud, like men,
  Shaken asunder by a spasm of mirth,
  Or sprinkle with dewy tear-drops cheeks and chins,
  And have the cunning hardihood to say
  Much on the composition of the world,
  And in their turn inquire what elements
  They have themselves,- since, thus the same in kind
  As a whole mortal creature, even they
  Must also be from other elements,
  And then those others from others evermore-
  So that thou darest nowhere make a stop.
  Oho, I'll follow thee until thou grant
  The seed (which here thou say'st speaks, laughs, and thinks)
  Is yet derived out of other seeds
  Which in their turn are doing just the same.
  But if we see what raving nonsense this,
  And that a man may laugh, though not, forsooth,
  Compounded out of laughing elements,
  And think and utter reason with learn'd speech,
  Though not himself compounded, for a fact,
  Of sapient seeds and eloquent, why, then,
  Cannot those things which we perceive to have
  Their own sensation be composed as well
  Of intermixed seeds quite void of sense?
                 INFINITE WORLDS

    Once more, we all from seed celestial spring,
  To all is that same father, from whom earth,
  The fostering mother, as she takes the drops
  Of liquid moisture, pregnant bears her broods-
  The shining grains, and gladsome shrubs and trees,
  And bears the human race and of the wild
  The generations all, the while she yields
  The foods wherewith all feed their frames and lead
  The genial life and propagate their kind;
  Wherefore she owneth that maternal name,
  By old desert. What was before from earth,
  The same in earth sinks back, and what was sent
  From shores of ether, that, returning home,
  The vaults of sky receive. Nor thus doth death
  So far annihilate things that she destroys
  The bodies of matter; but she dissipates
  Their combinations, and conjoins anew
  One element with others; and contrives
  That all things vary forms and change their colours
  And get sensations and straight give them o'er.
  And thus may'st know it matters with what others
  And in what structure the primordial germs
  Are held together, and what motions they
  Among themselves do give and get; nor think
  That aught we see hither and thither afloat
  Upon the crest of things, and now a birth
  And straightway now a ruin, inheres at rest
  Deep in the eternal atoms of the world.

    Why, even in these our very verses here
  It matters much with what and in what order
  Each element is set: the same denote
  Sky, and the ocean, lands, and streams, and sun;
  The same, the grains, and trees, and living things.
  And if not all alike, at least the most-
  But what distinctions by positions wrought!
  And thus no less in things themselves, when once
  Around are changed the intervals between,
  The paths of matter, its connections, weights,
  Blows, clashings, motions, order, structure, shapes,
  The things themselves must likewise changed be.
    Now to true reason give thy mind for us.
  Since here strange truth is putting forth its might
  To hit thee in thine ears, a new aspect
  Of things to show its front. Yet naught there is
  So easy that it standeth not at first
  More hard to credit than it after is;
  And naught soe'er that's great to such degree,
  Nor wonderful so far, but all mankind
  Little by little abandon their surprise.
  Look upward yonder at the bright clear sky
  And what it holds- the stars that wander o'er,
  The moon, the radiance of the splendour-sun:
  Yet all, if now they first for mortals were,
  If unforeseen now first asudden shown,
  What might there be more wonderful to tell,
  What that the nations would before have dared
  Less to believe might be?- I fancy, naught-
  So strange had been the marvel of that sight.
  The which o'erwearied to behold, to-day
  None deigns look upward to those lucent realms.
  Then, spew not reason from thy mind away,
  Beside thyself because the matter's new,
  But rather with keen judgment nicely weigh;
  And if to thee it then appeareth true,
  Render thy hands, or, if 'tis false at last,
  Gird thee to combat. For my mind-of-man
  Now seeks the nature of the vast Beyond
  There on the other side, that boundless sum
  Which lies without the ramparts of the world,
  Toward which the spirit longs to peer afar,
  Toward which indeed the swift elan of thought
  Flies unencumbered forth.
                              Firstly, we find,
  Off to all regions round, on either side,
  Above, beneath, throughout the universe
  End is there none- as I have taught, as too
  The very thing of itself declares aloud,
  And as from nature of the unbottomed deep
  Shines clearly forth. Nor can we once suppose
  In any way 'tis likely, (seeing that space
  To all sides stretches infinite and free,
  And seeds, innumerable in number, in sum
  Bottomless, there in many a manner fly,
  Bestirred in everlasting motion there),
  That only this one earth and sky of ours
  Hath been create and that those bodies of stuff,
  So many, perform no work outside the same;
  Seeing, moreover, this world too hath been
  By Nature fashioned, even as seeds of things
  By innate motion chanced to clash and cling-
  After they'd been in many a manner driven
  Together at random, without design, in vain-
  And at last those seeds together dwelt,
  Which, when together of a sudden thrown,
  Should alway furnish the commencements fit
  Of mighty things- the earth, the sea, the sky,
  And race of living creatures. Thus, I say,
  Again, again, 'tmust be confessed there are
  Such congregations of matter otherwhere,
  Like this our world which vasty ether holds
  In huge embrace.
                     Besides, when matter abundant
  Is ready there, when space on hand, nor object
  Nor any cause retards, no marvel 'tis
  That things are carried on and made complete,
  Perforce. And now, if store of seeds there is
  So great that not whole life-times of the living
  Can count the tale...
  And if their force and nature abide the same,
  Able to throw the seeds of things together
  Into their places, even as here are thrown
  The seeds together in this world of ours,
  'Tmust be confessed in other realms there are
  Still other worlds, still other breeds of men,
  And other generations of the wild.
    Hence too it happens in the sum there is
  No one thing single of its kind in birth,
  And single and sole in growth, but rather it is
  One member of some generated race,
  Among full many others of like kind.
  First, cast thy mind abroad upon the living:
  Thou'lt find the race of mountain-ranging wild
  Even thus to be, and thus the scions of men
  To be begot, and lastly the mute flocks
  Of scaled fish, and winged frames of birds.
  Wherefore confess we must on grounds the same
  That earth, sun, moon, and ocean, and all else,
  Exist not sole and single- rather in number
  Exceeding number. Since that deeply set
  Old boundary stone of life remains for them
  No less, and theirs a body of mortal birth
  No less, than every kind which hereon earth
  Is so abundant in its members found.
    Which well perceived if thou hold in mind,
  Then Nature, delivered from every haughty lord,
  And forthwith free, is seen to do all things
  Herself and through herself of own accord,
  Rid of all gods. For- by their holy hearts
  Which pass in long tranquillity of peace
  Untroubled ages and a serene life!-
  Who hath the power (I ask), who hath the power
  To rule the sum of the immeasurable,
  To hold with steady hand the giant reins
  Of the unfathomed deep? Who hath the power
  At once to rule a multitude of skies,
  At once to heat with fires ethereal all
  The fruitful lands of multitudes of worlds,
  To be at all times in all places near,
  To stablish darkness by his clouds, to shake
  The serene spaces of the sky with sound,
  And hurl his lightnings,- ha, and whelm how oft
  In ruins his own temples, and to rave,
  Retiring to the wildernesses, there
  At practice with that thunderbolt of his,
  Which yet how often shoots the guilty by,
  And slays the honourable blameless ones!

    Ere since the birth-time of the world, ere since
  The risen first-born day of sea, earth, sun,
  Have many germs been added from outside,
  Have many seeds been added round about,
  Which the great All, the while it flung them on,
  Brought hither, that from them the sea and lands
  Could grow more big, and that the house of heaven
  Might get more room and raise its lofty roofs
  Far over earth, and air arise around.
  For bodies all, from out all regions, are
  Divided by blows, each to its proper thing,
  And all retire to their own proper kinds:
  The moist to moist retires; earth gets increase
  From earthy body; and fires, as on a forge,
  Beat out new fire; and ether forges ether;
  Till Nature, author and ender of the world,
  Hath led all things to extreme bound of growth:
  As haps when that which hath been poured inside
  The vital veins of life is now no more
  Than that which ebbs within them and runs off.
  This is the point where life for each thing ends;
  This is the point where Nature with her powers
  Curbs all increase. For whatsoe'er thou seest
  Grow big with glad increase, and step by step
  Climb upward to ripe age, these to themselves
  Take in more bodies than they send from selves,
  Whilst still the food is easily infused
  Through all the veins, and whilst the things are not
  So far expanded that they cast away
  Such numerous atoms as to cause a waste
  Greater than nutriment whereby they wax.
  For 'tmust be granted, truly, that from things
  Many a body ebbeth and runs off;
  But yet still more must come, until the things
  Have touched development's top pinnacle;
  Then old age breaks their powers and ripe strength
  And falls away into a worser part.
  For ever the ampler and more wide a thing,
  As soon as ever its augmentation ends,
  It scatters abroad forthwith to all sides round
  More bodies, sending them from out itself.
  Nor easily now is food disseminate
  Through all its veins; nor is that food enough
  To equal with a new supply on hand
  Those plenteous exhalations it gives off.
  Thus, fairly, all things perish, when with ebbing
  They're made less dense and when from blows without
  They are laid low; since food at last will fail
  Extremest eld, and bodies from outside
  Cease not with thumping to undo a thing
  And overmaster by infesting blows.
    Thus, too, the ramparts of the mighty world
  On all sides round shall taken be by storm,
  And tumble to wrack and shivered fragments down.
  For food it is must keep things whole, renewing;
  'Tis food must prop and give support to all,-
  But to no purpose, since nor veins suffice
  To hold enough, nor nature ministers
  As much as needful. And even now 'tis thus:
  Its age is broken and the earth, outworn
  With many parturitions, scarce creates
  The little lives- she who created erst
  All generations and gave forth at birth
  Enormous bodies of wild beasts of old.
  For never, I fancy, did a golden cord
  From off the firmament above let down
  The mortal generations to the fields;
  Nor sea, nor breakers pounding on the rocks
  Created them; but earth it was who bore-
  The same today who feeds them from herself.
  Besides, herself of own accord, she first
  The shining grains and vineyards of all joy
  Created for mortality; herself
  Gave the sweet fruitage and the pastures glad,
  Which now to-day yet scarcely wax in size,
  Even when aided by our toiling arms.
  We break the ox, and wear away the strength
  Of sturdy farm-hands; iron tools to-day
  Barely avail for tilling of the fields,
  So niggardly they grudge our harvestings,
  So much increase our labour. Now to-day
  The aged ploughman, shaking of his head,
  Sighs o'er and o'er that labours of his hands
  Have fallen out in vain, and, as he thinks
  How present times are not as times of old,
  Often he praises the fortunes of his sire,
  And crackles, prating, how the ancient race,
  Fulfilled with piety, supported life
  With simple comfort in a narrow plot,
  Since, man for man, the measure of each field
  Was smaller far i' the old days. And, again,
  The gloomy planter of the withered vine
  Rails at the season's change and wearies heaven,
  Nor grasps that all of things by sure degrees
  Are wasting away and going to the tomb,
  Outworn by venerable length of life.
                                    BOOK III
                     PROEM

  O thou who first uplifted in such dark
  So clear a torch aloft, who first shed light
  Upon the profitable ends of man,
  O thee I follow, glory of the Greeks,
  And set my footsteps squarely planted now
  Even in the impress and the marks of thine-
  Less like one eager to dispute the palm,
  More as one craving out of very love
  That I may copy thee!- for how should swallow
  Contend with swans or what compare could be
  In a race between young kids with tumbling legs
  And the strong might of the horse? Our father thou,
  And finder-out of truth, and thou to us
  Suppliest a father's precepts; and from out
  Those scriven leaves of thine, renowned soul
  (Like bees that sip of all in flowery wolds),
  We feed upon thy golden sayings all-
  Golden, and ever worthiest endless life.
  For soon as ever thy planning thought that sprang
  From god-like mind begins its loud proclaim
  Of nature's courses, terrors of the brain
  Asunder flee, the ramparts of the world
  Dispart away, and through the void entire
  I see the movements of the universe.
  Rises to vision the majesty of gods,
  And their abodes of everlasting calm
  Which neither wind may shake nor rain-cloud splash,
  Nor snow, congealed by sharp frosts, may harm
  With its white downfall: ever, unclouded sky
  O'er roofs, and laughs with far-diffused light.
  And nature gives to them their all, nor aught
  May ever pluck their peace of mind away.
  But nowhere to my vision rise no more
  The vaults of Acheron, though the broad earth
  Bars me no more from gazing down o'er all
  Which under our feet is going on below
  Along the void. O, here in these affairs
  Some new divine delight and trembling awe
  Takes hold through me, that thus by power of thine
  Nature, so plain and manifest at last,
  Hath been on every side laid bare to man!

    And since I've taught already of what sort
  The seeds of all things are, and how, distinct
  In divers forms, they flit of own accord,
  Stirred with a motion everlasting on,
  And in what mode things be from them create,
  Now, after such matters, should my verse, meseems,
  Make clear the nature of the mind and soul,
  And drive that dread of Acheron without,
  Headlong, which so confounds our human life
  Unto its deeps, pouring o'er all that is
  The black of death, nor leaves not anything
  To prosper- a liquid and unsullied joy.
  For as to what men sometimes will affirm:
  That more than Tartarus (the realm of death)
  They fear diseases and a life of shame,
  And know the substance of the soul is blood,
  Or rather wind (if haply thus their whim),
  And so need naught of this our science, then
  Thou well may'st note from what's to follow now
  That more for glory do they braggart forth
  Than for belief. For mark these very same:
  Exiles from country, fugitives afar
  From sight of men, with charges foul attaint,
  Abased with every wretchedness, they yet
  Live, and where'er the wretches come, they yet
  Make the ancestral sacrifices there,
  Butcher the black sheep, and to gods below
  Offer the honours, and in bitter case
  Turn much more keenly to religion.
  Wherefore, it's surer testing of a man
  In doubtful perils- mark him as he is
  Amid adversities; for then alone
  Are the true voices conjured from his breast,
  The mask off-stripped, reality behind.
  And greed, again, and the blind lust of honours
  Which force poor wretches past the bounds of law,
  And, oft allies and ministers of crime,
  To push through nights and days of the hugest toil
  To rise untrammelled to the peaks of power-
  These wounds of life in no mean part are kept
  Festering and open by this fright of death.
  For ever we see fierce Want and foul Disgrace
  Dislodged afar from secure life and sweet,
  Like huddling Shapes before the doors of death.
  And whilst, from these, men wish to scape afar,
  Driven by false terror, and afar remove,
  With civic blood a fortune they amass,
  They double their riches, greedy, heapers-up
  Of corpse on corpse they have a cruel laugh
  For the sad burial of a brother-born,
  And hatred and fear of tables of their kin.
  Likewise, through this same terror, envy oft
  Makes them to peak because before their eyes
  That man is lordly, that man gazed upon
  Who walks begirt with honour glorious,
  Whilst they in filth and darkness roll around;
  Some perish away for statues and a name,
  And oft to that degree, from fright of death,
  Will hate of living and beholding light
  Take hold on humankind that they inflict
  Their own destruction with a gloomy heart-
  Forgetful that this fear is font of cares,
  This fear the plague upon their sense of shame,
  And this that breaks the ties of comradry
  And oversets all reverence and faith,
  Mid direst slaughter. For long ere to-day
  Often were traitors to country and dear parents
  Through quest to shun the realms of Acheron.
  For just as children tremble and fear all
  In the viewless dark, so even we at times
  Dread in the light so many things that be
  No whit more fearsome than what children feign,
  Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark.
  This terror, then, this darkness of the mind,
  Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light,
  Nor glittering arrows of morning sun disperse,
  But only Nature's aspect and her law.
                 NATURE AND COMPOSITION
                     OF THE MIND

    First, then, I say, the mind which oft we call
  The intellect, wherein is seated life's
  Counsel and regimen, is part no less
  Of man than hand and foot and eyes are parts
  Of one whole breathing creature. But some hold
  That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated,
  But is of body some one vital state,-
  Named "harmony" by Greeks, because thereby
  We live with sense, though intellect be not
  In any part: as oft the body is said
  To have good health (when health, however, 's not
  One part of him who has it), so they place
  The sense of mind in no fixed part of man.
  Mightily, diversly, meseems they err.
  Often the body palpable and seen
  Sickens, while yet in some invisible part
  We feel a pleasure; oft the other way,
  A miserable in mind feels pleasure still
  Throughout his body- quite the same as when
  A foot may pain without a pain in head.
  Besides, when these our limbs are given o'er
  To gentle sleep and lies the burdened frame
  At random void of sense, a something else
  Is yet within us, which upon that time
  Bestirs itself in many a wise, receiving
  All motions of joy and phantom cares of heart.
  Now, for to see that in man's members dwells
  Also the soul, and body ne'er is wont
  To feel sensation by a "harmony"
  Take this in chief: the fact that life remains
  Oft in our limbs, when much of body's gone;
  Yet that same life, when particles of heat,
  Though few, have scattered been, and through the mouth
  Air has been given forth abroad, forthwith
  Forever deserts the veins, and leaves the bones.
  Thus mayst thou know that not all particles
  Perform like parts, nor in like manner all
  Are props of weal and safety: rather those-
  The seeds of wind and exhalations warm-
  Take care that in our members life remains.
  Therefore a vital heat and wind there is
  Within the very body, which at death
  Deserts our frames. And so, since nature of mind
  And even of soul is found to be, as 'twere,
  A part of man, give over "harmony"-
  Name to musicians brought from Helicon,-
  Unless themselves they filched it otherwise,
  To serve for what was lacking name till then.
  Whate'er it be, they're welcome to it- thou,
  Hearken my other maxims.
                                  Mind and soul,
  I say, are held conjoined one with other,
  And form one single nature of themselves;
  But chief and regnant through the frame entire
  Is still that counsel which we call the mind,
  And that cleaves seated in the midmost breast.
  Here leap dismay and terror; round these haunts
  Be blandishments of joys; and therefore here
  The intellect, the mind. The rest of soul,
  Throughout the body scattered, but obeys-
  Moved by the nod and motion of the mind.
  This, for itself, sole through itself, hath thought;
  This for itself hath mirth, even when the thing
  That moves it, moves nor soul nor body at all.
  And as, when head or eye in us is smit
  By assailing pain, we are not tortured then
  Through all the body, so the mind alone
  Is sometimes smitten, or livens with a joy,
  Whilst yet the soul's remainder through the limbs
  And through the frame is stirred by nothing new.
  But when the mind is moved by shock more fierce,
  We mark the whole soul suffering all at once
  Along man's members: sweats and pallors spread
  Over the body, and the tongue is broken,
  And fails the voice away, and ring the ears,
  Mists blind the eyeballs, and the joints collapse,-
  Aye, men drop dead from terror of the mind.
  Hence, whoso will can readily remark
  That soul conjoined is with mind, and, when
  'Tis strook by influence of the mind, forthwith
  In turn it hits and drives the body too.

    And this same argument establisheth
  That nature of mind and soul corporeal is:
  For when 'tis seen to drive the members on,
  To snatch from sleep the body, and to change
  The countenance, and the whole state of man
  To rule and turn,- what yet could never be
  Sans contact, and sans body contact fails-
  Must we not grant that mind and soul consist
  Of a corporeal nature?- And besides
  Thou markst that likewise with this body of ours
  Suffers the mind and with our body feels.
  If the dire speed of spear that cleaves the bones
  And bares the inner thews hits not the life,
  Yet follows a fainting and a foul collapse,
  And, on the ground, dazed tumult in the mind,
  And whiles a wavering will to rise afoot.
  So nature of mind must be corporeal, since
  From stroke and spear corporeal 'tis in throes.
    Now, of what body, what components formed
  Is this same mind I will go on to tell.
  First, I aver, 'tis superfine, composed
  Of tiniest particles- that such the fact
  Thou canst perceive, if thou attend, from this:
  Nothing is seen to happen with such speed
  As what the mind proposes and begins;
  Therefore the same bestirs itself more swiftly
  Than aught whose nature's palpable to eyes.
  But what's so agile must of seeds consist
  Most round, most tiny, that they may be moved,
  When hit by impulse slight. So water moves,
  In waves along, at impulse just the least-
  Being create of little shapes that roll;
  But, contrariwise, the quality of honey
  More stable is, its liquids more inert,
  More tardy its flow; for all its stock of matter
  Cleaves more together, since, indeed, 'tis made
  Of atoms not so smooth, so fine, and round.
  For the light breeze that hovers yet can blow
  High heaps of poppy-seed away for thee
  Downward from off the top; but, contrariwise,
  A pile of stones or spiny ears of wheat
  It can't at all. Thus, in so far as bodies
  Are small and smooth, is their mobility;
  But, contrariwise, the heavier and more rough,
  The more immovable they prove. Now, then,
  Since nature of mind is movable so much,
  Consist it must of seeds exceeding small
  And smooth and round. Which fact once known to thee,
  Good friend, will serve thee opportune in else.
  This also shows the nature of the same,
  How nice its texture, in how small a space
  'Twould go, if once compacted as a pellet:
  When death's unvexed repose gets hold on man
  And mind and soul retire, thou markest there
  From the whole body nothing ta'en in form,
  Nothing in weight. Death grants ye everything,
  But vital sense and exhalation hot.
  Thus soul entire must be of smallmost seeds,
  Twined through the veins, the vitals, and the thews,
  Seeing that, when 'tis from whole body gone,
  The outward figuration of the limbs
  Is unimpaired and weight fails not a whit.
  Just so, when vanished the bouquet of wine,
  Or when an unguent's perfume delicate
  Into the winds away departs, or when
  From any body savour's gone, yet still
  The thing itself seems minished naught to eyes,
  Thereby, nor aught abstracted from its weight-
  No marvel, because seeds many and minute
  Produce the savours and the redolence
  In the whole body of the things. And so,
  Again, again, nature of mind and soul
  'Tis thine to know created is of seeds
  The tiniest ever, since at flying-forth
  It beareth nothing of the weight away.
    Yet fancy not its nature simple so.
  For an impalpable aura, mixed with heat,
  Deserts the dying, and heat draws off the air;
  And heat there's none, unless commixed with air:
  For, since the nature of all heat is rare,
  Athrough it many seeds of air must move.
  Thus nature of mind is triple; yet those all
  Suffice not for creating sense- since mind
  Accepteth not that aught of these can cause
  Sense-bearing motions, and much less the thoughts
  A man revolves in mind. So unto these
  Must added be a somewhat, and a fourth;
  That somewhat's altogether void of name;
  Than which existeth naught more mobile, naught
  More an impalpable, of elements
  More small and smooth and round. That first transmits
  Sense-bearing motions through the frame, for that
  Is roused the first, composed of little shapes;
  Thence heat and viewless force of wind take up
  The motions, and thence air, and thence all things
  Are put in motion; the blood is strook, and then
  The vitals all begin to feel, and last
  To bones and marrow the sensation comes-
  Pleasure or torment. Nor will pain for naught
  Enter so far, nor a sharp ill seep through,
  But all things be perturbed to that degree
  That room for life will fail, and parts of soul
  Will scatter through the body's every pore.
  Yet as a rule, almost upon the skin
  These motion aIl are stopped, and this is why
  We have the power to retain our life.

    Now in my eagerness to tell thee how
  They are commixed, through what unions fit
  They function so, my country's pauper-speech
  Constrains me sadly. As I can, however,
  I'll touch some points and pass. In such a wise
  Course these primordials 'mongst one another
  With intermotions that no one can be
  From other sundered, nor its agency
  Perform, if once divided by a space;
  Like many powers in one body they work.
  As in the flesh of any creature still
  Is odour and savour and a certain warmth,
  And yet from an of these one bulk of body
  Is made complete, so, viewless force of wind
  And warmth and air, commingled, do create
  One nature, by that mobile energy
  Assisted which from out itself to them
  Imparts initial motion, whereby first
  Sense-bearing motion along the vitals springs.
  For lurks this essence far and deep and under,
  Nor in our body is aught more shut from view,
  And 'tis the very soul of all the soul.
  And as within our members and whole frame
  The energy of mind and power of soul
  Is mixed and latent, since create it is
  Of bodies small and few, so lurks this fourth,
  This essence void of name, composed of small,
  And seems the very soul of all the soul,
  And holds dominion o'er the body all.
  And by like reason wind and air and heat
  Must function so, commingled through the frame,
  And now the one subside and now another
  In interchange of dominance, that thus
  From all of them one nature be produced,
  Lest heat and wind apart, and air apart,
  Make sense to perish, by disseverment.
  There is indeed in mind that heat it gets
  When seething in rage, and flashes from the eyes
  More swiftly fire; there is, again, that wind,
  Much, and so cold, companion of all dread,
  Which rouses the shudder in the shaken frame;
  There is no less that state of air composed,
  Making the tranquil breast, the serene face.
  But more of hot have they whose restive hearts,
  Whose minds of passion quickly seethe in rage-
  Of which kind chief are fierce abounding lions,
  Who often with roaring burst the breast o'erwrought,
  Unable to hold the surging wrath within;
  But the cold mind of stags has more of wind,
  And speedier through their inwards rouses up
  The icy currents which make their members quake.
  But more the oxen live by tranquil air,
  Nor e'er doth smoky torch of wrath applied,
  O'erspreading with shadows of a darkling murk,
  Rouse them too far; nor will they stiffen stark,
  Pierced through by icy javelins of fear;
  But have their place half-way between the two-
  Stags and fierce lions. Thus the race of men:
  Though training make them equally refined,
  It leaves those pristine vestiges behind
  Of each mind's nature. Nor may we suppose
  Evil can e'er be rooted up so far
  That one man's not more given to fits of wrath,
  Another's not more quickly touched by fear,
  A third not more long-suffering than he should.
  And needs must differ in many things besides
  The varied natures and resulting habits
  Of humankind- of which not now can I
  Expound the hidden causes, nor find names
  Enough for all the divers shapes of those
  Primordials whence this variation springs.
  But this meseems I'm able to declare:
  Those vestiges of natures left behind
  Which reason cannot quite expel from us
  Are still so slight that naught prevents a man
  From living a life even worthy of the gods.

    So then this soul is kept by all the body,
  Itself the body's guard, and source of weal;
  For they with common roots cleave each to each,
  Nor can be torn asunder without death.
  Not easy 'tis from lumps of frankincense
  To tear their fragrance forth, without its nature
  Perishing likewise: so, not easy 'tis
  From all the body nature of mind and soul
  To draw away, without the whole dissolved.
  With seeds so intertwined even from birth,
  They're dowered conjointly with a partner-life;
  No energy of body or mind, apart,
  Each of itself without the other's power,
  Can have sensation; but our sense, enkindled
  Along the vitals, to flame is blown by both
  With mutual motions. Besides the body alone
  Is nor begot nor grows, nor after death
  Seen to endure. For not as water at times
  Gives off the alien heat, nor is thereby
  Itself destroyed, but unimpaired remains-
  Not thus, I say, can the deserted frame
  Bear the dissevering of its joined soul,
  But, rent and ruined, moulders all away.
  Thus the joint contact of the body and soul
  Learns from their earliest age the vital motions,
  Even when still buried in the mother's womb;
  So no dissevering can hap to them,
  Without their bane and ill. And thence mayst see
  That, as conjoined is their source of weal,
  Conjoined also must their nature be.

    If one, moreover, denies that body feel,
  And holds that soul, through all the body mixed,
  Takes on this motion which we title "sense"
  He battles in vain indubitable facts:
  For who'll explain what body's feeling is,
  Except by what the public fact itself
  Has given and taught us? "But when soul is parted,
  Body's without all sense." True!- loses what
  Was even in its life-time not its own;
  And much beside it loses, when soul's driven
  Forth from that life-time. Or, to say that eyes
  Themselves can see no thing, but through the same
  The mind looks forth, as out of opened doors,
  Is- a hard saying; since the feel in eyes
  Says the reverse. For this itself draws on
  And forces into the pupils of our eyes
  Our consciousness. And note the case when often
  We lack the power to see refulgent things,
  Because our eyes are hampered by their light-
  With a mere doorway this would happen not;
  For, since it is our very selves that see,
  No open portals undertake the toil.
  Besides, if eyes of ours but act as doors,
  Methinks that, were our sight removed, the mind
  Ought then still better to behold a thing-
  When even the door-posts have been cleared away.

    Herein in these affairs nowise take up
  What honoured sage, Democritus, lays down-
  That proposition, that primordials
  Of body and mind, each super-posed on each,
  Vary alternately and interweave
  The fabric of our members. For not only
  Are the soul-elements smaller far than those
  Which this our body and inward parts compose,
  But also are they in their number less,
  And scattered sparsely through our frame. And thus
  This canst thou guarantee: soul's primal germs
  Maintain between them intervals as large
  At least as are the smallest bodies, which,
  When thrown against us, in our body rouse
  Sense-bearing motions. Hence it comes that we
  Sometimes don't feel alighting on our frames
  The clinging dust, or chalk that settles soft;
  Nor mists of night, nor spider's gossamer
  We feel against us, when, upon our road,
  Its net entangles us, nor on our head
  The dropping of its withered garmentings;
  Nor bird-feathers, nor vegetable down,
  Flying about, so light they barely fall;
  Nor feel the steps of every crawling thing,
  Nor each of all those footprints on our skin
  Of midges and the like. To that degree
  Must many primal germs be stirred in us
  Ere once the seeds of soul that through our frame
  Are intermingled 'gin to feel that those
  Primordials of the body have been strook,
  And ere, in pounding with such gaps between,
  They clash, combine and leap apart in turn.
    But mind is more the keeper of the gates,
  Hath more dominion over life than soul.
  For without intellect and mind there's not
  One part of soul can rest within our frame
  Least part of time; companioning, it goes
  With mind into the winds away, and leaves
  The icy members in the cold of death.
  But he whose mind and intellect abide
  Himself abides in life. However much
  The trunk be mangled, with the limbs lopped off,
  The soul withdrawn and taken from the limbs,
  Still lives the trunk and draws the vital air.
  Even when deprived of all but all the soul,
  Yet will it linger on and cleave to life,-
  Just as the power of vision still is strong,
  If but the pupil shall abide unharmed,
  Even when the eye around it's sorely rent-
  Provided only thou destroyest not
  Wholly the ball, but, cutting round the pupil,
  Leavest that pupil by itself behind-
  For more would ruin sight. But if that centre,
  That tiny part of eye, be eaten through,
  Forthwith the vision fails and darkness comes,
  Though in all else the unblemished ball be clear.
  'Tis by like compact that the soul and mind
  Are each to other bound forevermore.
                THE SOUL IS MORTAL

    Now come: that thou mayst able be to know
  That minds and the light souls of all that live
  Have mortal birth and death, I will go on
  Verses to build meet for thy rule of life,
  Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil.
  But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both;
  And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul,
  Teaching the same to be but mortal, think
  Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind-
  Since both are one, a substance interjoined.

    First, then, since I have taught how soul exists
  A subtle fabric, of particles minute,
  Made up from atoms smaller much than those
  Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke,
  So in mobility it far excels,
  More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause
  Even moved by images of smoke or fog-
  As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled,
  The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft-
  For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come
  To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest,
  Their liquids depart, their waters flow away,
  When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke
  Depart into the winds away, believe
  The soul no less is shed abroad and dies
  More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved
  Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn
  From out man's members it has gone away.
  For, sure, if body (container of the same
  Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause,
  And rarefied by loss of blood from veins,
  Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then
  Thinkst thou it can be held by any air-
  A stuff much rarer than our bodies be?

    Besides we feel that mind to being comes
  Along with body, with body grows and ages.
  For just as children totter round about
  With frames infirm and tender, so there follows
  A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then,
  Where years have ripened into robust powers,
  Counsel is also greater, more increased
  The power of mind; thereafter, where already
  The body's shattered by master-powers of eld,
  And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers,
  Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way;
  All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time.
  Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved,
  Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air;
  Since we behold the same to being come
  Along with body and grow, and, as I've taught,
  Crumble and crack, therewith outworn by eld.

    Then, too, we see, that, just as body takes
  Monstrous diseases and the dreadful pain,
  So mind its bitter cares, the grief, the fear;
  Wherefore it tallies that the mind no less
  Partaker is of death; for pain and disease
  Are both artificers of death,- as well
  We've learned by the passing of many a man ere now.
  Nay, too, in diseases of body, often the mind
  Wanders afield; for 'tis beside itself,
  And crazed it speaks, or many a time it sinks,
  With eyelids closing and a drooping nod,
  In heavy drowse, on to eternal sleep;
  From whence nor hears it any voices more,
  Nor able is to know the faces here
  Of those about him standing with wet cheeks
  Who vainly call him back to light and life.
  Wherefore mind too, confess we must, dissolves,
  Seeing, indeed, contagions of disease
  Enter into the same. Again, O why,
  When the strong wine has entered into man,
  And its diffused fire gone round the veins,
  Why follows then a heaviness of limbs,
  A tangle of the legs as round he reels,
  A stuttering tongue, an intellect besoaked,
  Eyes all aswim, and hiccups, shouts, and brawls
  And whatso else is of that ilk?- Why this?-
  If not that violent and impetuous wine
  Is wont to confound the soul within the body?
  But whatso can confounded be and balked,
  Gives proof, that if a hardier cause got in,
  'Twould hap that it would perish then, bereaved
  Of any life thereafter. And, moreover,
  Often will some one in a sudden fit,
  As if by stroke of lightning, tumble down
  Before our eyes, and sputter foam, and grunt,
  Blither, and twist about with sinews taut,
  Gasp up in starts, and weary out his limbs
  With tossing round. No marvel, since distract
  Through frame by violence of disease.

  Confounds, he foams, as if to vomit soul,
  As on the salt sea boil the billows round
  Under the master might of winds. And now
  A groan's forced out, because his limbs are griped
  But, in the main, because the seeds of voice
  Are driven forth and carried in a mass
  Outwards by mouth, where they are wont to go,
  And have a builded highway. He becomes
  Mere fool, since energy of mind and soul
  Confounded is, and, as I've shown, to-riven,
  Asunder thrown, and torn to pieces all
  By the same venom. But, again, where cause
  Of that disease has faced about, and back
  Retreats sharp poison of corrupted frame
  Into its shadowy lairs, the man at first
  Arises reeling, and gradually comes back
  To all his senses and recovers soul.
  Thus, since within the body itself of man
  The mind and soul are by such great diseases
  Shaken, so miserably in labour distraught,
  Why, then, believe that in the open air,
  Without a body, they can pass their life,
  Immortal, battling with the master winds?
  And, since we mark the mind itself is cured,
  Like the sick body, and restored can be
  By medicine, this is forewarning to
  That mortal lives the mind. For proper it is
  That whosoe'er begins and undertakes
  To alter the mind, or meditates to change
  Any another nature soever, should add
  New parts, or readjust the order given,
  Or from the sum remove at least a bit.
  But what's immortal willeth for itself
  Its parts be nor increased, nor rearranged,
  Nor any bit soever flow away:
  For change of anything from out its bounds
  Means instant death of that which was before.
  Ergo, the mind, whether in sickness fallen,
  Or by the medicine restored, gives signs,
  As I have taught, of its mortality.
  So surely will a fact of truth make head
  'Gainst errors' theories all, and so shut off
  All refuge from the adversary, and rout
  Error by two-edged confutation.

    And since the mind is of a man one part,
  Which in one fixed place remains, like ears,
  And eyes, and every sense which pilots life;
  And just as hand, or eye, or nose, apart,
  Severed from us, can neither feel nor be,
  But in the least of time is left to rot,
  Thus mind alone can never be, without
  The body and the man himself, which seems,
  As 'twere the vessel of the same- or aught
  Whate'er thou'lt feign as yet more closely joined:
  Since body cleaves to mind by surest bonds.

    Again, the body's and the mind's live powers
  Only in union prosper and enjoy;
  For neither can nature of mind, alone of itself
  Sans body, give the vital motions forth;
  Nor, then, can body, wanting soul, endure
  And use the senses. Verily, as the eye,
  Alone, up-rended from its roots, apart
  From all the body, can peer about at naught,
  So soul and mind it seems are nothing able,
  When by themselves. No marvel, because, commixed
  Through veins and inwards, and through bones and thews,
  Their elements primordial are confined
  By all the body, and own no power free
  To bound around through interspaces big,
  Thus, shut within these confines, they take on
  Motions of sense, which, after death, thrown out
  Beyond the body to the winds of air,
  Take on they cannot- and on this account,
  Because no more in such a way confined.
  For air will be a body, be alive,
  If in that air the soul can keep itself,
  And in that air enclose those motions all
  Which in the thews and in the body itself
  A while ago 'twas making. So for this,
  Again, again, I say confess we must,
  That, when the body's wrappings are unwound,
  And when the vital breath is forced without,
  The soul, the senses of the mind dissolve,-
  Since for the twain the cause and ground of life
  Is in the fact of their conjoined estate.

    Once more, since body's unable to sustain
  Division from the soul, without decay
  And obscene stench, how canst thou doubt but that
  The soul, uprisen from the body's deeps,
  Has filtered away, wide-drifted like a smoke,
  Or that the changed body crumbling fell
  With ruin so entire, because, indeed,
  Its deep foundations have been moved from place,
  The soul out-filtering even through the frame,
  And through the body's every winding way
  And orifice? And so by many means
  Thou'rt free to learn that nature of the soul
  Hath passed in fragments out along the frame,
  And that 'twas shivered in the very body
  Ere ever it slipped abroad and swam away
  Into the winds of air. For never a man
  Dying appears to feel the soul go forth
  As one sure whole from all his body at once,
  Nor first come up the throat and into mouth;
  But feels it failing in a certain spot,
  Even as he knows the senses too dissolve
  Each in its own location in the frame.
  But were this mind of ours immortal mind,
  Dying 'twould scarce bewail a dissolution,
  But rather the going, the leaving of its coat,
  Like to a snake. Wherefore, when once the body
  Hath passed away, admit we must that soul,
  Shivered in all that body, perished too.
  Nay, even when moving in the bounds of life,
  Often the soul, now tottering from some cause,
  Craves to go out, and from the frame entire
  Loosened to be; the countenance becomes
  Flaccid, as if the supreme hour were there;
  And flabbily collapse the members all
  Against the bloodless trunk- the kind of case
  We see when we remark in common phrase,
  "That man's quite gone," or "fainted dead away";
  And where there's now a bustle of alarm,
  And all are eager to get some hold upon
  The man's last link of life. For then the mind
  And all the power of soul are shook so sore,
  And these so totter along with all the frame,
  That any cause a little stronger might
  Dissolve them altogether.- Why, then, doubt
  That soul, when once without the body thrust,
  There in the open, an enfeebled thing,
  Its wrappings stripped away, cannot endure
  Not only through no everlasting age,
  But even, indeed, through not the least of time?

    Then, too, why never is the intellect,
  The counselling mind, begotten in the head,
  The feet, the hands, instead of cleaving still
  To one sole seat, to one fixed haunt, the breast,
  If not that fixed places be assigned
  For each thing's birth, where each, when 'tis create,
  Is able to endure, and that our frames
  Have such complex adjustments that no shift
  In order of our members may appear?
  To that degree effect succeeds to cause,
  Nor is the flame once wont to be create
  In flowing streams, nor cold begot in fire.
    Besides, if nature of soul immortal be,
  And able to feel, when from our frame disjoined,
  The same, I fancy, must be thought to be
  Endowed with senses five,- nor is there way
  But this whereby to image to ourselves
  How under-souls may roam in Acheron.
  Thus painters and the elder race of bards
  Have pictured souls with senses so endowed.
  But neither eyes, nor nose, nor hand, alone
  Apart from body can exist for soul,
  Nor tongue nor ears apart. And hence indeed
  Alone by self they can nor feel nor be.

    And since we mark the vital sense to be
  In the whole body, all one living thing,
  If of a sudden a force with rapid stroke
  Should slice it down the middle and cleave in twain,
  Beyond a doubt likewise the soul itself,
  Divided, dissevered, asunder will be flung
  Along with body. But what severed is
  And into sundry parts divides, indeed
  Admits it owns no everlasting nature.
  We hear how chariots of war, areek
  With hurly slaughter, lop with flashing scythes
  The limbs away so suddenly that there,
  Fallen from the trunk, they quiver on the earth,
  The while the mind and powers of the man
  Can feel no pain, for swiftness of his hurt,
  And sheer abandon in the zest of battle:
  With the remainder of his frame he seeks
  Anew the battle and the slaughter, nor marks
  How the swift wheels and scythes of ravin have dragged
  Off with the horses his left arm and shield;
  Nor other how his right has dropped away,
  Mounting again and on. A third attempts
  With leg dismembered to arise and stand,
  Whilst, on the ground hard by, the dying foot
  Twitches its spreading toes. And even the head,
  When from the warm and living trunk lopped off,
  Keeps on the ground the vital countenance
  And open eyes, until 't has rendered up
  All remnants of the soul. Nay, once again:
  If, when a serpent's darting forth its tongue,
  And lashing its tail, thou gettest chance to hew
  With axe its length of trunk to many parts,
  Thou'lt see each severed fragment writhing round
  With its fresh wound, and spattering up the sod,
  And there the fore-part seeking with the jaws
  After the hinder, with bite to stop the pain.
  So shall we say that these be souls entire
  In all those fractions?- but from that 'twould follow
  One creature'd have in body many souls.
  Therefore, the soul, which was indeed but one,
  Has been divided with the body too:
  Each is but mortal, since alike is each
  Hewn into many parts. Again, how often
  We view our fellow going by degrees,
  And losing limb by limb the vital sense;
  First nails and fingers of the feet turn blue,
  Next die the feet and legs, then o'er the rest
  Slow crawl the certain footsteps of cold death.
  And since this nature of the soul is torn,
  Nor mounts away, as at one time, entire,
  We needs must hold it mortal. But perchance
  If thou supposest that the soul itself
  Can inward draw along the frame, and bring
  Its parts together to one place, and so
  From all the members draw the sense away,
  Why, then, that place in which such stock of soul
  Collected is, should greater seem in sense.
  But since such place is nowhere, for a fact,
  As said before, 'tis rent and scattered forth,
  And so goes under. Or again, if now
  I please to grant the false, and say that soul
  Can thus be lumped within the frames of those
  Who leave the sunshine, dying bit by bit,
  Still must the soul as mortal be confessed;
  Nor aught it matters whether to wrack it go,
  Dispersed in the winds, or, gathered in a mass
  From all its parts, sink down to brutish death,
  Since more and more in every region sense
  Fails the whole man, and less and less of life
  In every region lingers.
                           And besides,
  If soul immortal is, and winds its way
  Into the body at the birth of man,
  Why can we not remember something, then,
  Of life-time spent before? why keep we not
  Some footprints of the things we did of, old?
  But if so changed hath been the power of mind,
  That every recollection of things done
  Is fallen away, at no o'erlong remove
  Is that, I trow, from what we mean by death.
  Wherefore 'tis sure that what hath been before
  Hath died, and what now is is now create.
    Moreover, if after the body hath been built
  Our mind's live powers are wont to be put in,
  Just at the moment that we come to birth,
  And cross the sills of life, 'twould scarcely fit
  For them to live as if they seemed to grow
  Along with limbs and frame, even in the blood,
  But rather as in a cavern all alone.
  (Yet all the body duly throngs with sense.)
  But public fact declares against all this:
  For soul is so entwined through the veins,
  The flesh, the thews, the bones, that even the teeth
  Share in sensation, as proven by dull ache,
  By twinge from icy water, or grating crunch
  Upon a stone that got in mouth with bread.
  Wherefore, again, again, souls must be thought
  Nor void of birth, nor free from law of death;
  Nor, if, from outward, in they wound their way,
  Could they be thought as able so to cleave
  To these our frames, nor, since so interwove,
  Appears it that they're able to go forth
  Unhurt and whole and loose themselves unscathed
  From all the thews, articulations, bones.
  But, if perchance thou thinkest that the soul,
  From outward winding in its way, is wont
  To seep and soak along these members ours,
  Then all the more 'twill perish, being thus
  With body fused- for what will seep and soak
  Will be dissolved and will therefore die.
  For just as food, dispersed through all the pores
  Of body, and passed through limbs and all the frame,
  Perishes, supplying from itself the stuff
  For other nature, thus the soul and mind,
  Though whole and new into a body going,
  Are yet, by seeping in, dissolved away,
  Whilst, as through pores, to all the frame there pass
  Those particles from which created is
  This nature of mind, now ruler of our body,
  Born from that soul which perished, when divided
  Along the frame. Wherefore it seems that soul
  Hath both a natal and funeral hour.
    Besides are seeds of soul there left behind
  In the breathless body, or not? If there they are,
  It cannot justly be immortal deemed,
  Since, shorn of some parts lost, 'thas gone away:
  But if, borne off with members uncorrupt,
  'Thas fled so absolutely all away
  It leaves not one remainder of itself
  Behind in body, whence do cadavers, then,
  From out their putrid flesh exhale the worms,
  And whence does such a mass of living things,
  Boneless and bloodless, o'er the bloated frame
  Bubble and swarm? But if perchance thou thinkest
  That souls from outward into worms can wind,
  And each into a separate body come,
  And reckonest not why many thousand souls
  Collect where only one has gone away,
  Here is a point, in sooth, that seems to need
  Inquiry and a putting to the test:
  Whether the souls go on a hunt for seeds
  Of worms wherewith to build their dwelling places,
  Or enter bodies ready-made, as 'twere.
  But why themselves they thus should do and toil
  'Tis hard to say, since, being free of body,
  They flit around, harassed by no disease,
  Nor cold nor famine; for the body labours
  By more of kinship to these flaws of life,
  And mind by contact with that body suffers
  So many ills. But grant it be for them
  However useful to construct a body
  To which to enter in, 'tis plain they can't.
  Then, souls for self no frames nor bodies make,
  Nor is there how they once might enter in
  To bodies ready-made- for they cannot
  Be nicely interwoven with the same,
  And there'll be formed no interplay of sense
  Common to each.
                     Again, why is't there goes
  Impetuous rage with lion's breed morose,
  And cunning with foxes, and to deer why given
  The ancestral fear and tendency to flee,
  And why in short do all the rest of traits
  Engender from the very start of life
  In the members and mentality, if not
  Because one certain power of mind that came
  From its own seed and breed waxes the same
  Along with all the body? But were mind
  Immortal, were it wont to change its bodies,
  How topsy-turvy would earth's creatures act!
  The Hyrcan hound would flee the onset oft
  Of antlered stag, the scurrying hawk would quake
  Along the winds of air at the coming dove,
  And men would dote, and savage beasts be wise;
  For false the reasoning of those that say
  Immortal mind is changed by change of body-
  For what is changed dissolves, and therefore dies.
  For parts are re-disposed and leave their order;
  Wherefore they must be also capable
  Of dissolution through the frame at last,
  That they along with body perish all.
  But should some say that always souls of men
  Go into human bodies, I will ask:
  How can a wise become a dullard soul?
  And why is never a child's a prudent soul?
  And the mare's filly why not trained so well
  As sturdy strength of steed? We may be sure
  They'll take their refuge in the thought that mind
  Becomes a weakling in a weakling frame.
  Yet be this so, 'tis needful to confess
  The soul but mortal, since, so altered now
  Throughout the frame, it loses the life and sense
  It had before. Or how can mind wax strong
  Co-equally with body and attain
  The craved flower of life, unless it be
  The body's colleague in its origins?
  Or what's the purport of its going forth
  From aged limbs?- fears it, perhaps, to stay,
  Pent in a crumbled body? Or lest its house,
  Outworn by venerable length of days,
  May topple down upon it? But indeed
  For an immortal, perils are there none.

    Again, at parturitions of the wild
  And at the rites of Love, that souls should stand
  Ready hard by seems ludicrous enough-
  Immortals waiting for their mortal limbs
  In numbers innumerable, contending madly
  Which shall be first and chief to enter in!-
  Unless perchance among the souls there be
  Such treaties stablished that the first to come
  Flying along, shall enter in the first,
  And that they make no rivalries of strength!

    Again, in ether can't exist a tree,
  Nor clouds in ocean deeps, nor in the fields
  Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be,
  Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged
  Where everything may grow and have its place.
  Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone
  Without the body, nor exist afar
  From thews and blood. But if 'twere possible,
  Much rather might this very power of mind
  Be in the head, the shoulders or the heels,
  And, born in any part soever, yet
  In the same man, in the same vessel abide.
  But since within this body even of ours
  Stands fixed and appears arranged sure
  Where soul and mind can each exist and grow,
  Deny we must the more that they can have
  Duration and birth, wholly outside the frame.
  For, verily, the mortal to conjoin
  With the eternal, and to feign they feel
  Together, and can function each with each,
  Is but to dote: for what can be conceived
  Of more unlike, discrepant, ill-assorted,
  Than something mortal in a union joined
  With an immortal and a secular
  To bear the outrageous tempests?
                              Then, again,
  Whatever abides eternal must indeed
  Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made
  Of solid body, and permit no entrance
  Of aught with power to sunder from within
  The parts compact- as are those seeds of stuff
  Whose nature we've exhibited before;
  Or else be able to endure through time
  For this: because they are from blows exempt,
  As is the void, the which abides untouched,
  Unsmit by any stroke; or else because
  There is no room around, whereto things can,
  As 'twere, depart in dissolution all,-
  Even as the sum of sums eternal is,
  Without or place beyond whereto things may
  Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite,
  And thus dissolve them by the blows of might.
    But if perchance the soul's to be adjudged
  Immortal, mainly on ground 'tis kept secure
  In vital forces- either because there come
  Never at all things hostile to its weal,
  Or else because what come somehow retire,
  Repelled or ere we feel the harm they work,

  For, lo, besides that, when the frame's diseased,
  Soul sickens too, there cometh, many a time,
  That which torments it with the things to be,
  Keeps it in dread, and wearies it with cares;
  And even when evil acts are of the past,
  Still gnaw the old transgressions bitterly.
  Add, too, that frenzy, peculiar to the mind,
  And that oblivion of the things that were;
  Add its submergence in the murky waves
  Of drowse and torpor.
              FOLLY OF THE FEAR OF DEATH

                          Therefore death to us
  Is nothing, nor concerns us in the least,
  Since nature of mind is mortal evermore.
  And just as in the ages gone before
  We felt no touch of ill, when all sides round
  To battle came the Carthaginian host,
  And the times, shaken by tumultuous war,
  Under the aery coasts of arching heaven
  Shuddered and trembled, and all humankind
  Doubted to which the empery should fall
  By land and sea, thus when we are no more,
  When comes that sundering of our body and soul
  Through which we're fashioned to a single state,
  Verily naught to us, us then no more,
  Can come to pass, naught move our senses then-
  No, not if earth confounded were with sea,
  And sea with heaven. But if indeed do feel
  The nature of mind and energy of soul,
  After their severance from this body of ours,
  Yet nothing 'tis to us who in the bonds
  And wedlock of the soul and body live,
  Through which we're fashioned to a single state.
  And, even if time collected after death
  The matter of our frames and set it all
  Again in place as now, and if again
  To us the light of life were given, O yet
  That process too would not concern us aught,
  When once the self-succession of our sense
  Has been asunder broken. And now and here,
  Little enough we're busied with the selves
  We were aforetime, nor, concerning them,
  Suffer a sore distress. For shouldst thou gaze
  Backwards across all yesterdays of time
  The immeasurable, thinking how manifold
  The motions of matter are, then couldst thou well
  Credit this too: often these very seeds
  (From which we are to-day) of old were set
  In the same order as they are to-day-
  Yet this we can't to consciousness recall
  Through the remembering mind. For there hath been
  An interposed pause of life, and wide
  Have all the motions wandered everywhere
  From these our senses. For if woe and ail
  Perchance are toward, then the man to whom
  The bane can happen must himself be there
  At that same time. But death precludeth this,
  Forbidding life to him on whom might crowd
  Such irk and care; and granted 'tis to know:
  Nothing for us there is to dread in death,
  No wretchedness for him who is no more,
  The same estate as if ne'er born before,
  When death immortal hath ta'en the mortal life.

    Hence, where thou seest a man to grieve because
  When dead he rots with body laid away,
  Or perishes in flames or jaws of beasts,
  Know well: he rings not true, and that beneath
  Still works an unseen sting upon his heart,
  However he deny that he believes.
  His shall be aught of feeling after death.
  For he, I fancy, grants not what he says,
  Nor what that presupposes, and he fails
  To pluck himself with all his roots from life
  And cast that self away, quite unawares
  Feigning that some remainder's left behind.
  For when in life one pictures to oneself
  His body dead by beasts and vultures torn,
  He pities his state, dividing not himself
  Therefrom, removing not the self enough
  From the body flung away, imagining
  Himself that body, and projecting there
  His own sense, as he stands beside it: hence
  He grieves that he is mortal born, nor marks
  That in true death there is no second self
  Alive and able to sorrow for self destroyed,
  Or stand lamenting that the self lies there
  Mangled or burning. For if it an evil is
  Dead to be jerked about by jaw and fang
  Of the wild brutes, I see not why 'twere not
  Bitter to lie on fires and roast in flames,
  Or suffocate in honey, and, reclined
  On the smooth oblong of an icy slab,
  Grow stiff in cold, or sink with load of earth
  Down-crushing from above.
                              "Thee now no more
  The joyful house and best of wives shall welcome,
  Nor little sons run up to snatch their kisses
  And touch with silent happiness thy heart.
  Thou shalt not speed in undertakings more,
  Nor be the warder of thine own no more.
  Poor wretch," they say, "one hostile hour hath ta'en
  Wretchedly from thee all life's many guerdons,"
  But add not, "yet no longer unto thee
  Remains a remnant of desire for them"
  If this they only well perceived with mind
  And followed up with maxims, they would free
  Their state of man from anguish and from fear.
  "O even as here thou art, aslumber in death,
  So shalt thou slumber down the rest of time,
  Released from every harrying pang. But we,
  We have bewept thee with insatiate woe,
  Standing beside whilst on the awful pyre
  Thou wert made ashes; and no day shall take
  For us the eternal sorrow from the breast."
  But ask the mourner what's the bitterness
  That man should waste in an eternal grief,
  If, after all, the thing's but sleep and rest?
  For when the soul and frame together are sunk
  In slumber, no one then demands his self
  Or being. Well, this sleep may be forever,
  Without desire of any selfhood more,
  For all it matters unto us asleep.
  Yet not at all do those primordial germs
  Roam round our members, at that time, afar
  From their own motions that produce our senses-
  Since, when he's startled from his sleep, a man
  Collects his senses. Death is, then, to us
  Much less- if there can be a less than that
  Which is itself a nothing: for there comes
  Hard upon death a scattering more great
  Of the throng of matter, and no man wakes up
  On whom once falls the icy pause of life.
    This too, O often from the soul men say,
  Along their couches holding of the cups,
  With faces shaded by fresh wreaths awry:
  "Brief is this fruit of joy to paltry man,
  Soon, soon departed, and thereafter, no,
  It may not be recalled."- As if, forsooth,
  It were their prime of evils in great death
  To parch, poor tongues, with thirst and arid drought,
  Or chafe for any lack.
                          Once more, if Nature
  Should of a sudden send a voice abroad,
  And her own self inveigh against us so:
  "Mortal, what hast thou of such grave concern
  That thou indulgest in too sickly plaints?
  Why this bemoaning and beweeping death?
  For if thy life aforetime and behind
  To thee was grateful, and not all thy good
  Was heaped as in sieve to flow away
  And perish unavailingly, why not,
  Even like a banqueter, depart the halls,
  Laden with life? why not with mind content
  Take now, thou fool, thy unafflicted rest?
  But if whatever thou enjoyed hath been
  Lavished and lost, and life is now offence,
  Why seekest more to add- which in its turn
  Will perish foully and fall out in vain?
  O why not rather make an end of life,
  Of labour? For all I may devise or find
  To pleasure thee is nothing: all things are
  The same forever. Though not yet thy body
  Wrinkles with years, nor yet the frame exhausts
  Outworn, still things abide the same, even if
  Thou goest on to conquer all of time
  With length of days, yea, if thou never diest"-
  What were our answer, but that Nature here
  Urges just suit and in her words lays down
  True cause of action? Yet should one complain,
  Riper in years and elder, and lament,
  Poor devil, his death more sorely than is fit,
  Then would she not, with greater right, on him
  Cry out, inveighing with a voice more shrill:
  "Off with thy tears, and choke thy whines, buffoon!
  Thou wrinklest- after thou hast had the sum
  Of the guerdons of life; yet, since thou cravest ever
  What's not at hand, contemning present good,
  That life has slipped away, unperfected
  And unavailing unto thee. And now,
  Or ere thou guessed it, death beside thy head
  Stands- and before thou canst be going home
  Sated and laden with the goodly feast.
  But now yield all that's alien to thine age,-
  Up, with good grace! make room for sons: thou must."
  Justly, I fancy, would she reason thus,
  Justly inveigh and gird: since ever the old
  Outcrowded by the new gives way, and ever
  The one thing from the others is repaired.
  Nor no man is consigned to the abyss
  Of Tartarus, the black. For stuff must be,
  That thus the after-generations grow,-
  Though these, their life completed, follow thee;
  And thus like thee are generations all-
  Already fallen, or some time to fall.
  So one thing from another rises ever;
  And in fee-simple life is given to none,
  But unto all mere usufruct.
                               Look back:
  Nothing to us was all fore-passed eld
  Of time the eternal, ere we had a birth.
  And Nature holds this like a mirror up
  Of time-to-be when we are dead and gone.
  And what is there so horrible appears?
  Now what is there so sad about it all?
  Is't not serener far than any sleep?
    And, verily, those tortures said to be
  In Acheron, the deep, they all are ours
  Here in this life. No Tantalus, benumbed
  With baseless terror, as the fables tell,
  Fears the huge boulder hanging in the air:
  But, rather, in life an empty dread of gods
  Urges mortality, and each one fears
  Such fall of fortune as may chance to him.
  Nor eat the vultures into Tityus
  Prostrate in Acheron, nor can they find,
  Forsooth, throughout eternal ages, aught
  To pry around for in that mighty breast.
  However hugely he extend his bulk-
  Who hath for outspread limbs not acres nine,
  But the whole earth- he shall not able be
  To bear eternal pain nor furnish food
  From his own frame forever. But for us
  A Tityus is he whom vultures rend
  Prostrate in love, whom anxious anguish eats,
  Whom troubles of any unappeased desires
  Asunder rip. We have before our eyes
  Here in this life also a Sisyphus
  In him who seeketh of the populace
  The rods, the axes fell, and evermore
  Retires a beaten and a gloomy man.
  For to seek after power- an empty name,
  Nor given at all- and ever in the search
  To endure a world of toil, O this it is
  To shove with shoulder up the hill a stone
  Which yet comes rolling back from off the top,
  And headlong makes for levels of the plain.
  Then to be always feeding an ingrate mind,
  Filling with good things, satisfying never-
  As do the seasons of the year for us,
  When they return and bring their progenies
  And varied charms, and we are never filled
  With the fruits of life- O this, I fancy, 'tis
  To pour, like those young virgins in the tale,
  Waters into a sieve, unfilled forever.

  Cerberus and Furies, and that Lack of Light

  Tartarus, out-belching from his mouth the surge
  Of horrible heat- the which are nowhere, nor
  Indeed can be: but in this life is fear
  Of retributions just and expiations
  For evil acts: the dungeon and the leap
  From that dread rock of infamy, the stripes,
  The executioners, the oaken rack,
  The iron plates, bitumen, and the torch.
  And even though these are absent, yet the mind,
  With a fore-fearing conscience, plies its goads
  And burns beneath the lash, nor sees meanwhile
  What terminus of ills, what end of pine
  Can ever be, and feareth lest the same
  But grow more heavy after death. Of truth,
  The life of fools is Acheron on earth.
    This also to thy very self sometimes
  Repeat thou mayst: "Lo, even good Ancus left
  The sunshine with his eyes, in divers things
  A better man than thou, O worthless hind;
  And many other kings and lords of rule
  Thereafter have gone under, once who swayed
  O'er mighty peoples. And he also, he-
  Who whilom paved a highway down the sea,
  And gave his legionaries thoroughfare
  Along the deep, and taught them how to cross
  The pools of brine afoot, and did contemn,
  Trampling upon it with his cavalry,
  The bellowings of ocean- poured his soul
  From dying body, as his light was ta'en.
  And Scipio's son, the thunderbolt of war,
  Horror of Carthage, gave his bones to earth,
  Like to the lowliest villein in the house.
  Add finders-out of sciences and arts;
  Add comrades of the Heliconian dames,
  Among whom Homer, sceptered o'er them all
  Now lies in slumber sunken with the rest.
  Then, too, Democritus, when ripened eld
  Admonished him his memory waned away,
  Of own accord offered his head to death.
  Even Epicurus went, his light of life
  Run out, the man in genius who o'er-topped
  The human race, extinguishing all others,
  As sun, in ether arisen, all the stars.
  Wilt thou, then, dally, thou complain to go?-
  For whom already life's as good as dead,
  Whilst yet thou livest and lookest?- who in sleep
  Wastest thy life- time's major part, and snorest
  Even when awake, and ceasest not to see
  The stuff of dreams, and bearest a mind beset
  By baseless terror, nor discoverest oft
  What's wrong with thee, when, like a sotted wretch,
  Thou'rt jostled along by many crowding cares,
  And wanderest reeling round, with mind aswim."
    If men, in that same way as on the mind
  They feel the load that wearies with its weight,
  Could also know the causes whence it comes,
  And why so great the heap of ill on heart,
  O not in this sort would they live their life,
  As now so much we see them, knowing not
  What 'tis they want, and seeking ever and ever
  A change of place, as if to drop the burden.
  The man who sickens of his home goes out,
  Forth from his splendid halls, and straight- returns,
  Feeling i'faith no better off abroad.
  He races, driving his Gallic ponies along,
  Down to his villa, madly,- as in haste
  To hurry help to a house afire.- At once
  He yawns, as soon as foot has touched the threshold,
  Or drowsily goes off in sleep and seeks
  Forgetfulness, or maybe bustles about
  And makes for town again. In such a way
  Each human flees himself- a self in sooth,
  As happens, he by no means can escape;
  And willy-nilly he cleaves to it and loathes,
  Sick, sick, and guessing not the cause of ail.
  Yet should he see but that, O chiefly then,
  Leaving all else, he'd study to divine
  The nature of things, since here is in debate
  Eternal time and not the single hour,
  Mortal's estate in whatsoever remains
  After great death.
                   And too, when all is said,
  What evil lust of life is this so great
  Subdues us to live, so dreadfully distraught
  In perils and alarms? one fixed end
  Of life abideth for mortality;
  Death's not to shun, and we must go to meet.
  Besides we're busied with the same devices,
  Ever and ever, and we are at them ever,
  And there's no new delight that may be forged
  By living on. But whilst the thing we long for
  Is lacking, that seems good above all else;
  Thereafter, when we've touched it, something else
  We long for; ever one equal thirst of life
  Grips us agape. And doubtful 'tis what fortune
  The future times may carry, or what be
  That chance may bring, or what the issue next
  Awaiting us. Nor by prolonging life
  Take we the least away from death's own time,
  Nor can we pluck one moment off, whereby
  To minish the aeons of our state of death.
  Therefore, O man, by living on, fulfil
  As many generations as thou may:
  Eternal death shall there be waiting still;
  And he who died with light of yesterday
  Shall be no briefer time in death's No-more
  Than he who perished months or years before.
                                    BOOK IV
                      PROEM

  I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought,
  Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides,
  Trodden by step of none before. I joy
  To come on undefiled fountains there,
  To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers,
  To seek for this my head a signal crown
  From regions where the Muses never yet
  Have garlanded the temples of a man:
  First, since I teach concerning mighty things,
  And go right on to loose from round the mind
  The tightened coils of dread Religion;
  Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frame
  Song so pellucid, touching all throughout
  Even with the Muses' charm- which, as 'twould seem,
  Is not without a reasonable ground:
  For as physicians, when they seek to give
  Young boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touch
  The brim around the cup with the sweet juice
  And yellow of the honey, in order that
  The thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoled
  As far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow down
  The wormwood's bitter draught, and, though befooled,
  Be yet not merely duped, but rather thus
  Grow strong again with recreated health:
  So now I too (since this my doctrine seems
  In general somewhat woeful unto those
  Who've had it not in hand, and since the crowd
  Starts back from it in horror) have desired
  To expound our doctrine unto thee in song
  Soft-speaking and Pierian, and, as 'twere,
  To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse-
  If by such method haply I might hold
  The mind of thee upon these lines of ours,
  Till thou dost learn the nature of all things
  And understandest their utility.
              EXISTENCE AND CHARACTER OF
                    THE IMAGES

    But since I've taught already of what sort
  The seeds of all things are, and how distinct
  In divers forms they flit of own accord,
  Stirred with a motion everlasting on,
  And in what mode things be from them create,
  And since I've taught what the mind's nature is,
  And of what things 'tis with the body knit
  And thrives in strength, and by what mode uptorn
  That mind returns to its primordials,
  Now will I undertake an argument-
  One for these matters of supreme concern-
  That there exist those somewhats which we call
  The images of things: these, like to films
  Scaled off the utmost outside of the things,
  Flit hither and thither through the atmosphere,
  And the same terrify our intellects,
  Coming upon us waking or in sleep,
  When oft we peer at wonderful strange shapes
  And images of people lorn of light,
  Which oft have horribly roused us when we lay
  In slumber- that haply nevermore may we
  Suppose that souls get loose from Acheron,
  Or shades go floating in among the living,
  Or aught of us is left behind at death,
  When body and mind, destroyed together, each
  Back to its own primordials goes away.

    And thus I say that effigies of things,
  And tenuous shapes from off the things are sent,
  From off the utmost outside of the things,
  Which are like films or may be named a rind,
  Because the image bears like look and form
  With whatso body has shed it fluttering forth-
  A fact thou mayst, however dull thy wits,
  Well learn from this: mainly, because we see
  Even 'mongst visible objects many be
  That send forth bodies, loosely some diffused-
  Like smoke from oaken logs and heat from fires-
  And some more interwoven and condensed-
  As when the locusts in the summertime
  Put off their glossy tunics, or when calves
  At birth drop membranes from their body's surface,
  Or when, again, the slippery serpent doffs
  Its vestments 'mongst the thorns- for oft we see
  The breres augmented with their flying spoils:
  Since such takes place, 'tis likewise certain too
  That tenuous images from things are sent,
  From off the utmost outside of the things.
  For why those kinds should drop and part from things,
  Rather than others tenuous and thin,
  No power has man to open mouth to tell;
  Especially, since on outsides of things
  Are bodies many and minute which could,
  In the same order which they had before,
  And with the figure of their form preserved,
  Be thrown abroad, and much more swiftly too,
  Being less subject to impediments,
  As few in number and placed along the front.
  For truly many things we see discharge
  Their stuff at large, not only from their cores
  Deep-set within, as we have said above,
  But from their surfaces at times no less-
  Their very colours too. And commonly
  The awnings, saffron, red and dusky blue,
  Stretched overhead in mighty theatres,
  Upon their poles and cross-beams fluttering,
  Have such an action quite; for there they dye
  And make to undulate with their every hue
  The circled throng below, and all the stage,
  And rich attire in the patrician seats.
  And ever the more the theatre's dark walls
  Around them shut, the more all things within
  Laugh in the bright suffusion of strange glints,
  The daylight being withdrawn. And therefore, since
  The canvas hangings thus discharge their dye
  From off their surface, things in general must
  Likewise their tenuous effigies discharge,
  Because in either case they are off-thrown
  From off the surface. So there are indeed
  Such certain prints and vestiges of forms
  Which flit around, of subtlest texture made,
  Invisible, when separate, each and one.
  Again, all odour, smoke, and heat, and such
  Streams out of things diffusedly, because,
  Whilst coming from the deeps of body forth
  And rising out, along their bending path
  They're torn asunder, nor have gateways straight
  Wherethrough to mass themselves and struggle abroad.
  But contrariwise, when such a tenuous film
  Of outside colour is thrown off, there's naught
  Can rend it, since 'tis placed along the front
  Ready to hand. Lastly those images
  Which to our eyes in mirrors do appear,
  In water, or in any shining surface,
  Must be, since furnished with like look of things,
  Fashioned from images of things sent out.
  There are, then, tenuous effigies of forms,
  Like unto them, which no one can divine
  When taken singly, which do yet give back,
  When by continued and recurrent discharge
  Expelled, a picture from the mirrors' plane.
  Nor otherwise, it seems, can they be kept
  So well conserved that thus be given back
  Figures so like each object.
                            Now then, learn
  How tenuous is the nature of an image.
  And in the first place, since primordials be
  So far beneath our senses, and much less
  E'en than those objects which begin to grow
  Too small for eyes to note, learn now in few
  How nice are the beginnings of all things-
  That this, too, I may yet confirm in proof:
  First, living creatures are sometimes so small
  That even their third part can nowise be seen;
  Judge, then, the size of any inward organ-
  What of their sphered heart, their eyes, their limbs,
  The skeleton?- How tiny thus they are!
  And what besides of those first particles
  Whence soul and mind must fashioned be?- Seest not
  How nice and how minute? Besides, whatever
  Exhales from out its body a sharp smell-
  The nauseous absinth, or the panacea,
  Strong southernwood, or bitter centaury-
  If never so lightly with thy [fingers] twain
  Perchance [thou touch] a one of them

  Then why not rather know that images
  Flit hither and thither, many, in many modes,
  Bodiless and invisible?
                                     But lest
  Haply thou holdest that those images
  Which come from objects are the sole that flit,
  Others indeed there be of own accord
  Begot, self-formed in earth's aery skies,
  Which, moulded to innumerable shapes,
  Are borne aloft, and, fluid as they are,
  Cease not to change appearance and to turn
  Into new outlines of all sorts of forms;
  As we behold the clouds grow thick on high
  And smirch the serene vision of the world,
  Stroking the air with motions. For oft are seen
  The giants' faces flying far along
  And trailing a spread of shadow; and at times
  The mighty mountains and mountain-sundered rocks
  Going before and crossing on the sun,
  Whereafter a monstrous beast dragging amain
  And leading in the other thunderheads.
  Now [hear] how easy and how swift they be
  Engendered, and perpetually flow off
  From things and gliding pass away....

  For ever every outside streams away
  From off all objects, since discharge they may;
  And when this outside reaches other things,
  As chiefly glass, it passes through; but where
  It reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood,
  There 'tis so rent that it cannot give back
  An image. But when gleaming objects dense,
  As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it,
  Nothing of this sort happens. For it can't
  Go, as through glass, nor yet be rent- its safety,
  By virtue of that smoothness, being sure.
  'Tis therefore that from them the images
  Stream back to us; and howso suddenly
  Thou place, at any instant, anything
  Before a mirror, there an image shows;
  Proving that ever from a body's surface
  Flow off thin textures and thin shapes of things.
  Thus many images in little time
  Are gendered; so their origin is named
  Rightly a speedy. And even as the sun
  Must send below, in little time, to earth
  So many beams to keep all things so full
  Of light incessant; thus, on grounds the same,
  From things there must be borne, in many modes,
  To every quarter round, upon the moment,
  The many images of things; because
  Unto whatever face of things we turn
  The mirror, things of form and hue the same
  Respond. Besides, though but a moment since
  Serenest was the weather of the sky,
  So fiercely sudden is it foully thick
  That ye might think that round about all murk
  Had parted forth from Acheron and filled
  The mighty vaults of sky- so grievously,
  As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome night,
  Do faces of black horror hang on high-
  Of which how small a part an image is
  There's none to tell or reckon out in words.

    Now come; with what swift motion they are borne,
  These images, and what the speed assigned
  To them across the breezes swimming on-
  So that o'er lengths of space a little hour
  Alone is wasted, toward whatever region
  Each with its divers impulse tends- I'll tell
  In verses sweeter than they many are;
  Even as the swan's slight note is better far
  Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes
  Among the southwind's aery clouds. And first,
  One oft may see that objects which are light
  And made of tiny bodies are the swift;
  In which class is the sun's light and his heat,
  Since made from small primordial elements
  Which, as it were, are forward knocked along
  And through the interspaces of the air
  To pass delay not, urged by blows behind;
  For light by light is instantly supplied
  And gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven.
  Thus likewise must the images have power
  Through unimaginable space to speed
  Within a point of time,- first, since a cause
  Exceeding small there is, which at their back
  Far forward drives them and propels, where, too,
  They're carried with such winged lightness on;
  And, secondly, since furnished, when sent off,
  With texture of such rareness that they can
  Through objects whatsoever penetrate
  And ooze, as 'twere, through intervening air.
  Besides, if those fine particles of things
  Which from so deep within are sent abroad,
  As light and heat of sun, are seen to glide
  And spread themselves through all the space of heaven
  Upon one instant of the day, and fly
  O'er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what then
  Of those which on the outside stand prepared,
  When they're hurled off with not a thing to check
  Their going out? Dost thou not see indeed
  How swifter and how farther must they go
  And speed through manifold the length of space
  In time the same that from the sun the rays
  O'erspread the heaven? This also seems to be
  Example chief and true with what swift speed
  The images of things are borne about:
  That soon as ever under open skies
  Is spread the shining water, all at once,
  If stars be out in heaven, upgleam from earth,
  Serene and radiant in the water there,
  The constellations of the universe-
  Now seest thou not in what a point of time
  An image from the shores of ether falls
  Unto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again,
  And yet again, 'tis needful to confess
  With wondrous...
        THE SENSES AND MENTAL PICTURES

  Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight.
  From certain things flow odours evermore,
  As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray
  From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls
  Around the coasts. Nor ever cease to flit
  The varied voices, sounds athrough the air.
  Then too there comes into the mouth at times
  The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea
  We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch
  The wormword being mixed, its bitter stings.
  To such degree from all things is each thing
  Borne streamingly along, and sent about
  To every region round; and Nature grants
  Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow,
  Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have,
  And all the time are suffered to descry
  And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound.
  Besides, since shape examined by our hands
  Within the dark is known to be the same
  As that by eyes perceived within the light
  And lustrous day, both touch and sight must be
  By one like cause aroused. So, if we test
  A square and get its stimulus on us
  Within the dark, within the light what square
  Can fall upon our sight, except a square
  That images the things? Wherefore it seems
  The source of seeing is in images,
  Nor without these can anything be viewed.

    Now these same films I name are borne about
  And tossed and scattered into regions all.
  But since we do perceive alone through eyes,
  It follows hence that whitherso we turn
  Our sight, all things do strike against it there
  With form and hue. And just how far from us
  Each thing may be away, the image yields
  To us the power to see and chance to tell:
  For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves ahead
  And drives along the air that's in the space
  Betwixt it and our eyes. And thus this air
  All glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere,
  Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswise
  Passes across. Therefore it comes we see
  How far from us each thing may be away,
  And the more air there be that's driven before,
  And too the longer be the brushing breeze
  Against our eyes, the farther off removed
  Each thing is seen to be: forsooth, this work
  With mightily swift order all goes on,
  So that upon one instant we may see
  What kind the object and how far away.

    Nor over-marvellous must this be deemed
  In these affairs that, though the films which strike
  Upon the eyes cannot be singly seen,
  The things themselves may be perceived. For thus
  When the wind beats upon us stroke by stroke
  And when the sharp cold streams, 'tis not our wont
  To feel each private particle of wind
  Or of that cold, but rather all at once;
  And so we see how blows affect our body,
  As if one thing were beating on the same
  And giving us the feel of its own body
  Outside of us. Again, whene'er we thump
  With finger-tip upon a stone, we touch
  But the rock's surface and the outer hue,
  Nor feel that hue by contact- rather feel
  The very hardness deep within the rock.

    Now come, and why beyond a looking-glass
  An image may be seen, perceive. For seen
  It soothly is, removed far within.
  'Tis the same sort as objects peered upon
  Outside in their true shape, whene'er a door
  Yields through itself an open peering-place,
  And lets us see so many things outside
  Beyond the house. Also that sight is made
  By a twofold twin air: for first is seen
  The air inside the door-posts; next the doors,
  The twain to left and right; and afterwards
  A light beyond comes brushing through our eyes,
  Then other air, then objects peered upon
  Outside in their true shape. And thus, when first
  The image of the glass projects itself,
  As to our gaze it comes, it shoves ahead
  And drives along the air that's in the space
  Betwixt it and our eyes, and brings to pass
  That we perceive the air ere yet the glass.
  But when we've also seen the glass itself,
  Forthwith that image which from us is borne
  Reaches the glass, and there thrown back again
  Comes back unto our eyes, and driving rolls
  Ahead of itself another air, that then
  'Tis this we see before itself, and thus
  It looks so far removed behind the glass.
  Wherefore again, again, there's naught for wonder

  In those which render from the mirror's plane
  A vision back, since each thing comes to pass
  By means of the two airs. Now, in the glass
  The right part of our members is observed
  Upon the left, because, when comes the image
  Hitting against the level of the glass,
  'Tis not returned unshifted; but forced off
  Backwards in line direct and not oblique,-
  Exactly as whoso his plaster-mask
  Should dash, before 'twere dry, on post or beam,
  And it should straightway keep, at clinging there,
  Its shape, reversed, facing him who threw,
  And so remould the features it gives back:
  It comes that now the right eye is the left,
  The left the right. An image too may be
  From mirror into mirror handed on,
  Until of idol-films even five or six
  Have thus been gendered. For whatever things
  Shall hide back yonder in the house, the same,
  However far removed in twisting ways,
  May still be all brought forth through bending paths
  And by these several mirrors seen to be
  Within the house, since Nature so compels
  All things to be borne backward and spring off
  At equal angles from all other things.
  To such degree the image gleams across
  From mirror unto mirror; where 'twas left
  It comes to be the right, and then again
  Returns and changes round unto the left.
  Again, those little sides of mirrors curved
  Proportionate to the bulge of our own flank
  Send back to us their idols with the right
  Upon the right; and this is so because
  Either the image is passed on along
  From mirror unto mirror, and thereafter,
  When twice dashed off, flies back unto ourselves;
  Or else the image wheels itself around,
  When once unto the mirror it has come,
  Since the curved surface teaches it to turn
  To usward. Further, thou might'st well believe
  That these film-idols step along with us
  And set their feet in unison with ours
  And imitate our carriage, since from that
  Part of a mirror whence thou hast withdrawn
  Straightway no images can be returned.

    Further, our eye-balls tend to flee the bright
  And shun to gaze thereon; the sun even blinds,
  If thou goest on to strain them unto him,
  Because his strength is mighty, and the films
  Heavily downward from on high are borne
  Through the pure ether and the viewless winds,
  And strike the eyes, disordering their joints.
  So piecing lustre often burns the eyes,
  Because it holdeth many seeds of fire
  Which, working into eyes, engender pain.
  Again, whatever jaundiced people view
  Becomes wan-yellow, since from out their bodies
  Flow many seeds wan-yellow forth to meet
  The films of things, and many too are mixed
  Within their eye, which by contagion paint
  All things with sallowness. Again, we view
  From dark recesses things that stand in light,
  Because, when first has entered and possessed
  The open eyes this nearer darkling air,
  Swiftly the shining air and luminous
  Followeth in, which purges then the eyes
  And scatters asunder of that other air
  The sable shadows, for in large degrees
  This air is nimbler, nicer, and more strong.
  And soon as ever 'thas filled and oped with light
  The pathways of the eyeballs, which before
  Black air had blocked, there follow straightaway
  Those films of things out-standing in the light,
  Provoking vision- what we cannot do
  From out the light with objects in the dark,
  Because that denser darkling air behind
  Followeth in, and fills each aperture
  And thus blockades the pathways of the eyes
  That there no images of any things
  Can be thrown in and agitate the eyes.

    And when from far away we do behold
  The squared towers of a city, oft
  Rounded they seem,- on this account because
  Each distant angle is perceived obtuse,
  Or rather it is not perceived at all;
  And perishes its blow nor to our gaze
  Arrives its stroke, since through such length of air
  Are borne along the idols that the air
  Makes blunt the idol of the angle's point
  By numerous collidings. When thuswise
  The angles of the tower each and all
  Have quite escaped the sense, the stones appear
  As rubbed and rounded on a turner's wheel-
  Yet not like objects near and truly round,
  But with a semblance to them, shadowily.
  Likewise, our shadow in the sun appears
  To move along and follow our own steps
  And imitate our carriage- if thou thinkest
  Air that is thus bereft of light can walk,
  Following the gait and motion of mankind.
  For what we use to name a shadow, sure
  Is naught but air deprived of light. No marvel:
  Because the earth from spot to spot is reft
  Progressively of light of sun, whenever
  In moving round we get within its way,
  While any spot of earth by us abandoned
  Is filled with light again, on this account
  It comes to pass that what was body's shadow
  Seems still the same to follow after us
  In one straight course. Since, evermore pour in
  New lights of rays, and perish then the old,
  Just like the wool that's drawn into the flame.
  Therefore the earth is easily spoiled of light
  And easily refilled and from herself
  Washeth the black shadows quite away.

    And yet in this we don't at all concede
  That eyes be cheated. For their task it is
  To note in whatsoever place be light,
  In what be shadow: whether or no the gleams
  Be still the same, and whether the shadow which
  Just now was here is that one passing thither,
  Or whether the facts be what we said above,
  'Tis after all the reasoning of mind
  That must decide; nor can our eyeballs know
  The nature of reality. And so
  Attach thou not this fault of mind to eyes,
  Nor lightly think our senses everywhere
  Are tottering. The ship in which we sail
  Is borne along, although it seems to stand;
  The ship that bides in roadstead is supposed
  There to be passing by. And hills and fields
  Seem fleeing fast astern, past which we urge
  The ship and fly under the bellying sails.
  The stars, each one, do seem to pause, affixed
  To the ethereal caverns, though they all
  Forever are in motion, rising out
  And thence revisiting their far descents
  When they have measured with their bodies bright
  The span of heaven. And likewise sun and moon
  Seem biding in a roadstead,- objects which,
  As plain fact proves, are really borne along.
  Between two mountains far away aloft
  From midst the whirl of waters open lies
  A gaping exit for the fleet, and yet
  They seem conjoined in a single isle.
  When boys themselves have stopped their spinning round,
  The halls still seem to whirl and posts to reel,
  Until they now must almost think the roofs
  Threaten to ruin down upon their heads.
  And now, when Nature begins to lift on high
  The sun's red splendour and the tremulous fires,
  And raise him o'er the mountain-tops, those mountains-
  O'er which he seemeth then to thee to be,
  His glowing self hard by atingeing them
  With his own fire- are yet away from us
  Scarcely two thousand arrow-shots, indeed
  Oft scarce five hundred courses of a dart;
  Although between those mountains and the sun
  Lie the huge plains of ocean spread beneath
  The vasty shores of ether, and intervene
  A thousand lands, possessed by many a folk
  And generations of wild beasts. Again,
  A pool of water of but a finger's depth,
  Which lies between the stones along the pave,
  Offers a vision downward into earth
  As far, as from the earth o'erspread on high
  The gulfs of heaven; that thus thou seemest to view
  Clouds down below and heavenly bodies plunged
  Wondrously in heaven under earth.
  Then too, when in the middle of the stream
  Sticks fast our dashing horse, and down we gaze
  Into the river's rapid waves, some force
  Seems then to bear the body of the horse,
  Though standing still, reversely from his course,
  And swiftly push up-stream. And wheresoe'er
  We cast our eyes across, all objects seem
  Thus to be onward borne and flow along
  In the same way as we. A portico,
  Albeit it stands well propped from end to end
  On equal columns, parallel and big,
  Contracts by stages in a narrow cone,
  When from one end the long, long whole is seen,-
  Until, conjoining ceiling with the floor,
  And the whole right side with the left, it draws
  Together to a cone's nigh-viewless point.
  To sailors on the main the sun he seems
  From out the waves to rise, and in the waves
  To set and bury his light- because indeed
  They gaze on naught but water and the sky.
  Again, to gazers ignorant of the sea,
  Vessels in port seem, as with broken poops,
  To lean upon the water, quite agog;
  For any portion of the oars that's raised
  Above the briny spray is straight, and straight
  The rudders from above. But other parts,
  Those sunk, immersed below the water-line,
  Seem broken all and bended and inclined
  Sloping to upwards, and turned back to float
  Almost atop the water. And when the winds
  Carry the scattered drifts along the sky
  In the night-time, then seem to glide along
  The radiant constellations 'gainst the clouds
  And there on high to take far other course
  From that whereon in truth they're borne. And then,
  If haply our hand be set beneath one eye
  And press below thereon, then to our gaze
  Each object which we gaze on seems to be,
  By some sensation twain- then twain the lights
  Of lampions burgeoning in flowers of flame,
  And twain the furniture in all the house,
  Two-fold the visages of fellow-men,
  And twain their bodies. And again, when sleep
  Has bound our members down in slumber soft
  And all the body lies in deep repose,
  Yet then we seem to self to be awake
  And move our members; and in night's blind gloom
  We think to mark the daylight and the sun;
  And, shut within a room, yet still we seem
  To change our skies, our oceans, rivers, hills,
  To cross the plains afoot, and hear new sounds,
  Though still the austere silence of the night
  Abides around us, and to speak replies,
  Though voiceless. Other cases of the sort
  Wondrously many do we see, which all
  Seek, so to say, to injure faith in sense-
  In vain, because the largest part of these
  Deceives through mere opinions of the mind,
  Which we do add ourselves, feigning to see
  What by the senses are not seen at all.
  For naught is harder than to separate
  Plain facts from dubious, which the mind forthwith
  Adds by itself.
                    Again, if one suppose
  That naught is known, he knows not whether this
  Itself is able to be known, since he
  Confesses naught to know. Therefore with him
  I waive discussion- who has set his head
  Even where his feet should be. But let me grant
  That this he knows,- I question: whence he knows
  What 'tis to know and not-to-know in turn,
  And what created concept of the truth,
  And what device has proved the dubious
  To differ from the certain?- since in things
  He's heretofore seen naught of true. Thou'lt find
  That from the senses first hath been create
  Concept of truth, nor can the senses be
  Rebutted. For criterion must be found
  Worthy of greater trust, which shall defeat
  Through own authority the false by true;
  What, then, than these our senses must there be
  Worthy a greater trust? Shall reason, sprung
  From some false sense, prevail to contradict
  Those senses, sprung as reason wholly is
  From out of the senses?- For lest these be true,
  All reason also then is falsified.
  Or shall the ears have power to blame the eyes,
  Or yet the touch the ears? Again, shall taste
  Accuse this touch or shall the nose confute
  Or eyes defeat it? Methinks not so it is:
  For unto each has been divided of
  Its function quite apart, its power to each;
  And thus we're still constrained to perceive
  The soft, the cold, the hot apart, apart
  All divers hues and whatso things there be
  Conjoined with hues. Likewise the tasting tongue
  Has its own power apart, and smells apart
  And sounds apart are known. And thus it is
  That no one sense can e'er convict another.
  Nor shall one sense have power to blame itself,
  Because it always must be deemed the same,
  Worthy of equal trust. And therefore what
  At any time unto these senses showed,
  The same is true. And if the reason be
  Unable to unravel us the cause
  Why objects, which at hand were square, afar
  Seemed rounded, yet it more availeth us,
  Lacking the reason, to pretend a cause
  For each configuration, than to let
  From out our hands escape the obvious things
  And injure primal faith in sense, and wreck
  All those foundations upon which do rest
  Our life and safety. For not only reason
  Would topple down; but even our very life
  Would straightaway collapse, unless we dared
  To trust our senses and to keep away
  From headlong heights and places to be shunned
  Of a like peril, and to seek with speed
  Their opposites! Again, as in a building,
  If the first plumb-line be askew, and if
  The square deceiving swerve from lines exact,
  And if the level waver but the least
  In any part, the whole construction then
  Must turn out faulty- shelving and askew,
  Leaning to back and front, incongruous,
  That now some portions seem about to fall,
  And falls the whole ere long- betrayed indeed
  By first deceiving estimates: so too
  Thy calculations in affairs of life
  Must be askew and false, if sprung for thee
  From senses false. So all that troop of words
  Marshalled against the senses is quite vain.
    And now remains to demonstrate with ease
  How other senses each their things perceive.
    Firstly, a sound and every voice is heard,
  When, getting into ears, they strike the sense
  With their own body. For confess we must
  Even voice and sound to be corporeal,
  Because they're able on the sense to strike.
  Besides voice often scrapes against the throat,
  And screams in going out do make more rough
  The wind-pipe- naturally enough, methinks,
  When, through the narrow exit rising up
  In larger throng, these primal germs of voice
  Have thus begun to issue forth. In sooth,
  Also the door of the mouth is scraped against
  By air blown outward from distended cheeks.

  And thus no doubt there is, that voice and words
  Consist of elements corporeal,
  With power to pain. Nor art thou unaware
  Likewise how much of body's ta'en away,
  How much from very thews and powers of men
  May be withdrawn by steady talk, prolonged
  Even from the rising splendour of the morn
  To shadows of black evening,- above all
  If 't be outpoured with most exceeding shouts.
  Therefore the voice must be corporeal,
  Since the long talker loses from his frame
  A part.
          Moreover, roughness in the sound
  Comes from the roughness in the primal germs,
  As a smooth sound from smooth ones is create;
  Nor have these elements a form the same
  When the trump rumbles with a hollow roar,
  As when barbaric Berecynthian pipe
  Buzzes with raucous boomings, or when swans
  By night from icy shores of Helicon
  With wailing voices raise their liquid dirge.

    Thus, when from deep within our frame we force
  These voices, and at mouth expel them forth,
  The mobile tongue, artificer of words,
  Makes them articulate, and too the lips
  By their formations share in shaping them.
  Hence when the space is short from starting-point
  To where that voice arrives, the very words
  Must too be plainly heard, distinctly marked.
  For then the voice conserves its own formation,
  Conserves its shape. But if the space between
  Be longer than is fit, the words must be
  Through the much air confounded, and the voice
  Disordered in its flight across the winds-
  And so it haps, that thou canst sound perceive,
  Yet not determine what the words may mean;
  To such degree confounded and encumbered
  The voice approaches us. Again, one word,
  Sent from the crier's mouth, may rouse all ears
  Among the populace. And thus one voice
  Scatters asunder into many voices,
  Since it divides itself for separate ears,
  Imprinting form of word and a clear tone.
  But whatso part of voices fails to hit
  The ears themselves perishes, borne beyond,
  Idly diffused among the winds. A part,
  Beating on solid porticoes, tossed back
  Returns a sound; and sometimes mocks the ear
  With a mere phantom of a word. When this
  Thou well hast noted, thou canst render count
  Unto thyself and others why it is
  Along the lonely places that the rocks
  Give back like shapes of words in order like,
  When search we after comrades wandering
  Among the shady mountains, and aloud
  Call unto them, the scattered. I have seen
  Spots that gave back even voices six or seven
  For one thrown forth- for so the very hills,
  Dashing them back against the hills, kept on
  With their reverberations. And these spots
  The neighbouring country-side doth feign to be
  Haunts of the goat-foot satyrs and the nymphs;
  And tells ye there be fauns, by whose night noise
  And antic revels yonder they declare
  The voiceless silences are broken oft,
  And tones of strings are made and wailings sweet
  Which the pipe, beat by players' finger-tips,
  Pours out; and far and wide the farmer-race
  Begins to hear, when, shaking the garmentings
  Of pine upon his half-beast head, god-Pan
  With puckered lip oft runneth o'er and o'er
  The open reeds,- lest flute should cease to pour
  The woodland music! Other prodigies
  And wonders of this ilk they love to tell,
  Lest they be thought to dwell in lonely spots
  And even by gods deserted. This is why
  They boast of marvels in their story-tellings;
  Or by some other reason are led on-
  Greedy, as all mankind hath ever been,
  To prattle fables into ears.
                                Again,
  One need not wonder how it comes about
  That through those places (through which eyes cannot
  View objects manifest) sounds yet may pass
  And assail the ears. For often we observe
  People conversing, though the doors be closed;
  No marvel either, since all voice unharmed
  Can wind through bended apertures of things,
  While idol-films decline to- for they're rent,
  Unless along straight apertures they swim,
  Like those in glass, through which all images
  Do fly across. And yet this voice itself,
  In passing through shut chambers of a house,
  Is dulled, and in a jumble enters ears,
  And sound we seem to hear far more than words.
  Moreover, a voice is into all directions
  Divided up, since off from one another
  New voices are engendered, when one voice
  Hath once leapt forth, outstarting into many-
  As oft a spark of fire is wont to sprinkle
  Itself into its several fires. And so,
  Voices do fill those places hid behind,
  Which all are in a hubbub round about,
  Astir with sound. But idol-films do tend,
  As once set forth, in straight directions all;
  Wherefore one can inside a wall see naught,
  Yet catch the voices from beyond the same.

    Nor tongue and palate, whereby we flavour feel,
  Present more problems for more work of thought.
  Firstly, we feel a flavour in the mouth,
  When forth we squeeze it, in chewing up our food,-
  As any one perchance begins to squeeze
  With hand and dry a sponge with water soaked.
  Next, all which forth we squeeze is spread about
  Along the pores and intertwined paths
  Of the loose-textured tongue. And so, when smooth
  The bodies of the oozy flavour, then
  Delightfully they touch, delightfully
  They treat all spots, around the wet and trickling
  Enclosures of the tongue. And contrariwise,
  They sting and pain the sense with their assault,
  According as with roughness they're supplied.
  Next, only up to palate is the pleasure
  Coming from flavour; for in truth when down
  'Thas plunged along the throat, no pleasure is,
  Whilst into all the frame it spreads around;
  Nor aught it matters with what food is fed
  The body, if only what thou take thou canst
  Distribute well digested to the frame
  And keep the stomach in a moist career.
    Now, how it is we see some food for some,
  Others for others....

  I will unfold, or wherefore what to some
  Is foul and bitter, yet the same to others
  Can seem delectable to eat,- why here
  So great the distance and the difference is
  That what is food to one to some becomes
  Fierce poison, as a certain snake there is
  Which, touched by spittle of a man, will waste
  And end itself by gnawing up its coil.
  Again, fierce poison is the hellebore
  To us, but puts the fat on goats and quails.
  That thou mayst know by what devices this
  Is brought about, in chief thou must recall
  What we have said before, that seeds are kept
  Commixed in things in divers modes. Again,
  As all the breathing creatures which take food
  Are outwardly unlike, and outer cut
  And contour of their members bounds them round,
  Each differing kind by kind, they thus consist
  Of seeds of varying shape. And furthermore,
  Since seeds do differ, divers too must be
  The interstices and paths (which we do call
  The apertures) in all the members, even
  In mouth and palate too. Thus some must be
  More small or yet more large, three-cornered some
  And others squared, and many others round,
  And certain of them many-angled too
  In many modes. For, as the combination
  And motion of their divers shapes demand,
  The shapes of apertures must be diverse
  And paths must vary according to their walls
  That bound them. Hence when what is sweet to some,
  Becomes to others bitter, for him to whom
  'Tis sweet, the smoothest particles must needs
  Have entered caressingly the palate's pores.
  And, contrariwise, with those to whom that sweet
  Is sour within the mouth, beyond a doubt
  The rough and barbed particles have got
  Into the narrows of the apertures.
  Now easy it is from these affairs to know
  Whatever...

  Indeed, where one from o'er-abundant bile
  Is stricken with fever, or in other wise
  Feels the roused violence of some malady,
  There the whole frame is now upset, and there
  All the positions of the seeds are changed,-
  So that the bodies which before were fit
  To cause the savour, now are fit no more,
  And now more apt are others which be able
  To get within the pores and gender sour.
  Both sorts, in sooth, are intermixed in honey-
  What oft we've proved above to thee before.
    Now come, and I will indicate what wise
  Impact of odour on the nostrils touches.
  And first, 'tis needful there be many things
  From whence the streaming flow of varied odours
  May roll along, and we're constrained to think
  They stream and dart and sprinkle themselves about
  Impartially. But for some breathing creatures
  One odour is more apt, to others another-
  Because of differing forms of seeds and pores.
  Thus on and on along the zephyrs bees
  Are led by odour of honey, vultures too
  By carcasses. Again, the forward power
  Of scent in dogs doth lead the hunter on
  Whithersoever the splay-foot of wild beast
  Hath hastened its career; and the white goose,
  The saviour of the Roman citadel,
  Forescents afar the odour of mankind.
  Thus, diversely to divers ones is given
  Peculiar smell that leadeth each along
  To his own food or makes him start aback
  From loathsome poison, and in this wise are
  The generations of the wild preserved.

    Yet is this pungence not alone in odours
  Or in the class of flavours; but, likewise,
  The look of things and hues agree not all
  So well with senses unto all, but that
  Some unto some will be, to gaze upon,
  More keen and painful. Lo, the raving lions,
  They dare not face and gaze upon the cock
  Who's wont with wings to flap away the night
  From off the stage, and call the beaming morn
  With clarion voice- and lions straightway thus
  Bethink themselves of flight, because, ye see,
  Within the body of the cocks there be
  Some certain seeds, which, into lions' eyes
  Injected, bore into the pupils deep
  And yield such piercing pain they can't hold out
  Against the cocks, however fierce they be-
  Whilst yet these seeds can't hurt our gaze the least,
  Either because they do not penetrate,
  Or since they have free exit from the eyes
  As soon as penetrating, so that thus
  They cannot hurt our eyes in any part
  By there remaining.
                       To speak once more of odour;
  Whatever assail the nostrils, some can travel
  A longer way than others. None of them,
  However, 's borne so far as sound or voice-
  While I omit all mention of such things
  As hit the eyesight and assail the vision.
  For slowly on a wandering course it comes
  And perishes sooner, by degrees absorbed
  Easily into all the winds of air;
  And first, because from deep inside the thing
  It is discharged with labour (for the fact
  That every object, when 'tis shivered, ground,
  Or crumbled by the fire, will smell the stronger
  Is sign that odours flow and part away
  From inner regions of the things). And next,
  Thou mayest see that odour is create
  Of larger primal germs than voice, because
  It enters not through stony walls, wherethrough
  Unfailingly the voice and sound are borne;
  Wherefore, besides, thou wilt observe 'tis not
  So easy to trace out in whatso place
  The smelling object is. For, dallying on
  Along the winds, the particles cool off,
  And then the scurrying messengers of things
  Arrive our senses, when no longer hot.
  So dogs oft wander astray, and hunt the scent.

    Now mark, and hear what objects move the mind,
  And learn, in few, whence unto intellect
  Do come what come. And first I tell thee this:
  That many images of objects rove
  In many modes to every region round-
  So thin that easily the one with other,
  When once they meet, uniteth in mid-air,
  Like gossamer or gold-leaf. For, indeed,
  Far thinner are they in their fabric than
  Those images which take a hold on eyes
  And smite the vision, since through body's pores
  They penetrate, and inwardly stir up
  The subtle nature of mind and smite the sense.
  Thus, Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, thus
  The Cerberus-visages of dogs we see,
  And images of people gone before-
  Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago;
  Because the images of every kind
  Are everywhere about us borne- in part
  Those which are gendered in the very air
  Of own accord, in part those others which
  From divers things do part away, and those
  Which are compounded, made from out their shapes.
  For soothly from no living Centaur is
  That phantom gendered, since no breed of beast
  Like him was ever; but, when images
  Of horse and man by chance have come together,
  They easily cohere, as aforesaid,
  At once, through subtle nature and fabric thin.
  In the same fashion others of this ilk
  Created are. And when they're quickly borne
  In their exceeding lightness, easily
  (As earlier I showed) one subtle image,
  Compounded, moves by its one blow the mind,
  Itself so subtle and so strangely quick.

    That these things come to pass as I record,
  From this thou easily canst understand:
  So far as one is unto other like,
  Seeing with mind as well as with the eyes
  Must come to pass in fashion not unlike.
  Well, now, since I have shown that I perceive
  Haply a lion through those idol-films
  Such as assail my eyes, 'tis thine to know
  Also the mind is in like manner moved,
  And sees, nor more nor less than eyes do see
  (Except that it perceives more subtle films)
  The lion and aught else through idol-films.
  And when the sleep has overset our frame,
  The mind's intelligence is now awake,
  Still for no other reason, save that these-
  The self-same films as when we are awake-
  Assail our minds, to such degree indeed
  That we do seem to see for sure the man
  Whom, void of life, now death and earth have gained
  Dominion over. And Nature forces this
  To come to pass because the body's senses
  Are resting, thwarted through the members all,
  Unable now to conquer false with true;
  And memory lies prone and languishes
  In slumber, nor protests that he, the man
  Whom the mind feigns to see alive, long since
  Hath been the gain of death and dissolution.

    And further, 'tis no marvel idols move
  And toss their arms and other members round
  In rhythmic time- and often in men's sleeps
  It haps an image this is seen to do;
  In sooth, when perishes the former image,
  And other is gendered of another pose,
  That former seemeth to have changed its gestures.
  Of course the change must be conceived as speedy;
  So great the swiftness and so great the store
  Of idol-things, and (in an instant brief
  As mind can mark) so great, again, the store
  Of separate idol-parts to bring supplies.

    It happens also that there is supplied
  Sometimes an image not of kind the same;
  But what before was woman, now at hand
  Is seen to stand there, altered into male;
  Or other visage, other age succeeds;
  But slumber and oblivion take care
  That we shall feel no wonder at the thing.

    And much in these affairs demands inquiry,
  And much, illumination- if we crave
  With plainness to exhibit facts. And first,
  Why doth the mind of one to whom the whim
  To think has come behold forthwith that thing?
  Or do the idols watch upon our will,
  And doth an image unto us occur,
  Directly we desire- if heart prefer
  The sea, the land, or after all the sky?
  Assemblies of the citizens, parades,
  Banquets, and battles, these and all doth she,
  Nature, create and furnish at our word?
  Maugre the fact that in same place and spot
  Another's mind is meditating things
  All far unlike. And what, again, of this:
  When we in sleep behold the idols step,
  In measure, forward, moving supple limbs,
  Whilst forth they put each supple arm in turn
  With speedy motion, and with eyeing heads
  Repeat the movement, as the foot keeps time?
  Forsooth, the idols they are steeped in art,
  And wander to and fro well taught indeed,-
  Thus to be able in the time of night
  To make such games! Or will the truth be this:
  Because in one least moment that we mark-
  That is, the uttering of a single sound-
  There lurk yet many moments, which the reason
  Discovers to exist, therefore it comes
  That, in a moment how so brief ye will,
  The divers idols are hard by, and ready
  Each in its place diverse? So great the swiftness,
  So great, again, the store of idol-things,
  And so, when perishes the former image,
  And other is gendered of another pose,
  The former seemeth to have changed its gestures.
  And since they be so tenuous, mind can mark
  Sharply alone the ones it strains to see;
  And thus the rest do perish one and all,
  Save those for which the mind prepares itself.
  Further, it doth prepare itself indeed,
  And hopes to see what follows after each-
  Hence this result. For hast thou not observed
  How eyes, essaying to perceive the fine,
  Will strain in preparation, otherwise
  Unable sharply to perceive at all?
  Yet know thou canst that, even in objects plain,
  If thou attendest not, 'tis just the same
  As if 'twere all the time removed and far.
  What marvel, then, that mind doth lose the rest,
  Save those to which 'thas given up itself?
  So 'tis that we conjecture from small signs
  Things wide and weighty, and involve ourselves
  In snarls of self-deceit.
                SOME VITAL FUNCTIONS

                             In these affairs
  We crave that thou wilt passionately flee
  The one offence, and anxiously wilt shun
  The error of presuming the clear lights
  Of eyes created were that we might see;
  Or thighs and knees, aprop upon the feet,
  Thuswise can bended be, that we might step
  With goodly strides ahead; or forearms joined
  Unto the sturdy uppers, or serving hands
  On either side were given, that we might do
  Life's own demands. All such interpretation
  Is aft-for-fore with inverse reasoning,
  Since naught is born in body so that we
  May use the same, but birth engenders use:
  No seeing ere the lights of eyes were born,
  No speaking ere the tongue created was;
  But origin of tongue came long before
  Discourse of words, and ears created were
  Much earlier than any sound was heard;
  And all the members, so meseems, were there
  Before they got their use: and therefore, they
  Could not be gendered for the sake of use.
  But contrariwise, contending in the fight
  With hand to hand, and rending of the joints,
  And fouling of the limbs with gore, was there,
  O long before the gleaming spears ere flew;
  And Nature prompted man to shun a wound,
  Before the left arm by the aid of art
  Opposed the shielding targe. And, verily,
  Yielding the weary body to repose,
  Far ancienter than cushions of soft beds,
  And quenching thirst is earlier than cups.
  These objects, therefore, which for use and life
  Have been devised, can be conceived as found
  For sake of using. But apart from such
  Are all which first were born and afterwards
  Gave knowledge of their own utility-
  Chief in which sort we note the senses, limbs:
  Wherefore, again, 'tis quite beyond thy power
  To hold that these could thus have been create
  For office of utility.
                          Likewise,
  'Tis nothing strange that all the breathing creatures
  Seek, even by nature of their frame, their food.
  Yes, since I've taught thee that from off the things
  Stream and depart innumerable bodies
  In modes innumerable too; but most
  Must be the bodies streaming from the living-
  Which bodies, vexed by motion evermore,
  Are through the mouth exhaled innumerable,
  When weary creatures pant, or through the sweat
  Squeezed forth innumerable from deep within.
  Thus body rarefies, so undermined
  In all its nature, and pain attends its state.
  And so the food is taken to underprop
  The tottering joints, and by its interfusion
  To re-create their powers, and there stop up
  The longing, open-mouthed through limbs and veins,
  For eating. And the moist no less departs
  Into all regions that demand the moist;
  And many heaped-up particles of hot,
  Which cause such burnings in these bellies of ours,
  The liquid on arriving dissipates
  And quenches like a fire, that parching heat
  No longer now can scorch the frame. And so,
  Thou seest how panting thirst is washed away
  From off our body, how the hunger-pang
  It, too, appeased.
                       Now, how it comes that we,
  Whene'er we wish, can step with strides ahead,
  And how 'tis given to move our limbs about,
  And what device is wont to push ahead
  This the big load of our corporeal frame,
  I'll say to thee- do thou attend what's said.
  I say that first some idol-films of walking
  Into our mind do fall and smite the mind,
  As said before. Thereafter will arises;
  For no one starts to do a thing, before
  The intellect previsions what it wills;
  And what it there pre-visioneth depends
  On what that image is. When, therefore, mind
  Doth so bestir itself that it doth will
  To go and step along, it strikes at once
  That energy of soul that's sown about
  In all the body through the limbs and frame-
  And this is easy of performance, since
  The soul is close conjoined with the mind.
  Next, soul in turn strikes body, and by degrees
  Thus the whole mass is pushed along and moved.
  Then too the body rarefies, and air,
  Forsooth as ever of such nimbleness,
  Comes on and penetrates aboundingly
  Through opened pores, and thus is sprinkled round
  Unto all smallest places in our frame.
  Thus then by these twain factors, severally,
  Body is borne like ship with oars and wind.
  Nor yet in these affairs is aught for wonder
  That particles so fine can whirl around
  So great a body and turn this weight of ours;
  For wind, so tenuous with its subtle body,
  Yet pushes, driving on the mighty ship
  Of mighty bulk; one hand directs the same,
  Whatever its momentum, and one helm
  Whirls it around, whither ye please; and loads,
  Many and huge, are moved and hoisted high
  By enginery of pulley-blocks and wheels,
  With but light strain.
                      Now, by what modes this sleep
  Pours through our members waters of repose
  And frees the breast from cares of mind, I'll tell
  In verses sweeter than they many are;
  Even as the swan's slight note is better far
  Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes
  Among the south wind's aery clouds. Do thou
  Give me sharp ears and a sagacious mind,-
  That thou mayst not deny the things to be
  Whereof I'm speaking, nor depart away
  With bosom scorning these the spoken truths,
  Thyself at fault unable to perceive.
  Sleep chiefly comes when energy of soul
  Hath now been scattered through the frame, and part
  Expelled abroad and gone away, and part
  Crammed back and settling deep within the frame-
  Whereafter then our loosened members droop.
  For doubt is none that by the work of soul
  Exist in us this sense, and when by slumber
  That sense is thwarted, we are bound to think
  The soul confounded and expelled abroad-
  Yet not entirely, else the frame would lie
  Drenched in the everlasting cold of death.
  In sooth, where no one part of soul remained
  Lurking among the members, even as fire
  Lurks buried under many ashes, whence
  Could sense amain rekindled be in members,
  As flame can rise anew from unseen fire?

    By what devices this strange state and new
  May be occasioned, and by what the soul
  Can be confounded and the frame grow faint,
  I will untangle: see to it, thou, that I
  Pour forth my words not unto empty winds.
  In first place, body on its outer parts-
  Since these are touched by neighbouring aery gusts-
  Must there be thumped and strook by blows of air
  Repeatedly. And therefore almost all
  Are covered either with hides, or else with shells,
  Or with the horny callus, or with bark.
  Yet this same air lashes their inner parts,
  When creatures draw a breath or blow it out.
  Wherefore, since body thus is flogged alike
  Upon the inside and the out, and blows
  Come in upon us through the little pores
  Even inward to our body's primal parts
  And primal elements, there comes to pass
  By slow degrees, along our members then,
  A kind of overthrow; for then confounded
  Are those arrangements of the primal germs
  Of body and of mind. It comes to pass
  That next a part of soul's expelled abroad,
  A part retreateth in recesses hid,
  A part, too, scattered all about the frame,
  Cannot become united nor engage
  In interchange of motion. Nature now
  So hedges off approaches and the paths;
  And thus the sense, its motions all deranged,
  Retires down deep within; and since there's naught,
  As 'twere, to prop the frame, the body weakens,
  And all the members languish, and the arms
  And eyelids fall, and, as ye lie abed,
  Even there the houghs will sag and loose their powers.
  Again, sleep follows after food, because
  The food produces same result as air,
  Whilst being scattered round through all the veins;
  And much the heaviest is that slumber which,
  Full or fatigued, thou takest; since 'tis then
  That the most bodies disarrange themselves,
  Bruised by labours hard. And in same wise,
  This three-fold change: a forcing of the soul
  Down deeper, more a casting-forth of it,
  A moving more divided in its parts
  And scattered more.
                        And to whate'er pursuit
  A man most clings absorbed, or what the affairs
  On which we theretofore have tarried much,
  And mind hath strained upon the more, we seem
  In sleep not rarely to go at the same.
  The lawyers seem to plead and cite decrees,
  Commanders they to fight and go at frays,
  Sailors to live in combat with the winds,
  And we ourselves indeed to make this book,
  And still to seek the nature of the world
  And set it down, when once discovered, here
  In these my country's leaves. Thus all pursuits,
  All arts in general seem in sleeps to mock
  And master the minds of men. And whosoever
  Day after day for long to games have given
  Attention undivided, still they keep
  (As oft we note), even when they've ceased to grasp
  Those games with their own senses, open paths
  Within the mind wherethrough the idol-films
  Of just those games can come. And thus it is
  For many a day thereafter those appear
  Floating before the eyes, that even awake
  They think they view the dancers moving round
  Their supple limbs, and catch with both the ears
  The liquid song of harp and speaking chords,
  And view the same assembly on the seats,
  And manifold bright glories of the stage-
  So great the influence of pursuit and zest,
  And of the affairs wherein 'thas been the wont
  Of men to be engaged-nor only men,
  But soothly all the animals. Behold,
  Thou'lt see the sturdy horses, though outstretched,
  Yet sweating in their sleep, and panting ever,
  And straining utmost strength, as if for prize,
  As if, with barriers opened now...
  And hounds of huntsmen oft in soft repose
  Yet toss asudden all their legs about,
  And growl and bark, and with their nostrils sniff
  The winds again, again, though indeed
  They'd caught the scented foot-prints of wild beasts,
  And, even when wakened, often they pursue
  The phantom images of stags, as though
  They did perceive them fleeing on before,
  Until the illusion's shaken off and dogs
  Come to themselves again. And fawning breed
  Of house-bred whelps do feel the sudden urge
  To shake their bodies and start from off the ground,
  As if beholding stranger-visages.
  And ever the fiercer be the stock, the more
  In sleep the same is ever bound to rage.
  But fleet the divers tribes of birds and vex
  With sudden wings by night the groves of gods,
  When in their gentle slumbers they have dreamed
  Of hawks in chase, aswooping on for fight.
  Again, the minds of mortals which perform
  With mighty motions mighty enterprises,
  Often in sleep will do and dare the same
  In manner like. Kings take the towns by storm,
  Succumb to capture, battle on the field,
  Raise a wild cry as if their throats were cut
  Even then and there. And many wrestle on
  And groan with pains, and fill all regions round
  With mighty cries and wild, as if then gnawed
  By fangs of panther or of lion fierce.
  Many amid their slumbers talk about
  Their mighty enterprises, and have often
  Enough become the proof of their own crimes.
  Many meet death; many, as if headlong
  From lofty mountains tumbling down to earth
  With all their frame, are frenzied in their fright;
  And after sleep, as if still mad in mind,
  They scarce come to, confounded as they are
  By ferment of their frame. The thirsty man,
  Likewise, he sits beside delightful spring
  Or river and gulpeth down with gaping throat
  Nigh the whole stream. And oft the innocent young,
  By sleep o'ermastered, think they lift their dress
  By pail or public jordan and then void
  The water filtered down their frame entire
  And drench the Babylonian coverlets,
  Magnificently bright. Again, those males
  Into the surging channels of whose years
  Now first has passed the seed (engendered
  Within their members by the ripened days)
  Are in their sleep confronted from without
  By idol-images of some fair form-
  Tidings of glorious face and lovely bloom,
  Which stir and goad the regions turgid now
  With seed abundant; so that, as it were
  With all the matter acted duly out,
  They pour the billows of a potent stream
  And stain their garment.
                           And as said before,
  That seed is roused in us when once ripe age
  Has made our body strong...

  As divers causes give to divers things
  Impulse and irritation, so one force
  In human kind rouses the human seed
  To spurt from man. As soon as ever it issues,
  Forced from its first abodes, it passes down
  In the whole body through the limbs and frame,
  Meeting in certain regions of our thews,
  And stirs amain the genitals of man.
  The goaded regions swell with seed, and then
  Comes the delight to dart the same at what
  The mad desire so yearns, and body seeks
  That object, whence the mind by love is pierced.
  For well-nigh each man falleth toward his wound,
  And our blood spurts even toward the spot from whence
  The stroke wherewith we are strook, and if indeed
  The foe be close, the red jet reaches him.
  Thus, one who gets a stroke from Venus' shafts-
  Whether a boy with limbs effeminate
  Assault him, or a woman darting love
  From all her body- that one strains to get
  Even to the thing whereby he's hit, and longs
  To join with it and cast into its frame
  The fluid drawn even from within its own.
  For the mute craving doth presage delight.
              THE PASSION OF LOVE

    This craving 'tis that's Venus unto us:
  From this, engender all the lures of love,
  From this, O first hath into human hearts
  Trickled that drop of joyance which ere long
  Is by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed,
  Though she thou lovest now be far away,
  Yet idol-images of her are near
  And the sweet name is floating in thy ear.
  But it behooves to flee those images;
  And scare afar whatever feeds thy love;
  And turn elsewhere thy mind; and vent the sperm,
  Within thee gathered, into sundry bodies,
  Nor, with thy thoughts still busied with one love,
  Keep it for one delight, and so store up
  Care for thyself and pain inevitable.
  For, lo, the ulcer just by nourishing
  Grows to more life with deep inveteracy,
  And day by day the fury swells aflame,
  And the woe waxes heavier day by day-
  Unless thou dost destroy even by new blows
  The former wounds of love, and curest them
  While yet they're fresh, by wandering freely round
  After the freely-wandering Venus, or
  Canst lead elsewhere the tumults of thy mind.
    Nor doth that man who keeps away from love
  Yet lack the fruits of Venus; rather takes
  Those pleasures which are free of penalties.
  For the delights of Venus, verily,
  Are more unmixed for mortals sane-of-soul
  Than for those sick-at-heart with love-pining.
  Yea, in the very moment of possessing,
  Surges the heat of lovers to and fro,
  Restive, uncertain; and they cannot fix
  On what to first enjoy with eyes and hands.
  The parts they sought for, those they squeeze so tight,
  And pain the creature's body, close their teeth
  Often against her lips, and smite with kiss
  Mouth into mouth,- because this same delight
  Is not unmixed; and underneath are stings
  Which goad a man to hurt the very thing,
  Whate'er it be, from whence arise for him
  Those germs of madness. But with gentle touch
  Venus subdues the pangs in midst of love,
  And the admixture of a fondling joy
  Doth curb the bites of passion. For they hope
  That by the very body whence they caught
  The heats of love their flames can be put out.
  But Nature protests 'tis all quite otherwise;
  For this same love it is the one sole thing
  Of which, the more we have, the fiercer burns
  The breast with fell desire. For food and drink
  Are taken within our members; and, since they
  Can stop up certain parts, thus, easily
  Desire of water is glutted and of bread.
  But, lo, from human face and lovely bloom
  Naught penetrates our frame to be enjoyed
  Save flimsy idol-images and vain-
  A sorry hope which oft the winds disperse.
  As when the thirsty man in slumber seeks
  To drink, and water ne'er is granted him
  Wherewith to quench the heat within his members,
  But after idols of the liquids strives
  And toils in vain, and thirsts even whilst he gulps
  In middle of the torrent, thus in love
  Venus deludes with idol-images
  The lovers. Nor they cannot sate their lust
  By merely gazing on the bodies, nor
  They cannot with their palms and fingers rub
  Aught from each tender limb, the while they stray
  Uncertain over all the body. Then,
  At last, with members intertwined, when they
  Enjoy the flower of their age, when now
  Their bodies have sweet presage of keen joys,
  And Venus is about to sow the fields
  Of woman, greedily their frames they lock,
  And mingle the slaver of their mouths, and breathe
  Into each other, pressing teeth on mouths-
  Yet to no purpose, since they're powerless
  To rub off aught, or penetrate and pass
  With body entire into body- for oft
  They seem to strive and struggle thus to do;
  So eagerly they cling in Venus' bonds,
  Whilst melt away their members, overcome
  By violence of delight. But when at last
  Lust, gathered in the thews, hath spent itself,
  There come a brief pause in the raging heat-
  But then a madness just the same returns
  And that old fury visits them again,
  When once again they seek and crave to reach
  They know not what, all powerless to find
  The artifice to subjugate the bane.
  In such uncertain state they waste away
  With unseen wound.
                      To which be added too,
  They squander powers and with the travail wane;
  Be added too, they spend their futile years
  Under another's beck and call; their duties
  Neglected languish and their honest name
  Reeleth sick, sick; and meantime their estates
  Are lost in Babylonian tapestries;
  And unguents and dainty Sicyonian shoes
  Laugh on their feet; and (as ye may be sure)
  Big emeralds of green light are set in gold;
  And rich sea-purple dress by constant wear
  Grows shabby and all soaked with Venus' sweat;
  And the well-earned ancestral property
  Becometh head-bands, coifs, and many a time
  The cloaks, or garments Alidensian
  Or of the Cean isle. And banquets, set
  With rarest cloth and viands, are prepared-
  And games of chance, and many a drinking cup,
  And unguents, crowns and garlands. All in vain,
  Since from amid the well-spring of delights
  Bubbles some drop of bitter to torment
  Among the very flowers- when haply mind
  Gnaws into self, now stricken with remorse
  For slothful years and ruin in bordels,
  Or else because she's left him all in doubt
  By launching some sly word, which still like fire
  Lives wildly, cleaving to his eager heart;
  Or else because he thinks she darts her eyes
  Too much about and gazes at another,
  And in her face sees traces of a laugh.

    These ills are found in prospering love and true;
  But in crossed love and helpless there be such
  As through shut eyelids thou canst still take in-
  Uncounted ills; so that 'tis better far
  To watch beforehand, in the way I've shown,
  And guard against enticements. For to shun
  A fall into the hunting-snares of love
  Is not so hard, as to get out again,
  When tangled in the very nets, and burst
  The stoutly-knotted cords of Aphrodite.
  Yet even when there enmeshed with tangled feet,
  Still canst thou scape the danger-lest indeed
  Thou standest in the way of thine own good,
  And overlookest first all blemishes
  Of mind and body of thy much preferred,
  Desirable dame. For so men do,
  Eyeless with passion, and assign to them
  Graces not theirs in fact. And thus we see
  Creatures in many a wise crooked and ugly
  The prosperous sweethearts in a high esteem;
  And lovers gird each other and advise
  To placate Venus, since their friends are smit
  With a base passion- miserable dupes
  Who seldom mark their own worst bane of all.
  The black-skinned girl is "tawny like the honey";
  The filthy and the fetid's "negligee";
  The cat-eyed she's "a little Pallas," she;
  The sinewy and wizened's "a gazelle";
  The pudgy and the pigmy is "piquant,
  One of the Graces sure"; the big and bulky
  O she's "an Admiration, imposante";
  The stuttering and tongue-tied "sweetly lisps";
  The mute girl's "modest"; and the garrulous,
  The spiteful spit-fire, is "a sparkling wit";
  And she who scarcely lives for scrawniness
  Becomes "a slender darling"; "delicate"
  Is she who's nearly dead of coughing-fit;
  The pursy female with protuberant breasts
  She is "like Ceres when the goddess gave
  Young Bacchus suck"; the pug-nosed lady-love
  "A Satyress, a feminine Silenus";
  The blubber-lipped is "all one luscious kiss"-
  A weary while it were to tell the whole.
  But let her face possess what charm ye will,
  Let Venus' glory rise from all her limbs,-
  Forsooth there still are others; and forsooth
  We lived before without her; and forsooth
  She does the same things- and we know she does-
  All, as the ugly creature and she scents,
  Yes she, her wretched self with vile perfumes;
  Whom even her handmaids flee and giggle at
  Behind her back. But he, the lover, in tears
  Because shut out, covers her threshold o'er
  Often with flowers and garlands, and anoints
  Her haughty door-posts with the marjoram,
  And prints, poor fellow, kisses on the doors-
  Admitted at last, if haply but one whiff
  Got to him on approaching, he would seek
  Decent excuses to go out forthwith;
  And his lament, long pondered, then would fall
  Down at his heels; and there he'd damn himself
  For his fatuity, observing how
  He had assigned to that same lady more-
  Than it is proper to concede to mortals.
  And these our Venuses are 'ware of this.
  Wherefore the more are they at pains to hide
  All the-behind-the-scenes of life from those
  Whom they desire to keep in bonds of love-
  In vain, since ne'ertheless thou canst by thought
  Drag all the matter forth into the light
  And well search out the cause of all these smiles;
  And if of graceful mind she be and kind,
  Do thou, in thy turn, overlook the same,
  And thus allow for poor mortality.

    Nor sighs the woman always with feigned love,
  Who links her body round man's body locked
  And holds him fast, making his kisses wet
  With lips sucked into lips; for oft she acts
  Even from desire, and, seeking mutual joys,
  Incites him there to run love's race-course through.
  Nor otherwise can cattle, birds, wild beasts,
  And sheep and mares submit unto the males,
  Except that their own nature is in heat,
  And burns abounding and with gladness takes
  Once more the Venus of the mounting males.
  And seest thou not how those whom mutual pleasure
  Hath bound are tortured in their common bonds?
  How often in the cross-roads dogs that pant
  To get apart strain eagerly asunder
  With utmost might?- When all the while they're fast
  In the stout links of Venus. But they'd ne'er
  So pull, except they knew those mutual joys-
  So powerful to cast them unto snares
  And hold them bound. Wherefore again, again,
  Even as I say, there is a joint delight.

    And when perchance, in mingling seed with his,
  The female hath o'erpowered the force of male
  And by a sudden fling hath seized it fast,
  Then are the offspring, more from mothers' seed,
  More like their mothers; as, from fathers' seed,
  They're like to fathers. But whom seest to be
  Partakers of each shape, one equal blend
  Of parents' features, these are generate
  From fathers' body and from mothers' blood,
  When mutual and harmonious heat hath dashed
  Together seeds, aroused along their frames
  By Venus' goads, and neither of the twain
  Mastereth or is mastered. Happens too
  That sometimes offspring can to being come
  In likeness of their grandsires, and bring back
  Often the shapes of grandsires' sires, because
  Their parents in their bodies oft retain
  Concealed many primal germs, commixed
  In many modes, which, starting with the stock,
  Sire handeth down to son, himself a sire;
  Whence Venus by a variable chance
  Engenders shapes, and diversely brings back
  Ancestral features, voices too, and hair.
  A female generation rises forth
  From seed paternal, and from mother's body
  Exist created males: since sex proceeds
  No more from singleness of seed than faces
  Or bodies or limbs of ours: for every birth
  Is from a twofold seed; and what's created
  Hath, of that parent which it is more like,
  More than its equal share; as thou canst mark,-
  Whether the breed be male or female stock.
    Nor do the powers divine grudge any man
  The fruits of his seed-sowing, so that never
  He be called "father" by sweet children his,
  And end his days in sterile love forever.
  What many men suppose; and gloomily
  They sprinkle the altars with abundant blood,
  And make the high platforms odorous with burnt gifts,
  To render big by plenteous seed their wives-
  And plague in vain godheads and sacred lots.
  For sterile, are these men by seed too thick,
  Or else by far too watery and thin.
  Because the thin is powerless to cleave
  Fast to the proper places, straightaway
  It trickles from them, and, returned again,
  Retires abortively. And then since seed
  More gross and solid than will suit is spent
  By some men, either it flies not forth amain
  With spurt prolonged enough, or else it fails
  To enter suitably the proper places,
  Or, having entered, the seed is weakly mixed
  With seed of the woman: harmonies of Venus
  Are seen to matter vastly here; and some
  Impregnate some more readily, and from some
  Some women conceive more readily and become
  Pregnant. And many women, sterile before
  In several marriage-beds, have yet thereafter
  Obtained the mates from whom they could conceive
  The baby-boys, and with sweet progeny
  Grow rich. And even for husbands (whose own wives,
  Although of fertile wombs, have borne for them
  No babies in the house) are also found
  Concordant natures so that they at last
  Can bulwark their old age with goodly sons.
  A matter of great moment 'tis in truth,
  That seeds may mingle readily with seeds
  Suited for procreation, and that thick
  Should mix with fluid seeds, with thick the fluid.
  And in this business 'tis of some import
  Upon what diet life is nourished:
  For some foods thicken seeds within our members,
  And others thin them out and waste away.
  And in what modes the fond delight itself
  Is carried on- this too importeth vastly.
  For commonly 'tis thought that wives conceive
  More readily in manner of wild-beasts,
  After the custom of the four-foot breeds,
  Because so postured, with the breasts beneath
  And buttocks then upreared, the seeds can take
  Their proper places. Nor is need the least
  For wives to use the motions of blandishment;
  For thus the woman hinders and resists
  Her own conception, if too joyously
  Herself she treats the Venus of the man
  With haunches heaving, and with all her bosom
  Now yielding like the billows of the sea-
  Aye, from the ploughshare's even course and track
  She throws the furrow, and from proper places
  Deflects the spurt of seed. And courtesans
  Are thuswise wont to move for their own ends,
  To keep from pregnancy and lying in,
  And all the while to render Venus more
  A pleasure for the men- the which meseems
  Our wives have never need of.
                                Sometimes too
  It happens- and through no divinity
  Nor arrows of Venus- that a sorry chit
  Of scanty grace will be beloved by man;
  For sometimes she herself by very deeds,
  By her complying ways, and tidy habits,
  Will easily accustom thee to pass
  With her thy life-time- and, moreover, lo,
  Long habitude can gender human love,
  Even as an object smitten o'er and o'er
  By blows, however lightly, yet at last
  Is overcome and wavers. Seest thou not,
  Besides, how drops of water falling down
  Against the stones at last bore through the stones?
                                     BOOK V
                        PROEM
  O who can build with puissant breast a song
  Worthy the majesty of these great finds?
  Or who in words so strong that he can frame
  The fit laudations for deserts of him
  Who left us heritors of such vast prizes,
  By his own breast discovered and sought out?-
  There shall be none, methinks, of mortal stock.
  For if must needs be named for him the name
  Demanded by the now known majesty
  Of these high matters, then a god was he,-
  Hear me, illustrious Memmius- a god;
  Who first and chief found out that plan of life
  Which now is called philosophy, and who
  By cunning craft, out of such mighty waves,
  Out of such mighty darkness, moored life
  In havens so serene, in light so clear.
  Compare those old discoveries divine
  Of others: lo, according to the tale,
  Ceres established for mortality
  The grain, and Bacchus juice of vine-born grape,
  Though life might yet without these things abide,
  Even as report saith now some peoples live.
  But man's well-being was impossible
  Without a breast all free. Wherefore the more
  That man doth justly seem to us a god,
  From whom sweet solaces of life, afar
  Distributed o'er populous domains,
  Now soothe the minds of men. But if thou thinkest
  Labours of Hercules excel the same,
  Much farther from true reasoning thou farest.
  For what could hurt us now that mighty maw
  Of Nemeaean Lion, or what the Boar
  Who bristled in Arcadia? Or, again,
  O what could Cretan Bull, or Hydra, pest
  Of Lerna, fenced with vipers venomous?
  Or what the triple-breasted power of her
  The three-fold Geryon...

  The sojourners in the Stymphalian fens
  So dreadfully offend us, or the Steeds
  Of Thracian Diomedes breathing fire
  From out their nostrils off along the zones
  Bistonian and Ismarian? And the Snake,
  The dread fierce gazer, guardian of the golden
  And gleaming apples of the Hesperides,
  Coiled round the tree-trunk with tremendous bulk,
  O what, again, could he inflict on us
  Along the Atlantic shore and wastes of sea?-
  Where neither one of us approacheth nigh
  Nor no barbarian ventures. And the rest
  Of all those monsters slain, even if alive,
  Unconquered still, what injury could they do?
  None, as I guess. For so the glutted earth
  Swarms even now with savage beasts, even now
  Is filled with anxious terrors through the woods
  And mighty mountains and the forest deeps-
  Quarters 'tis ours in general to avoid.
  But lest the breast be purged, what conflicts then,
  What perils, must bosom, in our own despite!
  O then how great and keen the cares of lust
  That split the man distraught! How great the fears!
  And lo, the pride, grim greed, and wantonness-
  How great the slaughters in their train! and lo,
  Debaucheries and every breed of sloth!
  Therefore that man who subjugated these,
  And from the mind expelled, by words indeed,
  Not arms, O shall it not be seemly him
  To dignify by ranking with the gods?-
  And all the more since he was wont to give,
  Concerning the immortal gods themselves,
  Many pronouncements with a tongue divine,
  And to unfold by his pronouncements all
  The nature of the world.
             ARGUMENT OF THE BOOK AND NEW
              PROEM AGAINST TELEOLOGICAL
                       CONCEPT

                                And walking now
  In his own footprints, I do follow through
  His reasonings, and with pronouncements teach
  The covenant whereby all things are framed,
  How under that covenant they must abide
  Nor ever prevail to abrogate the aeons'
  Inexorable decrees- how (as we've found),
  In class of mortal objects, o'er all else,
  The mind exists of earth-born frame create
  And impotent unscathed to abide
  Across the mighty aeons, and how come
  In sleep those idol-apparitions
  That so befool intelligence when we
  Do seem to view a man whom life has left.
  Thus far we've gone; the order of my plan
  Hath brought me now unto the point where I
  Must make report how, too, the universe
  Consists of mortal body, born in time,
  And in what modes that congregated stuff
  Established itself as earth and sky,
  Ocean, and stars, and sun, and ball of moon;
  And then what living creatures rose from out
  The old telluric places, and what ones
  Were never born at all; and in what mode
  The human race began to name its things
  And use the varied speech from man to man;
  And in what modes hath bosomed in their breasts
  That awe of gods, which halloweth in all lands
  Fanes, altars, groves, lakes, idols of the gods.
  Also I shall untangle by what power
  The steersman Nature guides the sun's courses,
  And the meanderings of the moon, lest we,
  Percase, should fancy that of own free will
  They circle their perennial courses round,
  Timing their motions for increase of crops
  And living creatures, or lest we should think
  They roll along by any plan of gods.
  For even those men who have learned full well
  That godheads lead a long life free of care,
  If yet meanwhile they wonder by what plan
  Things can go on (and chiefly yon high things
  Observed o'erhead on the ethereal coasts),
  Again are hurried back unto the fears
  Of old religion and adopt again
  Harsh masters, deemed almighty- wretched men,
  Unwitting what can be and what cannot,
  And by what law to each its scope prescribed,
  Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time.

    But for the rest, lest we delay thee here
  Longer by empty promises- behold,
  Before all else, the seas, the lands, the sky:
  O Memmius, their threefold nature, lo,
  Their bodies three, three aspects so unlike,
  Three frames so vast, a single day shall give
  Unto annihilation! Then shall crash
  That massive form and fabric of the world
  Sustained so many aeons! Nor do I
  Fail to perceive how strange and marvellous
  This fact must strike the intellect of man,-
  Annihilation of the sky and earth
  That is to be,- and with what toil of words
  'Tis mine to prove the same; as happens oft
  When once ye offer to man's listening ears
  Something before unheard of, but may not
  Subject it to the view of eyes for him
  Nor put it into hand- the sight and touch,
  Whereby the opened highways of belief
  Lead most directly into human breast
  And regions of intelligence. But yet
  I will speak out. The fact itself, perchance,
  Will force belief in these my words, and thou
  Mayst see, in little time, tremendously
  With risen commotions of the lands all things
  Quaking to pieces- which afar from us
  May she, the steersman Nature, guide: and may
  Reason, O rather than the fact itself,
  Persuade us that all things can be o'erthrown
  And sink with awful-sounding breakage down!

    But ere on this I take a step to utter
  Oracles holier and soundlier based
  Than ever the Pythian pronounced for men
  From out the tripod and the Delphian laurel,
  I will unfold for thee with learned words
  Many a consolation, lest perchance,
  Still bridled by religion, thou suppose
  Lands, sun, and sky, sea, constellations, moon,
  Must dure forever, as of frame divine-
  And so conclude that it is just that those,
  (After the manner of the Giants), should all
  Pay the huge penalties for monstrous crime,
  Who by their reasonings do overshake
  The ramparts of the universe and wish
  There to put out the splendid sun of heaven,
  Branding with mortal talk immortal things-
  Though these same things are even so far removed
  From any touch of deity and seem
  So far unworthy of numbering with the gods,
  That well they may be thought to furnish rather
  A goodly instance of the sort of things
  That lack the living motion, living sense.
  For sure 'tis quite beside the mark to think
  That judgment and the nature of the mind
  In any kind of body can exist-
  Just as in ether can't exist a tree,
  Nor clouds in the salt sea, nor in the fields
  Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be,
  Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged
  Where everything may grow and have its place.
  Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone
  Without the body, nor have its being far
  From thews and blood. Yet if 'twere possible?-
  Much rather might this very power of mind
  Be in the head, the shoulders, or the heels,
  And, born in any part soever, yet
  In the same man, in the same vessel abide
  But since within this body even of ours
  Stands fixed and appears arranged sure
  Where soul and mind can each exist and grow,
  Deny we must the more that they can dure
  Outside the body and the breathing form
  In rotting clods of earth, in the sun's fire,
  In water, or in ether's skiey coasts.
  Therefore these things no whit are furnished
  With sense divine, since never can they be
  With life-force quickened.
                           Likewise, thou canst ne'er
  Believe the sacred seats of gods are here
  In any regions of this mundane world;
  Indeed, the nature of the gods, so subtle,
  So far removed from these our senses, scarce
  Is seen even by intelligence of mind.
  And since they've ever eluded touch and thrust
  Of human hands, they cannot reach to grasp
  Aught tangible to us. For what may not
  Itself be touched in turn can never touch.
  Wherefore, besides, also their seats must be
  Unlike these seats of ours,- even subtle too,
  As meet for subtle essence- as I'll prove
  Hereafter unto thee with large discourse.
  Further, to say that for the sake of men
  They willed to prepare this world's magnificence,
  And that 'tis therefore duty and behoof
  To praise the work of gods as worthy praise,
  And that 'tis sacrilege for men to shake
  Ever by any force from out their seats
  What hath been stablished by the Forethought old
  To everlasting for races of mankind,
  And that 'tis sacrilege to assault by words
  And overtopple all from base to beam,-
  Memmius, such notions to concoct and pile,
  Is verily- to dote. Our gratefulness,
  O what emoluments could it confer
  Upon Immortals and upon the Blessed
  That they should take a step to manage aught
  For sake of us? Or what new factor could,
  After so long a time, inveigle them-
  The hitherto reposeful- to desire
  To change their former life? For rather he
  Whom old things chafe seems likely to rejoice
  At new; but one that in fore-passed time
  Hath chanced upon no ill, through goodly years.
  O what could ever enkindle in such an one
  Passion for strange experiment? Or what
  The evil for us, if we had ne'er been born?-
  As though, forsooth, in darkling realms and woe
  Our life were lying till should dawn at last
  The day-spring of creation! Whosoever
  Hath been begotten wills perforce to stay
  In life, so long as fond delight detains;
  But whoso ne'er hath tasted love of life,
  And ne'er was in the count of living things,
  What hurts it him that he was never born?
  Whence, further, first was planted in the gods
  The archetype for gendering the world
  And the fore-notion of what man is like,
  So that they knew and pre-conceived with mind
  Just what they wished to make? Or how were known
  Ever the energies of primal germs,
  And what those germs, by interchange of place,
  Could thus produce, if nature's self had not
  Given example for creating all?
  For in such wise primordials of things,
  Many in many modes, astir by blows
  From immemorial aeons, in motion too
  By their own weights, have evermore been wont
  To be so borne along and in all modes
  To meet together and to try all sorts
  Which, by combining one with other, they
  Are powerful to create, that thus it is
  No marvel now, if they have also fallen
  Into arrangements such, and if they've passed
  Into vibrations such, as those whereby
  This sum of things is carried on to-day
  By fixed renewal. But knew I never what
  The seeds primordial were, yet would I dare
  This to affirm, even from deep judgments based
  Upon the ways and conduct of the skies-
  This to maintain by many a fact besides-
  That in no wise the nature of all things
  For us was fashioned by a power divine-
  So great the faults it stands encumbered with.
  First, mark all regions which are overarched
  By the prodigious reaches of the sky:
  One yawning part thereof the mountain-chains
  And forests of the beasts do have and hold;
  And cliffs, and desert fens, and wastes of sea
  (Which sunder afar the beaches of the lands)
  Possess it merely; and, again, thereof
  Well-nigh two-thirds intolerable heat
  And a perpetual fall of frost doth rob
  From mortal kind. And what is left to till,
  Even that the force of Nature would o'errun
  With brambles, did not human force oppose,-
  Long wont for livelihood to groan and sweat
  Over the two-pronged mattock and to cleave
  The soil in twain by pressing on the plough.

  Unless, by the ploughshare turning the fruitful clods
  And kneading the mould, we quicken into birth,
  The crops spontaneously could not come up
  Into the free bright air. Even then sometimes,
  When things acquired by the sternest toil
  Are now in leaf, are now in blossom all,
  Either the skiey sun with baneful heats
  Parches, or sudden rains or chilling rime
  Destroys, or flaws of winds with furious whirl
  Torment and twist. Beside these matters, why
  Doth Nature feed and foster on land and sea
  The dreadful breed of savage beasts, the foes
  Of the human clan? Why do the seasons bring
  Distempers with them? Wherefore stalks at large
  Death, so untimely? Then, again, the babe,
  Like to the castaway of the raging surf,
  Lies naked on the ground, speechless, in want
  Of every help for life, when Nature first
  Hath poured him forth upon the shores of light
  With birth-pangs from within the mother's womb,
  And with a plaintive wail he fills the place,-
  As well befitting one for whom remains
  In life a journey through so many ills.
  But all the flocks and herds and all wild beasts
  Come forth and grow, nor need the little rattles,
  Nor must be treated to the humouring nurse's
  Dear, broken chatter; nor seek they divers clothes
  To suit the changing skies; nor need, in fine,
  Nor arms, nor lofty ramparts, wherewithal
  Their own to guard- because the earth herself
  And Nature, artificer of the world, bring forth
  Aboundingly all things for all.
               THE WORLD IS NOT ETERNAL

                              And first,
  Since body of earth and water, air's light breath,
  And fiery exhalations (of which four
  This sum of things is seen to be compact)
  So all have birth and perishable frame,
  Thus the whole nature of the world itself
  Must be conceived as perishable too.
  For, verily, those things of which we see
  The parts and members to have birth in time
  And perishable shapes, those same we mark
  To be invariably born in time
  And born to die. And therefore when I see
  The mightiest members and the parts of this
  Our world consumed and begot again,
  'Tis mine to know that also sky above
  And earth beneath began of old in time
  And shall in time go under to disaster.
    And lest in these affairs thou deemest me
  To have seized upon this point by sleight to serve
  My own caprice- because I have assumed
  That earth and fire are mortal things indeed,
  And have not doubted water and the air
  Both perish too and have affirmed the same
  To be again begotten and wax big-
  Mark well the argument: in first place, lo,
  Some certain parts of earth, grievously parched
  By unremitting suns, and trampled on
  By a vast throng of feet, exhale abroad
  A powdery haze and flying clouds of dust,
  Which the stout winds disperse in the whole air.
  A part, moreover, of her sod and soil
  Is summoned to inundation by the rains;
  And rivers graze and gouge the banks away.
  Besides, whatever takes a part its own
  In fostering and increasing aught...

  Is rendered back; and since, beyond a doubt,
  Earth, the all-mother, is beheld to be
  Likewise the common sepulchre of things,
  Therefore thou seest her minished of her plenty,
  And then again augmented with new growth.

    And for the rest, that sea, and streams, and springs
  Forever with new waters overflow
  And that perennially the fluids well.
  Needeth no words- the mighty flux itself
  Of multitudinous waters round about
  Declareth this. But whatso water first
  Streams up is ever straightway carried off,
  And thus it comes to pass that all in all
  There is no overflow; in part because
  The burly winds (that over-sweep amain)
  And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves)
  Do minish the level seas; in part because
  The water is diffused underground
  Through all the lands. The brine is filtered off,
  And then the liquid stuff seeps back again
  And all re-gathers at the river-heads,
  Whence in fresh-water currents on it flows
  Over the lands, adown the channels which
  Were cleft erstwhile and erstwhile bore along
  The liquid-footed floods.
                              Now, then, of air
  I'll speak, which hour by hour in all its body
  Is changed innumerably. For whatso'er
  Streams up in dust or vapour off of things,
  The same is all and always borne along
  Into the mighty ocean of the air;
  And did not air in turn restore to things
  Bodies, and thus recruit them as they stream,
  All things by this time had resolved been
  And changed into air. Therefore it never
  Ceases to be engendered off of things
  And to return to things, since verily
  In constant flux do all things stream.
                                  Likewise,
  The abounding well-spring of the liquid light,
  The ethereal sun, doth flood the heaven o'er
  With constant flux of radiance ever new,
  And with fresh light supplies the place of light,
  Upon the instant. For whatever effulgence
  Hath first streamed off, no matter where it falls,
  Is lost unto the sun. And this 'tis thine
  To know from these examples: soon as clouds
  Have first begun to under-pass the sun,
  And, as it were, to rend the days of light
  In twain, at once the lower part of them
  Is lost entire, and earth is overcast
  Where'er the thunderheads are rolled along-
  So know thou mayst that things forever need
  A fresh replenishment of gleam and glow,
  And each effulgence, foremost flashed forth,
  Perisheth one by one. Nor otherwise
  Can things be seen in sunlight, lest alway
  The fountain-head of light supply new light.
  Indeed your earthly beacons of the night,
  The hanging lampions and the torches, bright
  With darting gleams and dense with livid soot,
  Do hurry in like manner to supply
  With ministering heat new light amain;
  Are all alive to quiver with their fires,-
  Are so alive, that thus the light ne'er leaves
  The spots it shines on, as if rent in twain:
  So speedily is its destruction veiled
  By the swift birth of flame from all the fires.
  Thus, then, we must suppose that sun and moon
  And stars dart forth their light from under-births
  Ever and ever new, and whatso flames
  First rise do perish always one by one-
  Lest, haply, thou shouldst think they each endure
  Inviolable.
               Again, perceivest not
  How stones are also conquered by Time?-
  Not how the lofty towers ruin down,
  And boulders crumble?- Not how shrines of gods
  And idols crack outworn?- Nor how indeed
  The holy Influence hath yet no power
  There to postpone the Terminals of Fate,
  Or headway make 'gainst Nature's fixed decrees?
  Again, behold we not the monuments
  Of heroes, now in ruins, asking us,
  In their turn likewise, if we don't believe
  They also age with eld? Behold we not
  The rended basalt ruining amain
  Down from the lofty mountains, powerless
  To dure and dree the mighty forces there
  Of finite time?- for they would never fall
  Rended asudden, if from infinite Past
  They had prevailed against all engin'ries
  Of the assaulting aeons, with no crash.
    Again, now look at This, which round, above,
  Contains the whole earth in its one embrace:
  If from itself it procreates all things-
  As some men tell- and takes them to itself
  When once destroyed, entirely must it be
  Of mortal birth and body; for whate'er
  From out itself giveth to other things
  Increase and food, the same perforce must be
  Minished, and then recruited when it takes
  Things back into itself.
                           Besides all this,
  If there had been no origin-in-birth
  Of lands and sky, and they had ever been
  The everlasting, why, ere Theban war
  And obsequies of Troy, have other bards
  Not also chanted other high affairs?
  Whither have sunk so oft so many deeds
  Of heroes? Why do those deeds live no more,
  Ingrafted in eternal monuments
  Of glory? Verily, I guess, because
  The Sum is new, and of a recent date
  The nature of our universe, and had
  Not long ago its own exordium.
  Wherefore, even now some arts are being still
  Refined, still increased: now unto ships
  Is being added many a new device;
  And but the other day musician-folk
  Gave birth to melic sounds of organing;
  And, then, this nature, this account of things
  Hath been discovered latterly, and I
  Myself have been discovered only now,
  As first among the first, able to turn
  The same into ancestral Roman speech.
  Yet if, percase, thou deemest that ere this
  Existed all things even the same, but that
  Perished the cycles of the human race
  In fiery exhalations, or cities fell
  By some tremendous quaking of the world,
  Or rivers in fury, after constant rains,
  Had plunged forth across the lands of earth
  And whelmed the towns- then, all the more must thou
  Confess, defeated by the argument,
  That there shall be annihilation too
  Of lands and sky. For at a time when things
  Were being taxed by maladies so great,
  And so great perils, if some cause more fell
  Had then assailed them, far and wide they would
  Have gone to disaster and supreme collapse.
  And by no other reasoning are we
  Seen to be mortal, save that all of us
  Sicken in turn with those same maladies
  With which have sickened in the past those men
  Whom Nature hath removed from life.
                                       Again,
  Whatever abides eternal must indeed
  Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made
  Of solid body, and permit no entrance
  Of aught with power to sunder from within
  The parts compact- as are those seeds of stuff
  Whose nature we've exhibited before;
  Or else be able to endure through time
  For this: because they are from blows exempt,
  As is the void, the which abides untouched,
  Unsmit by any stroke; or else because
  There is no room around, whereto things can,
  As 'twere, depart in dissolution all-
  Even as the sum of sums eternal is,
  Without or place beyond whereto things may
  Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite,
  And thus dissolve them by the blows of might.
  But not of solid body, as I've shown,
  Exists the nature of the world, because
  In things is intermingled there a void;
  Nor is the world yet as the void, nor are,
  Moreover, bodies lacking which, percase,
  Rising from out the infinite, can fell
  With fury-whirlwinds all this sum of things,
  Or bring upon them other cataclysm
  Of peril strange; and yonder, too, abides
  The infinite space and the profound abyss-
  Whereinto, lo, the ramparts of the world
  Can yet be shivered. Or some other power
  Can pound upon them till they perish all.
  Thus is the door of doom, O nowise barred
  Against the sky, against the sun and earth
  And deep-sea waters, but wide open stands
  And gloats upon them, monstrous and agape.
  Wherefore, again, 'tis needful to confess
  That these same things are born in time; for things
  Which are of mortal body could indeed
  Never from infinite past until to-day
  Have spurned the multitudinous assaults
  Of the immeasurable aeons old.

    Again, since battle so fiercely one with other
  The four most mighty members the world,
  Aroused in an all unholy war,
  Seest not that there may be for them an end
  Of the long strife?- Or when the skiey sun
  And all the heat have won dominion o'er
  The sucked-up waters all?- And this they try
  Still to accomplish, though as yet they fail,-
  For so aboundingly the streams supply
  New store of waters that 'tis rather they
  Who menace the world with inundations vast
  From forth the unplumbed chasms of the sea.
  But vain- since winds (that over-sweep amain)
  And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves)
  Do minish the level seas and trust their power
  To dry up all, before the waters can
  Arrive at the end of their endeavouring.
  Breathing such vasty warfare, they contend
  In balanced strife the one with other still
  Concerning mighty issues- though indeed
  The fire was once the more victorious,
  And once- as goes the tale- the water won
  A kingdom in the fields. For fire o'ermastered
  And licked up many things and burnt away,
  What time the impetuous horses of the Sun
  Snatched Phaethon headlong from his skiey road
  Down the whole ether and over all the lands.
  But the omnipotent Father in keen wrath
  Then with the sudden smite of thunderbolt
  Did hurl the mighty-minded hero off
  Those horses to the earth. And Sol, his sire,
  Meeting him as he fell, caught up in hand
  The ever-blazing lampion of the world,
  And drave together the pell-mell horses there
  And yoked them all a-tremble, and amain,
  Steering them over along their own old road,
  Restored the cosmos- as forsooth we hear
  From songs of ancient poets of the Greeks-
  A tale too far away from truth, meseems.
  For fire can win when from the infinite
  Has risen a larger throng of particles
  Of fiery stuff; and then its powers succumb,
  Somehow subdued again, or else at last
  It shrivels in torrid atmospheres the world.
  And whilom water too began to win-
  As goes the story- when it overwhelmed
  The lives of men with billows; and thereafter,
  When all that force of water-stuff which forth
  From out the infinite had risen up
  Did now retire, as somehow turned aside,
  The rain-storms stopped, and streams their fury checked.
              FORMATION OF THE WORLD AND
                ASTRONOMICAL QUESTIONS

    But in what modes that conflux of first-stuff
  Did found the multitudinous universe
  Of earth, and sky, and the unfathomed deeps
  Of ocean, and courses of the sun and moon,
  I'll now in order tell. For of a truth
  Neither by counsel did the primal germs
  'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind,
  Each in its proper place; nor did they make,
  Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move;
  But, lo, because primordials of things,
  Many in many modes, astir by blows
  From immemorial aeons, in motion too
  By their own weights, have evermore been wont
  To be so borne along and in all modes
  To meet together and to try all sorts
  Which, by combining one with other, they
  Are powerful to create: because of this
  It comes to pass that those primordials,
  Diffused far and wide through mighty aeons,
  The while they unions try, and motions too,
  Of every kind, meet at the last amain,
  And so become oft the commencements fit
  Of mighty things- earth, sea, and sky, and race
  Of living creatures.
                        In that long-ago
  The wheel of the sun could nowhere be discerned
  Flying far up with its abounding blaze,
  Nor constellations of the mighty world,
  Nor ocean, nor heaven, nor even earth nor air.
  Nor aught of things like unto things of ours
  Could then be seen- but only some strange storm
  And a prodigious hurly-burly mass
  Compounded of all kinds of primal germs,
  Whose battling discords in disorder kept
  Interstices, and paths, coherencies,
  And weights, and blows, encounterings, and motions,
  Because, by reason of their forms unlike
  And varied shapes, they could not all thuswise
  Remain conjoined nor harmoniously
  Have interplay of movements. But from there
  Portions began to fly asunder, and like
  With like to join, and to block out a world,
  And to divide its members and dispose
  Its mightier parts- that is, to set secure
  The lofty heavens from the lands, and cause
  The sea to spread with waters separate,
  And fires of ether separate and pure
  Likewise to congregate apart.
                                 For, lo,
  First came together the earthy particles
  (As being heavy and intertangled) there
  In the mid-region, and all began to take
  The lowest abodes; and ever the more they got
  One with another intertangled, the more
  They pressed from out their mass those particles
  Which were to form the sea, the stars, the sun,
  And moon, and ramparts of the mighty world-
  For these consist of seeds more smooth and round
  And of much smaller elements than earth.
  And thus it was that ether, fraught with fire,
  First broke away from out the earthen parts,
  Athrough the innumerable pores of earth,
  And raised itself aloft, and with itself
  Bore lightly off the many starry fires;
  And not far otherwise we often see

  And the still lakes and the perennial streams
  Exhale a mist, and even as earth herself
  Is seen at times to smoke, when first at dawn
  The light of the sun, the many-rayed, begins
  To redden into gold, over the grass
  Begemmed with dew. When all of these are brought
  Together overhead, the clouds on high
  With now concreted body weave a cover
  Beneath the heavens. And thuswise ether too,
  Light and diffusive, with concreted body
  On all sides spread, on all sides bent itself
  Into a dome, and, far and wide diffused
  On unto every region on all sides,
  Thus hedged all else within its greedy clasp.
  Hard upon ether came the origins
  Of sun and moon, whose globes revolve in air
  Midway between the earth and mightiest ether,-
  For neither took them, since they weighed too little
  To sink and settle, but too much to glide
  Along the upmost shores; and yet they are
  In such a wise midway between the twain
  As ever to whirl their living bodies round,
  And ever to dure as parts of the wide Whole;
  In the same fashion as certain members may
  In us remain at rest, whilst others move.
  When, then, these substances had been withdrawn,
  Amain the earth, where now extend the vast
  Cerulean zones of all the level seas,
  Caved in, and down along the hollows poured
  The whirlpools of her brine; and day by day
  The more the tides of ether and rays of sun
  On every side constrained into one mass
  The earth by lashing it again, again,
  Upon its outer edges (so that then,
  Being thus beat upon, 'twas all condensed
  About its proper centre), ever the more
  The salty sweat, from out its body squeezed,
  Augmented ocean and the fields of foam
  By seeping through its frame, and all the more
  Those many particles of heat and air
  Escaping, began to fly aloft, and form,
  By condensation there afar from earth,
  The high refulgent circuits of the heavens.
  The plains began to sink, and windy slopes
  Of the high mountains to increase; for rocks
  Could not subside, nor all the parts of ground
  Settle alike to one same level there.

    Thus, then, the massy weight of earth stood firm
  With now concreted body, when (as 'twere)
  All of the slime of the world, heavy and gross,
  Had run together and settled at the bottom,
  Like lees or bilge. Then ocean, then the air,
  Then ether herself, the fraught-with-fire, were all
  Left with their liquid bodies pure and free,
  And each more lighter than the next below;
  And ether, most light and liquid of the three,
  Floats on above the long aerial winds,
  Nor with the brawling of the winds of air
  Mingles its liquid body. It doth leave
  All there- those under-realms below her heights-
  There to be overset in whirlwinds wild,-
  Doth leave all there to brawl in wayward gusts,
  Whilst, gliding with a fixed impulse still,
  Itself it bears its fires along. For, lo,
  That ether can flow thus steadily on, on,
  With one unaltered urge, the Pontus proves-
  That sea which floweth forth with fixed tides,
  Keeping one onward tenor as it glides.

    And that the earth may there abide at rest
  In the mid-region of the world, it needs
  Must vanish bit by bit in weight and lessen,
  And have another substance underneath,
  Conjoined to it from its earliest age
  In linked unison with the vasty world's
  Realms of the air in which it roots and lives.
  On this account, the earth is not a load,
  Nor presses down on winds of air beneath;
  Even as unto a man his members be
  Without all weight- the head is not a load
  Unto the neck; nor do we feel the whole
  Weight of the body to centre in the feet.
  But whatso weights come on us from without,
  Weights laid upon us, these harass and chafe,
  Though often far lighter. For to such degree
  It matters always what the innate powers
  Of any given thing may be. The earth
  Was, then, no alien substance fetched amain,
  And from no alien firmament cast down
  On alien air; but was conceived, like air,
  In the first origin of this the world,
  As a fixed portion of the same, as now
  Our members are seen to be a part of us.

    Besides, the earth, when of a sudden shook
  By the big thunder, doth with her motion shake
  All that's above her- which she ne'er could do
  By any means, were earth not bounden fast
  Unto the great world's realms of air and sky:
  For they cohere together with common roots,
  Conjoined both, even from their earliest age,
  In linked unison. Aye, seest thou not
  That this most subtle energy of soul
  Supports our body, though so heavy a weight,-
  Because, indeed, 'tis with it so conjoined
  In linked unison? What power, in sum,
  Can raise with agile leap our body aloft,
  Save energy of mind which steers the limbs?
  Now seest thou not how powerful may be
  A subtle nature, when conjoined it is
  With heavy body, as air is with the earth
  Conjoined, and energy of mind with us?
    Now let's us sing what makes the stars to move.
  In first place, if the mighty sphere of heaven
  Revolveth round, then needs we must aver
  That on the upper and the under pole
  Presses a certain air, and from without
  Confines them and encloseth at each end;
  And that, moreover, another air above
  Streams on athwart the top of the sphere and tends
  In same direction as are rolled along
  The glittering stars of the eternal world;
  Or that another still streams on below
  To whirl the sphere from under up and on
  In opposite direction- as we see
  The rivers turn the wheels and water-scoops.
  It may be also that the heavens do all
  Remain at rest, whilst yet are borne along
  The lucid constellations; either because
  Swift tides of ether are by sky enclosed,
  And whirl around, seeking a passage out,
  And everywhere make roll the starry fires
  Through the Summanian regions of the sky;
  Or else because some air, streaming along
  From an eternal quarter off beyond,
  Whileth the driven fires, or, then, because
  The fires themselves have power to creep along,
  Going wherever their food invites and calls,
  And feeding their flaming bodies everywhere
  Throughout the sky. Yet which of these is cause
  In this our world 'tis hard to say for sure;
  But what can be throughout the universe,
  In divers worlds on divers plan create,
  This only do I show, and follow on
  To assign unto the motions of the stars
  Even several causes which 'tis possible
  Exist throughout the universal All;
  Of which yet one must be the cause even here
  Which maketh motion for our constellations.
  Yet to decide which one of them it be
  Is not the least the business of a man
  Advancing step by cautious step, as I.

    Nor can the sun's wheel larger be by much
  Nor its own blaze much less than either seems
  Unto our senses. For from whatso spaces
  Fires have the power on us to cast their beams
  And blow their scorching exhalations forth
  Against our members, those same distances
  Take nothing by those intervals away
  From bulk of flames; and to the sight the fire
  Is nothing shrunken. Therefore, since the heat
  And the outpoured light of skiey sun
  Arrive our senses and caress our limbs,
  Form too and bigness of the sun must look
  Even here from earth just as they really be,
  So that thou canst scarce nothing take or add.
  And whether the journeying moon illuminate
  The regions round with bastard beams, or throw
  From off her proper body her own light,-
  Whichever it be, she journeys with a form
  Naught larger than the form doth seem to be
  Which we with eyes of ours perceive. For all
  The far removed objects of our gaze
  Seem through much air confused in their look
  Ere minished in their bigness. Wherefore, moon,
  Since she presents bright look and clear-cut form,
  May there on high by us on earth be seen
  Just as she is with extreme bounds defined,
  And just of the size. And lastly, whatso fires
  Of ether thou from earth beholdest, these
  Thou mayst consider as possibly of size
  The least bit less, or larger by a hair
  Than they appear- since whatso fires we view
  Here in the lands of earth are seen to change
  From time to time their size to less or more
  Only the least, when more or less away,
  So long as still they bicker clear, and still
  Their glow's perceived.
                         Nor need there be for men
  Astonishment that yonder sun so small
  Can yet send forth so great a light as fills
  Oceans and all the lands and sky aflood,
  And with its fiery exhalations steeps
  The world at large. For it may be, indeed,
  That one vast-flowing well-spring of the whole
  Wide world from here hath opened and out-gushed,
  And shot its light abroad; because thuswise
  The elements of fiery exhalations
  From all the world around together come,
  And thuswise flow into a bulk so big
  That from one single fountain-head may stream
  This heat and light. And seest thou not, indeed,
  How widely one small water-spring may wet
  The meadow-lands at times and flood the fields?
  'Tis even possible, besides, that heat
  From forth the sun's own fire, albeit that fire
  Be not a great, may permeate the air
  With the fierce hot- if but, perchance, the air
  Be of condition and so tempered then
  As to be kindled, even when beat upon
  Only by little particles of heat-
  Just as we sometimes see the standing grain
  Or stubble straw in conflagration all
  From one lone spark. And possibly the sun,
  Agleam on high with rosy lampion,
  Possesses about him with invisible heats
  A plenteous fire, by no effulgence marked,
  So that he maketh, he, the Fraught-with-fire,
  Increase to such degree the force of rays.

    Nor is there one sure cause revealed to men
  How the sun journeys from his summer haunts
  On to the mid-most winter turning-points
  In Capricorn, the thence reverting veers
  Back to solstitial goals of Cancer; nor
  How 'tis the moon is seen each month to cross
  That very distance which in traversing
  The sun consumes the measure of a year.
  I say, no one clear reason hath been given
  For these affairs. Yet chief in likelihood
  Seemeth the doctrine which the holy thought
  Of great Democritus lays down: that ever
  The nearer the constellations be to earth
  The less can they by whirling of the sky
  Be borne along, because those skiey powers
  Of speed aloft do vanish and decrease
  In under-regions, and the sun is thus
  Left by degrees behind amongst those signs
  That follow after, since the sun he lies
  Far down below the starry signs that blaze;
  And the moon lags even tardier than the sun:
  In just so far as is her course removed
  From upper heaven and nigh unto the lands,
  In just so far she fails to keep the pace
  With starry signs above; for just so far
  As feebler is the whirl that bears her on,
  (Being, indeed, still lower than the sun),
  In just so far do all the starry signs,
  Circling around, o'ertake her and o'erpass.
  Therefore it happens that the moon appears
  More swiftly to return to any sign
  Along the Zodiac, than doth the sun,
  Because those signs do visit her again
  More swiftly than they visit the great sun.
  It can be also that two streams of air
  Alternately at fixed periods
  Blow out from transverse regions of the world,
  Of which the one may thrust the sun away
  From summer-signs to mid-most winter goals
  And rigors of the cold, and the other then
  May cast him back from icy shades of chill
  Even to the heat-fraught regions and the signs
  That blaze along the Zodiac. So, too,
  We must suppose the moon and all the stars,
  Which through the mighty and sidereal years
  Roll round in mighty orbits, may be sped
  By streams of air from regions alternate.
  Seest thou not also how the clouds be sped
  By contrary winds to regions contrary,
  The lower clouds diversely from the upper?
  Then, why may yonder stars in ether there
  Along their mighty orbits not be borne
  By currents opposite the one to other?

    But night o'erwhelms the lands with vasty murk
  Either when sun, after his diurnal course,
  Hath walked the ultimate regions of the sky
  And wearily hath panted forth his fires,
  Shivered by their long journeying and wasted
  By traversing the multitudinous air,
  Or else because the self-same force that drave
  His orb along above the lands compels
  Him then to turn his course beneath the lands.
  Matuta also at a fixed hour
  Spreadeth the roseate morning out along
  The coasts of heaven and deploys the light,
  Either because the self-same sun, returning
  Under the lands, aspires to seize the sky,
  Striving to set it blazing with his rays
  Ere he himself appear, or else because
  Fires then will congregate and many seeds
  Of heat are wont, even at a fixed time,
  To stream together- gendering evermore
  New suns and light. Just so the story goes
  That from the Idaean mountain-tops are seen
  Dispersed fires upon the break of day
  Which thence combine, as 'twere, into one ball
  And form an orb. Nor yet in these affairs
  Is aught for wonder that these seeds of fire
  Can thus together stream at time so fixed
  And shape anew the splendour of the sun.
  For many facts we see which come to pass
  At fixed time in all things: burgeon shrubs
  At fixed time, and at a fixed time
  They cast their flowers; and Eld commands the teeth,
  At time as surely fixed, to drop away,
  And Youth commands the growing boy to bloom
  With the soft down and let from both his cheeks
  The soft beard fall. And lastly, thunder-bolts,
  Snow, rains, clouds, winds, at seasons of the year
  Nowise unfixed, all do come to pass.
  For where, even from their old primordial start
  Causes have ever worked in such a way,
  And where, even from the world's first origin,
  Thuswise have things befallen, so even now
  After a fixed order they come round
  In sequence also.
                      Likewise, days may wax
  Whilst the nights wane, and daylight minished be
  Whilst nights do take their augmentations,
  Either because the self-same sun, coursing
  Under the lands and over in two arcs,
  A longer and a briefer, doth dispart
  The coasts of ether and divides in twain
  His orbit all unequally, and adds,
  As round he's borne, unto the one half there
  As much as from the other half he's ta'en,
  Until he then arrives that sign of heaven
  Where the year's node renders the shades of night
  Equal unto the periods of light.
  For when the sun is midway on his course
  Between the blasts of north wind and of south,
  Heaven keeps his two goals parted equally,
  By virtue of the fixed position old
  Of the whole starry Zodiac, through which
  That sun, in winding onward, takes a year,
  Illumining the sky and all the lands
  With oblique light- as men declare to us
  Who by their diagrams have charted well
  Those regions of the sky which be adorned
  With the arranged signs of Zodiac.
  Or else, because in certain parts the air
  Under the lands is denser, the tremulous
  Bright beams of fire do waver tardily,
  Nor easily can penetrate that air
  Nor yet emerge unto their rising-place:
  For this it is that nights in winter time
  Do linger long, ere comes the many-rayed
  Round Badge of the day. Or else because, as said,
  In alternating seasons of the year
  Fires, now more quick, and now more slow, are wont
  To stream together- the fires which make the sun
  To rise in some one spot- therefore it is
  That those men seem to speak the truth who hold
  A new sun is with each new daybreak born.

    The moon she possibly doth shine because
  Strook by the rays of sun, and day by day
  May turn unto our gaze her light, the more
  She doth recede from orb of sun, until,
  Facing him opposite across the world,
  She hath with full effulgence gleamed abroad,
  And, at her rising as she soars above,
  Hath there observed his setting; thence likewise
  She needs must hide, as 'twere, her light behind
  By slow degrees, the nearer now she glides,
  Along the circle of the Zodiac,
  From her far place toward fires of yonder sun-
  As those men hold who feign the moon to be
  Just like a ball and to pursue a course
  Betwixt the sun and earth. There is, again,
  Some reason to suppose that moon may roll
  With light her very own, and thus display
  The varied shapes of her resplendence there.
  For near her is, percase, another body,
  Invisible, because devoid of light,
  Borne on and gliding all along with her,
  Which in three modes may block and blot her disk.
  Again, she may revolve upon herself,
  Like to a ball's sphere- if perchance that be-
  One half of her dyed o'er with glowing light,
  And by the revolution of that sphere
  She may beget for us her varying shapes,
  Until she turns that fiery part of her
  Full to the sight and open eyes of men;
  Thence by slow stages round and back she whirls,
  Withdrawing thus the luminiferous part
  Of her sphered mass and ball, as, verily,
  The Babylonian doctrine of Chaldees,
  Refuting the art of Greek astrologers,
  Labours, in opposition, to prove sure-
  As if, forsooth, the thing for which each fights,
  Might not alike be true- or aught there were
  Wherefore thou mightest risk embracing one
  More than the other notion. Then, again,
  Why a new moon might not forevermore
  Created be with fixed successions there
  Of shapes and with configurations fixed,
  And why each day that bright created moon
  Might not miscarry and another be,
  In its stead and place, engendered anew,
  'Tis hard to show by reason, or by words
  To prove absurd- since, lo, so many things
  Can be create with fixed successions:
  Spring-time and Venus come, and Venus' boy,
  The winged harbinger, steps on before,
  And hard on Zephyr's foot-prints Mother Flora,
  Sprinkling the ways before them, filleth all
  With colours and with odours excellent;
  Whereafter follows arid Heat, and he
  Companioned is by Ceres, dusty one,
  And by the Etesian Breezes of the north
  At rising of the dog-star of the year;
  Then cometh Autumn on, and with him steps
  Lord Bacchus, and then other Seasons too
  And other Winds do follow- the high roar
  Of great Volturnus, and the Southwind strong
  With thunder-bolts. At last earth's Shortest-Day
  Bears on to men the snows and brings again
  The numbing cold. And Winter follows her,
  His teeth with chills a-chatter. Therefore, 'tis
  The less a marvel, if at fixed time
  A moon is thus begotten and again
  At fixed time destroyed, since things so many
  Can come to being thus at fixed time.

    Likewise, the sun's eclipses and the moon's
  Far occultations rightly thou mayst deem
  As due to several causes. For, indeed,
  Why should the moon be able to shut out
  Earth from the light of sun, and on the side
  To earthward thrust her high head under sun,
  Opposing dark orb to his glowing beams-
  And yet, at same time, one suppose the effect
  Could not result from some one other body
  Which glides devoid of light forevermore?
  Again, why could not sun, in weakened state,
  At fixed time for-lose his fires, and then,
  When he has passed on along the air
  Beyond the regions, hostile to his flames,
  That quench and kill his fires, why could not he
  Renew his light? And why should earth in turn
  Have power to rob the moon of light, and there,
  Herself on high, keep the sun hid beneath,
  Whilst the moon glideth in her monthly course
  Athrough the rigid shadows of the cone?-
  And yet, at same time, some one other body
  Not have the power to under-pass the moon,
  Or glide along above the orb of sun,
  Breaking his rays and outspread light asunder?
  And still, if moon herself refulgent be
  With her own sheen, why could she not at times
  In some one quarter of the mighty world
  Grow weak and weary, whilst she passeth through
  Regions unfriendly to the beams her own?
               ORIGINS OF VEGETABLE AND
                    ANIMAL LIFE

    And now to what remains!- Since I've resolved
  By what arrangements all things come to pass
  Through the blue regions of the mighty world,-
  How we can know what energy and cause
  Started the various courses of the sun
  And the moon's goings, and by what far means
  They can succumb, the while with thwarted light,
  And veil with shade the unsuspecting lands,
  When, as it were, they blink, and then again
  With open eye survey all regions wide,
  Resplendent with white radiance- I do now
  Return unto the world's primeval age
  And tell what first the soft young fields of earth
  With earliest parturition had decreed
  To raise in air unto the shores of light
  And to entrust unto the wayward winds.

    In the beginning, earth gave forth, around
  The hills and over all the length of plains,
  The race of grasses and the shining green;
  The flowery meadows sparkled all aglow
  With greening colour, and thereafter, lo,
  Unto the divers kinds of trees was given
  An emulous impulse mightily to shoot,
  With a free rein, aloft into the air.
  As feathers and hairs and bristles are begot
  The first on members of the four-foot breeds
  And on the bodies of the strong-y-winged,
  Thus then the new Earth first of all put forth
  Grasses and shrubs, and afterward begat
  The mortal generations, there upsprung-
  Innumerable in modes innumerable-
  After diverging fashions. For from sky
  These breathing-creatures never can have dropped,
  Nor the land-dwellers ever have come up
  Out of sea-pools of salt. How true remains,
  How merited is that adopted name
  Of earth- "The Mother!"- since from out the earth
  Are all begotten. And even now arise
  From out the loams how many living things-
  Concreted by the rains and heat of the sun.
  Wherefore 'tis less a marvel, if they sprang
  In Long Ago more many, and more big,
  Matured of those days in the fresh young years
  Of earth and ether. First of all, the race
  Of the winged ones and parti-coloured birds,
  Hatched out in spring-time, left their eggs behind;
  As now-a-days in summer tree-crickets
  Do leave their shiny husks of own accord,
  Seeking their food and living. Then it was
  This earth of thine first gave unto the day
  The mortal generations; for prevailed
  Among the fields abounding hot and wet.
  And hence, where any fitting spot was given,
  There 'gan to grow womb-cavities, by roots
  Affixed to earth. And when in ripened time
  The age of the young within (that sought the air
  And fled earth's damps) had burst these wombs, O then
  Would Nature thither turn the pores of earth
  And make her spurt from open veins a juice
  Like unto milk; even as a woman now
  Is filled, at child-bearing, with the sweet milk,
  Because all that swift stream of aliment
  Is thither turned unto the mother-breasts.
  There earth would furnish to the children food;
  Warmth was their swaddling cloth, the grass their bed
  Abounding in soft down. Earth's newness then
  Would rouse no dour spells of the bitter cold,
  Nor extreme heats nor winds of mighty powers-
  For all things grow and gather strength through time
  In like proportions; and then earth was young.

    Wherefore, again, again, how merited
  Is that adopted name of Earth- The Mother!-
  Since she herself begat the human race,
  And at one well-nigh fixed time brought forth
  Each breast that ranges raving round about
  Upon the mighty mountains and all birds
  Aerial with many a varied shape.
  But, lo, because her bearing years must end,
  She ceased, like to a woman worn by eld.
  For lapsing aeons change the nature of
  The whole wide world, and all things needs must take
  One status after other, nor aught persists
  Forever like itself. All things depart;
  Nature she changeth all, compelleth all
  To transformation. Lo, this moulders down,
  A-slack with weary eld, and that, again,
  Prospers in glory, issuing from contempt.
  In suchwise, then, the lapsing aeons change
  The nature of the whole wide world, and earth
  Taketh one status after other. And what
  She bore of old, she now can bear no longer,
  And what she never bore, she can to-day.

    In those days also the telluric world
  Strove to beget the monsters that upsprung
  With their astounding visages and limbs-
  The Man-woman- a thing betwixt the twain,
  Yet neither, and from either sex remote-
  Some gruesome Boggles orphaned of the feet,
  Some widowed of the hands, dumb Horrors too
  Without a mouth, or blind Ones of no eye,
  Or Bulks all shackled by their legs and arms
  Cleaving unto the body fore and aft,
  Thuswise, that never could they do or go,
  Nor shun disaster, nor take the good they would.
  And other prodigies and monsters earth
  Was then begetting of this sort- in vain,
  Since Nature banned with horror their increase,
  And powerless were they to reach unto
  The coveted flower of fair maturity,
  Or to find aliment, or to intertwine
  In works of Venus. For we see there must
  Concur in life conditions manifold,
  If life is ever by begetting life
  To forge the generations one by one:
  First, foods must be; and, next, a path whereby
  The seeds of impregnation in the frame
  May ooze, released from the members all;
  Last, the possession of those instruments
  Whereby the male with female can unite,
  The one with other in mutual ravishments.

    And in the ages after monsters died,
  Perforce there perished many a stock, unable
  By propagation to forge a progeny.
  For whatsoever creatures thou beholdest
  Breathing the breath of life, the same have been
  Even from their earliest age preserved alive
  By cunning, or by valour, or at least
  By speed of foot or wing. And many a stock
  Remaineth yet, because of use to man,
  And so committed to man's guardianship.
  Valour hath saved alive fierce lion-breeds
  And many another terrorizing race,
  Cunning the foxes, flight the antlered stags.
  Light-sleeping dogs with faithful heart in breast,
  However, and every kind begot from seed
  Of beasts of draft, as, too, the woolly flocks
  And horned cattle, all, my Memmius,
  Have been committed to guardianship of men.
  For anxiously they fled the savage beasts,
  And peace they sought and their abundant foods,
  Obtained with never labours of their own,
  Which we secure to them as fit rewards
  For their good service. But those beasts to whom
  Nature has granted naught of these same things-
  Beasts quite unfit by own free will to thrive
  And vain for any service unto us
  In thanks for which we should permit their kind
  To feed and be in our protection safe-
  Those, of a truth, were wont to be exposed,
  Enshackled in the gruesome bonds of doom,
  As prey and booty for the rest, until
  Nature reduced that stock to utter death.

    But Centaurs ne'er have been, nor can there be
  Creatures of twofold stock and double frame,
  Compact of members alien in kind,
  Yet formed with equal function, equal force
  In every bodily part- a fact thou mayst,
  However dull thy wits, well learn from this:
  The horse, when his three years have rolled away,
  Flowers in his prime of vigour; but the boy
  Not so, for oft even then he gropes in sleep
  After the milky nipples of the breasts,
  An infant still. And later, when at last
  The lusty powers of horses and stout limbs,
  Now weak through lapsing life, do fail with age,
  Lo, only then doth youth with flowering years
  Begin for boys, and clothe their ruddy cheeks
  With the soft down. So never deem, percase,
  That from a man and from the seed of horse,
  The beast of draft, can Centaurs be composed
  Or e'er exist alive, nor Scyllas be-
  The half-fish bodies girdled with mad dogs-
  Nor others of this sort, in whom we mark
  Members discordant each with each; for ne'er
  At one same time they reach their flower of age
  Or gain and lose full vigour of their frame,
  And never burn with one same lust of love,
  And never in their habits they agree,
  Nor find the same foods equally delightsome-
  Sooth, as one oft may see the bearded goats
  Batten upon the hemlock which to man
  Is violent poison. Once again, since flame
  Is wont to scorch and burn the tawny bulks
  Of the great lions as much as other kinds
  Of flesh and blood existing in the lands,
  How could it be that she, Chimaera lone,
  With triple body- fore, a lion she;
  And aft, a dragon; and betwixt, a goat-
  Might at the mouth from out the body belch
  Infuriate flame? Wherefore, the man who feigns
  Such beings could have been engendered
  When earth was new and the young sky was fresh
  (Basing his empty argument on new)
  May babble with like reason many whims
  Into our ears: he'll say, perhaps, that then
  Rivers of gold through every landscape flowed,
  That trees were wont with precious stones to flower,
  Or that in those far aeons man was born
  With such gigantic length and lift of limbs
  As to be able, based upon his feet,
  Deep oceans to bestride; or with his hands
  To whirl the firmament around his head.
  For though in earth were many seeds of things
  In the old time when this telluric world
  First poured the breeds of animals abroad,
  Still that is nothing of a sign that then
  Such hybrid creatures could have been begot
  And limbs of all beasts heterogeneous
  Have been together knit; because, indeed,
  The divers kinds of grasses and the grains
  And the delightsome trees- which even now
  Spring up abounding from within the earth-
  Can still ne'er be begotten with their stems
  Begrafted into one; but each sole thing
  Proceeds according to its proper wont
  And all conserve their own distinctions based
  In Nature's fixed decree.
               ORIGINS AND SAVAGE PERIOD
                     OF MANKIND

                              But mortal man
  Was then far hardier in the old champaign,
  As well he should be, since a hardier earth
  Had him begotten; builded too was he
  Of bigger and more solid bones within,
  And knit with stalwart sinews through the flesh,
  Nor easily seized by either heat or cold,
  Or alien food or any ail or irk.
  And whilst so many lustrums of the sun
  Rolled on across the sky, men led a life
  After the roving habit of wild beasts.
  Not then were sturdy guiders of curved ploughs,
  And none knew then to work the fields with iron,
  Or plant young shoots in holes of delved loam,
  Or lop with hooked knives from off high trees
  The boughs of yester-year. What sun and rains
  To them had given, what earth of own accord
  Created then, was boon enough to glad
  Their simple hearts. Mid acorn-laden oaks
  Would they refresh their bodies for the nonce;
  And the wild berries of the arbute-tree,
  Which now thou seest to ripen purple-red
  In winter time, the old telluric soil
  Would bear then more abundant and more big.
  And many coarse foods, too, in long ago
  The blooming freshness of the rank young world
  Produced, enough for those poor wretches there.
  And rivers and springs would summon them of old
  To slake the thirst, as now from the great hills
  The water's down-rush calls aloud and far
  The thirsty generations of the wild.
  So, too, they sought the grottos of the Nymphs-
  The woodland haunts discovered as they ranged-
  From forth of which they knew that gliding rills
  With gush and splash abounding laved the rocks,
  The dripping rocks, and trickled from above
  Over the verdant moss; and here and there
  Welled up and burst across the open flats.
  As yet they knew not to enkindle fire
  Against the cold, nor hairy pelts to use
  And clothe their bodies with the spoils of beasts;
  But huddled in groves, and mountain-caves, and woods,
  And 'mongst the thickets hid their squalid backs,
  When driven to flee the lashings of the winds
  And the big rains. Nor could they then regard
  The general good, nor did they know to use
  In common any customs, any laws:
  Whatever of booty fortune unto each
  Had proffered, each alone would bear away,
  By instinct trained for self to thrive and live.
  And Venus in the forests then would link
  The lovers' bodies; for the woman yielded
  Either from mutual flame, or from the man's
  Impetuous fury and insatiate lust,
  Or from a bribe- as acorn-nuts, choice pears,
  Or the wild berries of the arbute-tree.
  And trusting wondrous strength of hands and legs,
  They'd chase the forest-wanderers, the beasts;
  And many they'd conquer, but some few they fled,
  A-skulk into their hiding-places...

  With the flung stones and with the ponderous heft
  Of gnarled branch. And by the time of night
  O'ertaken, they would throw, like bristly boars,
  Their wildman's limbs naked upon the earth,
  Rolling themselves in leaves and fronded boughs.
  Nor would they call with lamentations loud
  Around the fields for daylight and the sun,
  Quaking and wand'ring in shadows of the night;
  But, silent and buried in a sleep, they'd wait
  Until the sun with rosy flambeau brought
  The glory to the sky. From childhood wont
  Ever to see the dark and day begot
  In times alternate, never might they be
  Wildered by wild misgiving, lest a night
  Eternal should posses the lands, with light
  Of sun withdrawn forever. But their care
  Was rather that the clans of savage beasts
  Would often make their sleep-time horrible
  For those poor wretches; and, from home y-driven,
  They'd flee their rocky shelters at approach
  Of boar, the spumy-lipped, or lion strong,
  And in the midnight yield with terror up
  To those fierce guests their beds of out-spread leaves.

    And yet in those days not much more than now
  Would generations of mortality
  Leave the sweet light of fading life behind.
  Indeed, in those days here and there a man,
  More oftener snatched upon, and gulped by fangs,
  Afforded the beasts a food that roared alive,
  Echoing through groves and hills and forest trees,
  Even as he viewed his living flesh entombed
  Within a living grave; whilst those whom flight
  Had saved, with bone and body bitten, shrieked,
  Pressing their quivering palms to loathsome sores,
  With horrible voices for eternal death-
  Until, forlorn of help, and witless what
  Might medicine their wounds, the writhing pangs
  Took them from life. But not in those far times
  Would one lone day give over unto doom
  A soldiery in thousands marching on
  Beneath the battle-banners, nor would then
  The ramping breakers of the main seas dash
  Whole argosies and crews upon the rocks.
  But ocean uprisen would often rave in vain,
  Without all end or outcome, and give up
  Its empty menacings as lightly too;
  Nor soft seductions of a serene sea
  Could lure by laughing billows any man
  Out to disaster: for the science bold
  Of ship-sailing lay dark in those far times.
  Again, 'twas then that lack of food gave o'er
  Men's fainting limbs to dissolution: now
  'Tis plenty overwhelms. Unwary, they
  Oft for themselves themselves would then outpour
  The poison; now, with nicer art, themselves
  They give the drafts to others.
               BEGINNINGS OF CIVILIZATION

                                   Afterwards,
  When huts they had procured and pelts and fire,
  And when the woman, joined unto the man,
  Withdrew with him into one dwelling place,

  Were known; and when they saw an offspring born
  From out themselves, then first the human race
  Began to soften. For 'twas now that fire
  Rendered their shivering frames less staunch to bear,
  Under the canopy of the sky, the cold;
  And Love reduced their shaggy hardiness;
  And children, with the prattle and the kiss,
  Soon broke the parents' haughty temper down.
  Then, too, did neighbours 'gin to league as friends,
  Eager to wrong no more or suffer wrong,
  And urged for children and the womankind
  Mercy, of fathers, whilst with cries and gestures
  They stammered hints how meet it was that all
  Should have compassion on the weak. And still,
  Though concord not in every wise could then
  Begotten be, a good, a goodly part
  Kept faith inviolate- or else mankind
  Long since had been unutterably cut off,
  And propagation never could have brought
  The species down the ages.
                           Lest, perchance,
  Concerning these affairs thou ponderest
  In silent meditation, let me say
  'Twas lightning brought primevally to earth
  The fire for mortals, and from thence hath spread
  O'er all the lands the flames of heat. For thus
  Even now we see so many objects, touched
  By the celestial flames, to flash aglow,
  When thunderbolt has dowered them with heat.
  Yet also when a many-branched tree,
  Beaten by winds, writhes swaying to and fro,
  Pressing 'gainst branches of a neighbour tree,
  There by the power of mighty rub and rub
  Is fire engendered; and at times out-flares
  The scorching heat of flame, when boughs do chafe
  Against the trunks. And of these causes, either
  May well have given to mortal men the fire.
  Next, food to cook and soften in the flame
  The sun instructed, since so oft they saw
  How objects mellowed, when subdued by warmth
  And by the raining blows of fiery beams,
  Through all the fields.
                         And more and more each day
  Would men more strong in sense, more wise in heart,
  Teach them to change their earlier mode and life
  By fire and new devices. Kings began
  Cities to found and citadels to set,
  As strongholds and asylums for themselves,
  And flocks and fields to portion for each man
  After the beauty, strength, and sense of each-
  For beauty then imported much, and strength
  Had its own rights supreme. Thereafter, wealth
  Discovered was, and gold was brought to light,
  Which soon of honour stripped both strong and fair;
  For men, however beautiful in form
  Or valorous, will follow in the main
  The rich man's party. Yet were man to steer
  His life by sounder reasoning, he'd own
  Abounding riches, if with mind content
  He lived by thrift; for never, as I guess,
  Is there a lack of little in the world.
  But men wished glory for themselves and power
  Even that their fortunes on foundations firm
  Might rest forever, and that they themselves,
  The opulent, might pass a quiet life-
  In vain, in vain; since, in the strife to climb
  On to the heights of honour, men do make
  Their pathway terrible; and even when once
  They reach them, envy like the thunderbolt
  At times will smite, O hurling headlong down
  To murkiest Tartarus, in scorn; for, lo,
  All summits, all regions loftier than the rest,
  Smoke, blasted as by envy's thunderbolts;
  So better far in quiet to obey,
  Than to desire chief mastery of affairs
  And ownership of empires. Be it so;
  And let the weary sweat their life-blood out
  All to no end, battling in hate along
  The narrow path of man's ambition
  Since all their wisdom is from others' lips,
  And all they seek is known from what they've heard
  And less from what they've thought. Nor is this folly
  Greater to-day, nor greater soon to be,
  Than' twas of old.
                    And therefore kings were slain,
  And pristine majesty of golden thrones
  And haughty sceptres lay o'erturned in dust;
  And crowns, so splendid on the sovereign heads,
  Soon bloody under the proletarian feet,
  Groaned for their glories gone- for erst o'er-much
  Dreaded, thereafter with more greedy zest
  Trampled beneath the rabble heel. Thus things
  Down to the vilest lees of brawling mobs
  Succumbed, whilst each man sought unto himself
  Dominion and supremacy. So next
  Some wiser heads instructed men to found
  The magisterial office, and did frame
  Codes that they might consent to follow laws.
  For humankind, o'er wearied with a life
  Fostered by force, was ailing from its feuds;
  And so the sooner of its own free will
  Yielded to laws and strictest codes. For since
  Each hand made ready in its wrath to take
  A vengeance fiercer than by man's fair laws
  Is now conceded, men on this account
  Loathed the old life fostered by force. 'Tis thence
  That fear of punishments defiles each prize
  Of wicked days; for force and fraud ensnare
  Each man around, and in the main recoil
  On him from whence they sprung. Not easy 'tis
  For one who violates by ugly deeds
  The bonds of common peace to pass a life
  Composed and tranquil. For albeit he 'scape
  The race of gods and men, he yet must dread
  'Twill not be hid forever- since, indeed,
  So many, oft babbling on amid their dreams
  Or raving in sickness, have betrayed themselves
  (As stories tell) and published at last
  Old secrets and the sins.
                             But Nature 'twas
  Urged men to utter various sounds of tongue
  And need and use did mould the names of things,
  About in same wise as the lack-speech years
  Compel young children unto gesturings,
  Making them point with finger here and there
  At what's before them. For each creature feels
  By instinct to what use to put his powers.
  Ere yet the bull-calf's scarce begotten horns
  Project above his brows, with them he 'gins
  Enraged to butt and savagely to thrust.
  But whelps of panthers and the lion's cubs
  With claws and paws and bites are at the fray
  Already, when their teeth and claws be scarce
  As yet engendered. So again, we see
  All breeds of winged creatures trust to wings
  And from their fledgling pinions seek to get
  A fluttering assistance. Thus, to think
  That in those days some man apportioned round
  To things their names, and that from him men learned
  Their first nomenclature, is foolery.
  For why could he mark everything by words
  And utter the various sounds of tongue, what time
  The rest may be supposed powerless
  To do the same? And, if the rest had not
  Already one with other used words,
  Whence was implanted in the teacher, then,
  Fore-knowledge of their use, and whence was given
  To him alone primordial faculty
  To know and see in mind what 'twas he willed?
  Besides, one only man could scarce subdue
  An overmastered multitude to choose
  To get by heart his names of things. A task
  Not easy 'tis in any wise to teach
  And to persuade the deaf concerning what
  'Tis needful for to do. For ne'er would they
  Allow, nor ne'er in anywise endure
  Perpetual vain dingdong in their ears
  Of spoken sounds unheard before. And what,
  At last, in this affair so wondrous is,
  That human race (in whom a voice and tongue
  Were now in vigour) should by divers words
  Denote its objects, as each divers sense
  Might prompt?- since even the speechless herds, aye, since
  The very generations of wild beasts
  Are wont dissimilar and divers sounds
  To rouse from in them, when there's fear or pain,
  And when they burst with joys. And this, forsooth,
  'Tis thine to know from plainest facts: when first
  Huge flabby jowls of mad Molossian hounds,
  Baring their hard white teeth, begin to snarl,
  They threaten, with infuriate lips peeled back,
  In sounds far other than with which they bark
  And fill with voices all the regions round.
  And when with fondling tongue they start to lick
  Their puppies, or do toss them round with paws,
  Feigning with gentle bites to gape and snap,
  They fawn with yelps of voice far other then
  Than when, alone within the house, they bay,
  Or whimpering slink with cringing sides from blows.
  Again the neighing of the horse, is that
  Not seen to differ likewise, when the stud
  In buoyant flower of his young years raves,
  Goaded by winged Love, amongst the mares,
  And when with widening nostrils out he snorts
  The call to battle, and when haply he
  Whinnies at times with terror-quaking limbs?
  Lastly, the flying race, the dappled birds,
  Hawks, ospreys, sea-gulls, searching food and life
  Amid the ocean billows in the brine,
  Utter at other times far other cries
  Then when they fight for food, or with their prey
  Struggle and strain. And birds there are which change
  With changing weather their own raucous songs-
  As long-lived generations of the crows
  Or flocks of rooks, when they be said to cry
  For rain and water and to call at times
  For winds and gales. Ergo, if divers moods
  Compel the brutes, though speechless evermore,
  To send forth divers sounds, O truly then
  How much more likely 'twere that mortal men
  In those days could with many a different sound
  Denote each separate thing.
                              And now what cause
  Hath spread divinities of gods abroad
  Through mighty nations, and filled the cities full
  Of the high altars, and led to practices
  Of solemn rites in season- rites which still
  Flourish in midst of great affairs of state
  And midst great centres of man's civic life,
  The rites whence still a poor mortality
  Is grafted that quaking awe which rears aloft
  Still the new temples of gods from land to land
  And drives mankind to visit them in throngs
  On holy days- 'tis not so hard to give
  Reason thereof in speech. Because, in sooth,
  Even in those days would the race of man
  Be seeing excelling visages of gods
  With mind awake; and in his sleeps, yet more-
  Bodies of wondrous growth. And, thus, to these
  Would men attribute sense, because they seemed
  To move their limbs and speak pronouncements high,
  Befitting glorious visage and vast powers.
  And men would give them an eternal life,
  Because their visages forevermore
  Were there before them, and their shapes remained,
  And chiefly, however, because men would not think
  Beings augmented with such mighty powers
  Could well by any force o'ermastered be.
  And men would think them in their happiness
  Excelling far, because the fear of death
  Vexed no one of them at all, and since
  At same time in men's sleeps men saw them do
  So many wonders, and yet feel therefrom
  Themselves no weariness. Besides, men marked
  How in a fixed order rolled around
  The systems of the sky, and changed times
  On annual seasons, nor were able then
  To know thereof the causes. Therefore 'twas
  Men would take refuge in consigning all
  Unto divinities, and in feigning all
  Was guided by their nod. And in the sky
  They set the seats and vaults of gods, because
  Across the sky night and the moon are seen
  To roll along- moon, day, and night, and night's
  Old awesome constellations evermore,
  And the night-wandering fireballs of the sky,
  And flying flames, clouds, and the sun, the rains,
  Snow and the winds, the lightnings, and the hail,
  And the swift rumblings, and the hollow roar
  Of mighty menacings forevermore.
    O humankind unhappy!- when it ascribed
  Unto divinities such awesome deeds,
  And coupled thereto rigours of fierce wrath!
  What groans did men on that sad day beget
  Even for themselves, and O what wounds for us,
  What tears for our children's children! Nor, O man,
  Is thy true piety in this: with head
  Under the veil, still to be seen to turn
  Fronting a stone, and ever to approach
  Unto all altars; nor so prone on earth
  Forward to fall, to spread upturned palms
  Before the shrines of gods, nor yet to dew
  Altars with profuse blood of four-foot beasts,
  Nor vows with vows to link. But rather this:
  To look on all things with a master eye
  And mind at peace. For when we gaze aloft
  Upon the skiey vaults of yon great world
  And ether, fixed high o'er twinkling stars,
  And into our thought there come the journeyings
  Of sun and moon, O then into our breasts,
  O'erburdened already with their other ills,
  Begins forthwith to rear its sudden head
  One more misgiving: lest o'er us, percase,
  It be the gods' immeasurable power
  That rolls, with varied motion, round and round
  The far white constellations. For the lack
  Of aught of reasons tries the puzzled mind:
  Whether was ever a birth-time of the world,
  And whether, likewise, any end shall be.
  How far the ramparts of the world can still
  Outstand this strain of ever-roused motion,
  Or whether, divinely with eternal weal
  Endowed, they can through endless tracts of age
  Glide on, defying the o'er-mighty powers
  Of the immeasurable ages. Lo,
  What man is there whose mind with dread of gods
  Cringes not close, whose limbs with terror-spell
  Crouch not together, when the parched earth
  Quakes with the horrible thunderbolt amain,
  And across the mighty sky the rumblings run?
  Do not the peoples and the nations shake,
  And haughty kings do they not hug their limbs,
  Strook through with fear of the divinities,
  Lest for aught foully done or madly said
  The heavy time be now at hand to pay?
  When, too, fierce force of fury-winds at sea
  Sweepeth a navy's admiral down the main
  With his stout legions and his elephants,
  Doth he not seek the peace of gods with vows,
  And beg in prayer, a-tremble, lulled winds
  And friendly gales?- in vain, since, often up-caught
  In fury-cyclones, is he borne along,
  For all his mouthings, to the shoals of doom.
  Ah, so irrevocably some hidden power
  Betramples forevermore affairs of men,
  And visibly grindeth with its heel in mire
  The lictors' glorious rods and axes dire,
  Having them in derision! Again, when earth
  From end to end is rocking under foot,
  And shaken cities ruin down, or threaten
  Upon the verge, what wonder is it then
  That mortal generations abase themselves,
  And unto gods in all affairs of earth
  Assign as last resort almighty powers
  And wondrous energies to govern all?

    Now for the rest: copper and gold and iron
  Discovered were, and with them silver's weight
  And power of lead, when with prodigious heat
  The conflagrations burned the forest trees
  Among the mighty mountains, by a bolt
  Of lightning from the sky, or else because
  Men, warring in the woodlands, on their foes
  Had hurled fire to frighten and dismay,
  Or yet because, by goodness of the soil
  Invited, men desired to clear rich fields
  And turn the countryside to pasture-lands,
  Or slay the wild and thrive upon the spoils.
  (For hunting by pit-fall and by fire arose
  Before the art of hedging the covert round
  With net or stirring it with dogs of chase.)
  Howso the fact, and from what cause soever
  The flamy heat with awful crack and roar
  Had there devoured to their deepest roots
  The forest trees and baked the earth with fire,
  Then from the boiling veins began to ooze
  O rivulets of silver and of gold,
  Of lead and copper too, collecting soon
  Into the hollow places of the ground.
  And when men saw the cooled lumps anon
  To shine with splendour-sheen upon the ground,
  Much taken with that lustrous smooth delight,
  They 'gan to pry them out, and saw how each
  Had got a shape like to its earthy mould.
  Then would it enter their heads how these same lumps,
  If melted by heat, could into any form
  Or figure of things be run, and how, again,
  If hammered out, they could be nicely drawn
  To sharpest points or finest edge, and thus
  Yield to the forgers tools and give them power
  To chop the forest down, to hew the logs,
  To shave the beams and planks, besides to bore
  And punch and drill. And men began such work
  At first as much with tools of silver and gold
  As with the impetuous strength of the stout copper;
  But vainly- since their over-mastered power
  Would soon give way, unable to endure,
  Like copper, such hard labour. In those days
  Copper it was that was the thing of price;
  And gold lay useless, blunted with dull edge.
  Now lies the copper low, and gold hath come
  Unto the loftiest honours. Thus it is
  That rolling ages change the times of things:
  What erst was of a price, becomes at last
  A discard of no honour; whilst another
  Succeeds to glory, issuing from contempt,
  And day by day is sought for more and more,
  And, when 'tis found, doth flower in men's praise,
  Objects of wondrous honour.
                               Now, Memmius,
  How nature of iron discovered was, thou mayst
  Of thine own self divine. Man's ancient arms
  Were hands, and nails and teeth, stones too and boughs-
  Breakage of forest trees- and flame and fire,
  As soon as known. Thereafter force of iron
  And copper discovered was; and copper's use
  Was known ere iron's, since more tractable
  Its nature is and its abundance more.
  With copper men to work the soil began,
  With copper to rouse the hurly waves of war,
  To straw the monstrous wounds, and seize away
  Another's flocks and fields. For unto them,
  Thus armed, all things naked of defence
  Readily yielded. Then by slow degrees
  The sword of iron succeeded, and the shape
  Of brazen sickle into scorn was turned:
  With iron to cleave the soil of earth they 'gan,
  And the contentions of uncertain war
  Were rendered equal.
                       And, lo, man was wont
  Armed to mount upon the ribs of horse
  And guide him with the rein, and play about
  With right hand free, oft times before he tried
  Perils of war in yoked chariot;
  And yoked pairs abreast came earlier
  Than yokes of four, or scythed chariots
  Whereinto clomb the men-at-arms. And next
  The Punic folk did train the elephants-
  Those curst Lucanian oxen, hideous,
  The serpent-handed, with turrets on their bulks-
  To dure the wounds of war and panic-strike
  The mighty troops of Mars. Thus Discord sad
  Begat the one Thing after other, to be
  The terror of the nations under arms,
  And day by day to horrors of old war
  She added an increase.
                        Bulls, too, they tried
  In war's grim business; and essayed to send
  Outrageous boars against the foes. And some
  Sent on before their ranks puissant lions
  With armed trainers and with masters fierce
  To guide and hold in chains- and yet in vain,
  Since fleshed with pell-mell slaughter, fierce they flew,
  And blindly through the squadrons havoc wrought,
  Shaking the frightful crests upon their heads,
  Now here, now there. Nor could the horsemen calm
  Their horses, panic-breasted at the roar,
  And rein them round to front the foe. With spring
  The infuriate she-lions would up-leap
  Now here, now there; and whoso came apace
  Against them, these they'd rend across the face;
  And others unwitting from behind they'd tear
  Down from their mounts, and twining round them, bring
  Tumbling to earth, o'ermastered by the wound,
  And with those powerful fangs and hooked claws
  Fasten upon them. Bulls would toss their friends,
  And trample under foot, and from beneath
  Rip flanks and bellies of horses with their horns,
  And with a threat'ning forehead jam the sod;
  And boars would gore with stout tusks their allies,
  Splashing in fury their own blood on spears
  Splintered in their own bodies, and would fell
  In rout and ruin infantry and horse.
  For there the beasts-of-saddle tried to scape
  The savage thrusts of tusk by shying off,
  Or rearing up with hoofs a-paw in air.
  In vain- since there thou mightest see them sink,
  Their sinews severed, and with heavy fall
  Bestrew the ground. And such of these as men
  Supposed well-trained long ago at home,
  Were in the thick of action seen to foam
  In fury, from the wounds, the shrieks, the flight,
  The panic, and the tumult; nor could men
  Aught of their numbers rally. For each breed
  And various of the wild beasts fled apart
  Hither or thither, as often in wars to-day
  Flee those Lucanian oxen, by the steel
  Grievously mangled, after they have wrought
  Upon their friends so many a dreadful doom.
  (If 'twas, indeed, that thus they did at all:
  But scarcely I'll believe that men could not
  With mind foreknow and see, as sure to come,
  Such foul and general disaster. This
  We, then, may hold as true in the great All,
  In divers worlds on divers plan create,-
  Somewhere afar more likely than upon
  One certain earth.) But men chose this to do
  Less in the hope of conquering than to give
  Their enemies a goodly cause of woe,
  Even though thereby they perished themselves,
  Since weak in numbers and since wanting arms.

    Now, clothes of roughly interplaited strands
  Were earlier than loom-wove coverings;
  The loom-wove later than man's iron is,
  Since iron is needful in the weaving art,
  Nor by no other means can there be wrought
  Such polished tools- the treadles, spindles, shuttles,
  And sounding yarn-beams. And Nature forced the men,
  Before the woman kind, to work the wool:
  For all the male kind far excels in skill,
  And cleverer is by much- until at last
  The rugged farmer folk jeered at such tasks,
  And so were eager soon to give them o'er
  To women's hands, and in more hardy toil
  To harden arms and hands.
                        But Nature herself,
  Mother of things, was the first seed-sower
  And primal grafter; since the berries and acorns,
  Dropping from off the trees, would there beneath
  Put forth in season swarms of little shoots;
  Hence too men's fondness for ingrafting slips
  Upon the boughs and setting out in holes
  The young shrubs o'er the fields. Then would they try
  Ever new modes of tilling their loved crofts,
  And mark they would how earth improved the taste
  Of the wild fruits by fond and fostering care.
  And day by day they'd force the woods to move
  Still higher up the mountain, and to yield
  The place below for tilth, that there they might,
  On plains and uplands, have their meadow-plats,
  Cisterns and runnels, crops of standing grain,
  And happy vineyards, and that all along
  O'er hillocks, intervales, and plains might run
  The silvery-green belt of olive-trees,
  Marking the plotted landscape; even as now
  Thou seest so marked with varied loveliness
  All the terrain which men adorn and plant
  With rows of goodly fruit-trees and hedge round
  With thriving shrubberies sown.
                                  But by the mouth
  To imitate the liquid notes of birds
  Was earlier far 'mongst men than power to make,
  By measured song, melodious verse and give
  Delight to ears. And whistlings of the wind
  Athrough the hollows of the reeds first taught
  The peasantry to blow into the stalks
  Of hollow hemlock-herb. Then bit by bit
  They learned sweet plainings, such as pipe out-pours,
  Beaten by finger-tips of singing men,
  When heard through unpathed groves and forest deeps
  And woodsy meadows, through the untrod haunts
  Of shepherd folk and spots divinely still.
  Thus time draws forward each and everything
  Little by little unto the midst of men,
  And reason uplifts it to the shores of light.
  These tunes would sooth and glad the minds of mortals
  When sated with food- for songs are welcome then.
  And often, lounging with friends in the soft grass
  Beside a river of water, underneath
  A big tree's branches, merrily they'd refresh
  Their frames, with no vast outlay- most of all
  If the weather were smiling and the times of the year
  Were painting the green of the grass around with flowers.
  Then jokes, then talk, then peals of jollity
  Would circle round; for then the rustic muse
  Was in her glory; then would antic Mirth
  Prompt them to garland head and shoulders about
  With chaplets of intertwined flowers and leaves,
  And to dance onward, out of tune, with limbs
  Clownishly swaying, and with clownish foot
  To beat our Mother Earth- from whence arose
  Laughter and peals of jollity, for, lo,
  Such frolic acts were in their glory then,
  Being more new and strange. And wakeful men
  Found solaces for their unsleeping hours
  In drawing forth variety of notes,
  In modulating melodies, in running
  With puckered lips along the tuned reeds,
  Whence, even in our day do the watchmen guard
  These old traditions, and have learned well
  To keep true measure. And yet they no whit
  Do get a larger fruit of gladsomeness
  Than got the woodland aborigines
  In olden times. For what we have at hand-
  If theretofore naught sweeter we have known-
  That chiefly pleases and seems best of all;
  But then some later, likely better, find
  Destroys its worth and changes our desires
  Regarding good of yesterday.
                                 And thus
  Began the loathing of the acorn; thus
  Abandoned were those beds with grasses strewn
  And with the leaves beladen. Thus, again,
  Fell into new contempt the pelts of beasts-
  Erstwhile a robe of honour, which, I guess,
  Aroused in those days envy so malign
  That the first wearer went to woeful death
  By ambuscades- and yet that hairy prize,
  Rent into rags by greedy foemen there
  And splashed by blood, was ruined utterly
  Beyond all use or vantage. Thus of old
  'Twas pelts, and of to-day 'tis purple and gold
  That cark men's lives with cares and weary with war.
  Wherefore, methinks, resides the greater blame
  With us vain men today: for cold would rack,
  Without their pelts, the naked sons of earth;
  But us it nothing hurts to do without
  The purple vestment, broidered with gold
  And with imposing figures, if we still
  Make shift with some mean garment of the Plebs.
  So man in vain futilities toils on
  Forever and wastes in idle cares his years-
  Because, of very truth, he hath not learnt
  What the true end of getting is, nor yet
  At all how far true pleasure may increase.
  And 'tis desire for better and for more
  Hath carried by degrees mortality
  Out onward to the deep, and roused up
  From the far bottom mighty waves of war.
    But sun and moon, those watchmen of the world,
  With their own lanterns traversing around
  The mighty, the revolving vault, have taught
  Unto mankind that seasons of the years
  Return again, and that the Thing takes place
  After a fixed plan and order fixed.
    Already would they pass their life, hedged round
  By the strong towers; and cultivate an earth
  All portioned out and boundaried; already,
  Would the sea flower and sail-winged ships;
  Already men had, under treaty pacts,
  Confederates and allies, when poets began
  To hand heroic actions down in verse;
  Nor long ere this had letters been devised-
  Hence is our age unable to look back
  On what has gone before, except where reason
  Shows us a footprint.
                         Sailings on the seas,
  Tillings of fields, walls, laws, and arms, and roads,
  Dress and the like, all prizes, all delights
  Of finer life, poems, pictures, chiselled shapes
  Of polished sculptures- all these arts were learned
  By practice and the mind's experience,
  As men walked forward step by eager step.
  Thus time draws forward each and everything
  Little by little into the midst of men,
  And reason uplifts it to the shores of light.
  For one thing after other did men see
  Grow clear by intellect, till with their arts
  They've now achieved the supreme pinnacle.
                                    BOOK VI
                      PROEM

  'Twas Athens first, the glorious in name,
  That whilom gave to hapless sons of men
  The sheaves of harvest, and re-ordered life,
  And decreed laws; and she the first that gave
  Life its sweet solaces, when she begat
  A man of heart so wise, who whilom poured
  All wisdom forth from his truth-speaking mouth;
  The glory of whom, though dead, is yet to-day,
  Because of those discoveries divine
  Renowned of old, exalted to the sky.
  For when saw he that well-nigh everything
  Which needs of man most urgently require
  Was ready to hand for mortals, and that life,
  As far as might be, was established safe,
  That men were lords in riches, honour, praise,
  And eminent in goodly fame of sons,
  And that they yet, O yet, within the home,
  Still had the anxious heart which vexed life
  Unpausingly with torments of the mind,
  And raved perforce with angry plaints, then he,
  Then he, the master, did perceive that 'twas
  The vessel itself which worked the bane, and all,
  However wholesome, which from here or there
  Was gathered into it, was by that bane
  Spoilt from within- in part, because he saw
  The vessel so cracked and leaky that nowise
  'Tcould ever be filled to brim; in part because
  He marked how it polluted with foul taste
  Whate'er it got within itself. So he,
  The master, then by his truth-speaking words,
  Purged the breasts of men, and set the bounds
  Of lust and terror, and exhibited
  The supreme good whither we all endeavour,
  And showed the path whereby we might arrive
  Thereunto by a little cross-cut straight,
  And what of ills in all affairs of mortals
  Upsprang and flitted deviously about
  (Whether by chance or force), since Nature thus
  Had destined; and from out what gates a man
  Should sally to each combat. And he proved
  That mostly vainly doth the human race
  Roll in its bosom the grim waves of care.
  For just as children tremble and fear all
  In the viewless dark, so even we at times
  Dread in the light so many things that be
  No whit more fearsome than what children feign,
  Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark.
  This terror then, this darkness of the mind,
  Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light,
  Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse,
  But only Nature's aspect and her law.
  Wherefore the more will I go on to weave
  In verses this my undertaken task.

    And since I've taught thee that the world's great vaults
  Are mortal and that sky is fashioned
  Of frame e'en born in time, and whatsoe'er
  Therein go on and must perforce go on

  The most I have unravelled; what remains
  Do thou take in, besides; since once for all
  To climb into that chariot' renowned

  Of winds arise; and they appeased are
  So that all things again...

  Which were, are changed now, with fury stilled;
  All other movements through the earth and sky
  Which mortals gaze upon (O anxious oft
  In quaking thoughts!), and which abase their minds
  With dread of deities and press them crushed
  Down to the earth, because their ignorance
  Of cosmic causes forces them to yield
  All things unto the empery of gods
  And to concede the kingly rule to them.
  For even those men who have learned full well
  That godheads lead a long life free of care,
  If yet meanwhile they wonder by what plan
  Things can go on (and chiefly yon high things
  Observed o'erhead on the ethereal coasts),
  Again are hurried back unto the fears
  Of old religion and adopt again
  Harsh masters, deemed almighty,- wretched men,
  Unwitting what can be and what cannot,
  And by what law to each its scope prescribed,
  Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time.
  Wherefore the more are they borne wandering on
  By blindfold reason. And, Memmius, unless
  From out thy mind thou spewest all of this
  And casteth far from thee all thoughts which be
  Unworthy gods and alien to their peace,
  Then often will the holy majesties
  Of the high gods be harmful unto thee,
  As by thy thought degraded,- not, indeed,
  That essence supreme of gods could be by this
  So outraged as in wrath to thirst to seek
  Revenges keen; but even because thyself
  Thou plaguest with the notion that the gods,
  Even they, the Calm Ones in serene repose,
  Do roll the mighty waves of wrath on wrath;
  Nor wilt thou enter with a serene breast
  Shrines of the gods; nor wilt thou able be
  In tranquil peace of mind to take and know
  Those images which from their holy bodies
  Are carried into intellects of men,
  As the announcers of their form divine.
  What sort of life will follow after this
  'Tis thine to see. But that afar from us
  Veriest reason may drive such life away,
  Much yet remains to be embellished yet
  In polished verses, albeit hath issued forth
  So much from me already; lo, there is
  The law and aspect of the sky to be
  By reason grasped; there are the tempest times
  And the bright lightnings to be hymned now-
  Even what they do and from what cause soe'er
  They're borne along- that thou mayst tremble not,
  Marking off regions of prophetic skies
  For auguries, O foolishly distraught,
  Even as to whence the flying flame hath come,
  Or to which half of heaven it turns, or how
  Through walled places it hath wound its way,
  Or, after proving its dominion there,
  How it hath speeded forth from thence amain-
  Whereof nowise the causes do men know,
  And think divinities are working there.
  Do thou, Calliope, ingenious Muse,
  Solace of mortals and delight of gods,
  Point out the course before me, as I race
  On to the white line of the utmost goal,
  That I may get with signal praise the crown,
  With thee my guide!
                 GREAT METEOROLOGICAL
                    PHENOMENA, ETC.

                      And so in first place, then
  With thunder are shaken the blue deeps of heaven,
  Because the ethereal clouds, scudding aloft,
  Together clash, what time 'gainst one another
  The winds are battling. For never a sound there come
  From out the serene regions of the sky;
  But wheresoever in a host more dense
  The clouds foregather, thence more often comes
  A crash with mighty rumbling. And, again,
  Clouds cannot be of so condensed a frame
  As stones and timbers, nor again so fine
  As mists and flying smoke; for then perforce
  They'd either fall, borne down by their brute weight,
  Like stones, or, like the smoke, they'd powerless be
  To keep their mass, or to retain within
  Frore snows and storms of hail. And they give forth
  O'er skiey levels of the spreading world
  A sound on high, as linen-awning, stretched
  O'er mighty theatres, gives forth at times
  A cracking roar, when much 'tis beaten about
  Betwixt the poles and cross-beams. Sometimes, too,
  Asunder rent by wanton gusts, it raves
  And imitates the tearing sound of sheets
  Of paper- even this kind of noise thou mayst
  In thunder hear- or sound as when winds whirl
  With lashings and do buffet about in air
  A hanging cloth and flying paper-sheets.
  For sometimes, too, it chances that the clouds
  Cannot together crash head-on, but rather
  Move side-wise and with motions contrary
  Graze each the other's body without speed,
  From whence that dry sound grateth on our ears,
  So long drawn-out, until the clouds have passed
  From out their close positions.
                                   And, again,
  In following wise all things seem oft to quake
  At shock of heavy thunder, and mightiest walls
  Of the wide reaches of the upper world
  There on the instant to have sprung apart,
  Riven asunder, what time a gathered blast
  Of the fierce hurricane hath all at once
  Twisted its way into a mass of clouds,
  And, there enclosed, ever more and more
  Compelleth by its spinning whirl the cloud
  To grow all hollow with a thickened crust
  Surrounding; for thereafter, when the force
  And the keen onset of the wind have weakened
  That crust, lo, then the cloud, to-split in twain,
  Gives forth a hideous crash with bang and boom.
  No marvel this; since oft a bladder small,
  Filled up with air, will, when of sudden burst,
  Give forth a like large sound.
                               There's reason, too,
  Why clouds make sounds, as through them blow the winds:
  We see, borne down the sky, oft shapes of clouds
  Rough-edged or branched many forky ways;
  And 'tis the same, as when the sudden flaws
  Of northwest wind through the dense forest blow,
  Making the leaves to sough and limbs to crash.
  It happens too at times that roused force
  Of the fierce hurricane to-rends the cloud,
  Breaking right through it by a front assault;
  For what a blast of wind may do up there
  Is manifest from facts when here on earth
  A blast more gentle yet uptwists tall trees
  And sucks them madly from their deepest roots.
  Besides, among the clouds are waves, and these
  Give, as they roughly break, a rumbling roar;
  As when along deep streams or the great sea
  Breaks the loud surf. It happens, too, whenever
  Out from one cloud into another falls
  The fiery energy of thunderbolt,
  That straightaway the cloud, if full of wet,
  Extinguishes the fire with mighty noise;
  As iron, white from the hot furnaces,
  Sizzles, when speedily we've plunged its glow
  Down the cold water. Further, if a cloud
  More dry receive the fire, 'twill suddenly
  Kindle to flame and burn with monstrous sound,
  As if a flame with whirl of winds should range
  Along the laurel-tressed mountains far,
  Upburning with its vast assault those trees;
  Nor is there aught that in the crackling flame
  Consumes with sound more terrible to man
  Than Delphic laurel of Apollo lord.
  Oft, too, the multitudinous crash of ice
  And down-pour of swift hail gives forth a sound
  Among the mighty clouds on high; for when
  The wind hath packed them close, each mountain mass
  Of rain-cloud, there congealed utterly
  And mixed with hail-stones, breaks and booms...

  Likewise, it lightens, when the clouds have struck,
  By their collision, forth the seeds of fire:
  As if a stone should smite a stone or steel,
  For light then too leaps forth and fire then scatters
  The shining sparks. But with our ears we get
  The thunder after eyes behold the flash,
  Because forever things arrive the ears
  More tardily than the eyes- as thou mayst see
  From this example too: when markest thou
  Some man far yonder felling a great tree
  With double-edged ax, it comes to pass
  Thine eye beholds the swinging stroke before
  The blow gives forth a sound athrough thine ears:
  Thus also we behold the flashing ere
  We hear the thunder, which discharged is
  At same time with the fire and by same cause,
  Born of the same collision.
                               In following wise
  The clouds suffuse with leaping light the lands,
  And the storm flashes with tremulous elan:
  When the wind hath invaded a cloud, and, whirling there,
  Hath wrought (as I have shown above) the cloud
  Into a hollow with a thickened crust,
  It becomes hot of own velocity:
  Just as thou seest how motion will o'erheat
  And set ablaze all objects- verily
  A leaden ball, hurtling through length of space,
  Even melts. Therefore, when this same wind a-fire
  Hath split black cloud, it scatters the fire-seeds,
  Which, so to say, have been pressed out by force
  Of sudden from the cloud- and these do make
  The pulsing flashes of flame; thence followeth
  The detonation which attacks our ears
  More tardily than aught which comes along
  Unto the sight of eyeballs. This takes place-
  As know thou mayst- at times when clouds are dense
  And one upon the other piled aloft
  With wonderful upheavings- nor be thou
  Deceived because we see how broad their base
  From underneath, and not how high they tower.
  For make thine observations at a time
  When winds shall bear athwart the horizon's blue
  Clouds like to mountain-ranges moving on,
  Or when about the sides of mighty peaks
  Thou seest them one upon the other massed
  And burdening downward, anchored in high repose,
  With the winds sepulchred on all sides round:
  Then canst thou know their mighty masses, then
  Canst view their caverns, as if builded there
  Of beetling crags; which, when the hurricanes
  In gathered storm have filled utterly,
  Then, prisoned in clouds, they rave around
  With mighty roarings, and within those dens
  Bluster like savage beasts, and now from here,
  And now from there, send growlings through the clouds,
  And seeking an outlet, whirl themselves about,
  And roll from 'mid the clouds the seeds of fire,
  And heap them multitudinously there,
  And in the hollow furnaces within
  Wheel flame around, until from bursted cloud
  In forky flashes they have gleamed forth.

    Again, from following cause it comes to pass
  That yon swift golden hue of liquid fire
  Darts downward to the earth: because the clouds
  Themselves must hold abundant seeds of fire;
  For, when they be without all moisture, then
  They be for most part of a flamy hue
  And a resplendent. And, indeed, they must
  Even from the light of sun unto themselves
  Take multitudinous seeds, and so perforce
  Redden and pour their bright fires all abroad.
  And therefore, when the wind hath driven and thrust,
  Hath forced and squeezed into one spot these clouds,
  They pour abroad the seeds of fire pressed out,
  Which make to flash these colours of the flame.
  Likewise, it lightens also when the clouds
  Grow rare and thin along the sky; for, when
  The wind with gentle touch unravels them
  And breaketh asunder as they move, those seeds
  Which make the lightnings must by nature fall;
  At such an hour the horizon lightens round
  Without the hideous terror of dread noise
  And skiey uproar.
                        To proceed apace,
  What sort of nature thunderbolts posses
  Is by their strokes made manifest and by
  The brand-marks of their searing heat on things,
  And by the scorched scars exhaling round
  The heavy fumes of sulphur. For all these
  Are marks, O not of wind or rain, but fire.
  Again, they often enkindle even the roofs
  Of houses and inside the very rooms
  With swift flame hold a fierce dominion.
  Know thou that Nature fashioned this fire
  Subtler than fires all other, with minute
  And dartling bodies- a fire 'gainst which there's naught
  Can in the least hold out: the thunderbolt,
  The mighty, passes through the hedging walls
  Of houses, like to voices or a shout-
  Through stones, through bronze it passes, and it melts
  Upon the instant bronze and gold; and makes,
  Likewise, the wines sudden to vanish forth,
  The wine-jars intact- because, ye see,
  Its heat arriving renders loose and porous
  Readily all the wine- jar's earthen sides,
  And winding its way within, it scattereth
  The elements primordial of the wine
  With speedy dissolution- process which
  Even in an age the fiery steam of sun
  Could not accomplish, however puissant he
  With his hot coruscations: so much more
  Agile and overpowering is this force.

    Now in what manner engendered are these things,
  How fashioned of such impetuous strength
  As to cleave towers asunder, and houses all
  To overtopple, and to wrench apart
  Timbers and beams, and heroes' monuments
  To pile in ruins and upheave amain,
  And to take breath forever out of men,
  And to o'erthrow the cattle everywhere,-
  Yes, by what force the lightnings do all this,
  All this and more, I will unfold to thee,
  Nor longer keep thee in mere promises.

    The bolts of thunder, then, must be conceived
  As all begotten in those crasser clouds
  Up-piled aloft; for, from the sky serene
  And from the clouds of lighter density,
  None are sent forth forever. That 'tis so
  Beyond a doubt, fact plain to sense declares:
  To wit, at such a time the densed clouds
  So mass themselves through all the upper air
  That we might think that round about all murk
  Had parted forth from Acheron and filled
  The mighty vaults of sky- so grievously,
  As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome might,
  Do faces of black horror hang on high-
  When tempest begins its thunderbolts to forge.
  Besides, full often also out at sea
  A blackest thunderhead, like cataract
  Of pitch hurled down from heaven, and far away
  Bulging with murkiness, down on the waves
  Falls with vast uproar, and draws on amain
  The darkling tempests big with thunderbolts
  And hurricanes, itself the while so crammed
  Tremendously with fires and winds, that even
  Back on the lands the people shudder round
  And seek for cover. Therefore, as I said,
  The storm must be conceived as o'er our head
  Towering most high; for never would the clouds
  O'erwhelm the lands with such a massy dark,
  Unless up-builded heap on lofty heap,
  To shut the round sun off. Nor could the clouds,
  As on they come, engulf with rain so vast
  As thus to make the rivers overflow
  And fields to float, if ether were not thus
  Furnished with lofty-piled clouds. Lo, then,
  Here be all things fulfilled with winds and fires-
  Hence the long lightnings and the thunders loud.
  For, verily, I've taught thee even now
  How cavernous clouds hold seeds innumerable
  Of fiery exhalations, and they must
  From off the sunbeams and the heat of these
  Take many still. And so, when that same wind
  (Which, haply, into one region of the sky
  Collects those clouds) hath pressed from out the same
  The many fiery seeds, and with that fire
  Hath at the same time intermixed itself,
  O then and there that wind, a whirlwind now,
  Deep in the belly of the cloud spins round
  In narrow confines, and sharpens there inside
  In glowing furnaces the thunderbolt.
  For in a two-fold manner is that wind
  Enkindled all: it trembles into heat
  Both by its own velocity and by
  Repeated touch of fire. Thereafter, when
  The energy of wind is heated through
  And the fierce impulse of the fire hath sped
  Deeply within, O then the thunderbolt,
  Now ripened, so to say, doth suddenly
  Splinter the cloud, and the aroused flash
  Leaps onward, lumining with forky light
  All places round. And followeth anon
  A clap so heavy that the skiey vaults,
  As if asunder burst, seem from on high
  To engulf the earth. Then fearfully a quake
  Pervades the lands, and 'long the lofty skies
  Run the far rumblings. For at such a time
  Nigh the whole tempest quakes, shook through and through,
  And roused are the roarings- from which shock
  Comes such resounding and abounding rain,
  That all the murky ether seems to turn
  Now into rain, and, as it tumbles down,
  To summon the fields back to primeval floods:
  So big the rains that be sent down on men
  By burst of cloud and by the hurricane,
  What time the thunder-clap, from burning bolt
  That cracks the cloud, flies forth along. At times
  The force of wind, excited from without,
  Smiteth into a cloud already hot
  With a ripe thunderbolt. And when that wind
  Hath splintered that cloud, then down there cleaves forthwith
  Yon fiery coil of flame which still we call,
  Even with our fathers' word, a thunderbolt.
  The same thing haps toward every other side
  Whither that force hath swept. It happens, too,
  That sometimes force of wind, though hurtled forth
  Without all fire, yet in its voyage through space
  Igniteth, whilst it comes along, along-
  Losing some larger bodies which cannot
  Pass, like the others, through the bulks of air-
  And, scraping together out of air itself
  Some smaller bodies, carries them along,
  And these, commingling, by their flight make fire:
  Much in the manner as oft a leaden ball
  Grows hot upon its aery course, the while
  It loseth many bodies of stark cold
  And taketh into itself along the air
  New particles of fire. It happens, too,
  That force of blow itself arouses fire,
  When force of wind, a-cold and hurtled forth
  Without all fire, hath strook somewhere amain-
  No marvel, because, when with terrific stroke
  'Thas smitten, the elements of fiery-stuff
  Can stream together from out the very wind
  And, simultaneously, from out that thing
  Which then and there receives the stroke: as flies
  The fire when with the steel we hack the stone;
  Nor yet, because the force of steel's a-cold,
  Rush the less speedily together there
  Under the stroke its seeds of radiance hot.
  And therefore, thuswise must an object too
  Be kindled by a thunderbolt, if haply
  'Thas been adapt and suited to the flames.
  Yet force of wind must not be rashly deemed
  As altogether and entirely cold-
  That force which is discharged from on high
  With such stupendous power; but if 'tis not
  Upon its course already kindled with fire,
  It yet arriveth warmed and mixed with heat.

    And, now, the speed and stroke of thunderbolt
  Is so tremendous, and with glide so swift
  Those thunderbolts rush on and down, because
  Their roused force itself collects itself
  First always in the clouds, and then prepares
  For the huge effort of their going-forth;
  Next, when the cloud no longer can retain
  The increment of their fierce impetus,
  Their force is pressed out, and therefore flies
  With impetus so wondrous, like to shots
  Hurled from the powerful Roman catapults.
  Note, too, this force consists of elements
  Both small and smooth, nor is there aught that can
  With ease resist such nature. For it darts
  Between and enters through the pores of things;
  And so it never falters in delay
  Despite innumerable collisions, but
  Flies shooting onward with a swift elan.
  Next, since by nature always every weight
  Bears downward, doubled is the swiftness then
  And that elan is still more wild and dread,
  When, verily, to weight are added blows,
  So that more madly and more fiercely then
  The thunderbolt shakes into shivers all
  That blocks its path, following on its way.
  Then, too, because it comes along, along
  With one continuing elan, it must
  Take on velocity anew, anew,
  Which still increases as it goes, and ever
  Augments the bolt's vast powers and to the blow
  Gives larger vigour; for it forces all,
  All of the thunder's seeds of fire, to sweep
  In a straight line unto one place, as 'twere,-
  Casting them one by other, as they roll,
  Into that onward course. Again, perchance,
  In coming along, it pulls from out the air
  Some certain bodies, which by their own blows
  Enkindle its velocity. And, lo,
  It comes through objects leaving them unharmed,
  It goes through many things and leaves them whole,
  Because the liquid fire flieth along
  Athrough their pores. And much it does transfix,
  When these primordial atoms of the bolt
  Have fallen upon the atoms of these things
  Precisely where the intertwined atoms
  Are held together. And, further, easily
  Brass it unbinds and quickly fuseth gold,
  Because its force is so minutely made
  Of tiny parts and elements so smooth
  That easily they wind their way within,
  And, when once in, quickly unbind all knots
  And loosen all the bonds of union there.

    And most in autumn is shaken the house of heaven,
  The house so studded with the glittering stars,
  And the whole earth around- most too in spring
  When flowery times unfold themselves: for, lo,
  In the cold season is there lack of fire,
  And winds are scanty in the hot, and clouds
  Have not so dense a bulk. But when, indeed,
  The seasons of heaven are betwixt these twain,
  The divers causes of the thunderbolt
  Then all concur; for then both cold and heat
  Are mixed in the cross-seas of the year,
  So that a discord rises among things
  And air in vast tumultuosity
  Billows, infuriate with the fires and winds-
  Of which the both are needed by the cloud
  For fabrication of the thunderbolt.
  For the first part of heat and last of cold
  Is the time of spring; wherefore must things unlike
  Do battle one with other, and, when mixed,
  Tumultuously rage. And when rolls round
  The latest heat mixed with the earliest chill-
  The time which bears the name of autumn- then
  Likewise fierce cold-spells wrestle with fierce heats.
  On this account these seasons of the year
  Are nominated "cross-seas."- And no marvel
  If in those times the thunderbolts prevail
  And storms are roused turbulent in heaven,
  Since then both sides in dubious warfare rage
  Tumultuously, the one with flames, the other
  With winds and with waters mixed with winds.

    This, this it is, O Memmius, to see through
  The very nature of fire-fraught thunderbolt;
  O this it is to mark by what blind force
  It maketh each effect, and not, O not
  To unwind Etrurian scrolls oracular,
  Inquiring tokens of occult will of gods,
  Even as to whence the flying flame hath come,
  Or to which half of heaven it turns, or how
  Through walled places it hath wound its way,
  Or, after proving its dominion there,
  How it hath speeded forth from thence amain,
  Or what the thunderstroke portends of ill
  From out high heaven. But if Jupiter
  And other gods shake those refulgent vaults
  With dread reverberations and hurl fire
  Whither it pleases each, why smite they not
  Mortals of reckless and revolting crimes,
  That such may pant from a transpierced breast
  Forth flames of the red levin- unto men
  A drastic lesson?- why is rather he-
  O he self-conscious of no foul offence-
  Involved in flames, though innocent, and clasped
  Up-caught in skiey whirlwind and in fire?
  Nay, why, then, aim they at eternal wastes,
  And spend themselves in vain?- perchance, even so
  To exercise their arms and strengthen shoulders?
  Why suffer they the Father's javelin
  To be so blunted on the earth? And why
  Doth he himself allow it, nor spare the same
  Even for his enemies? O why most oft
  Aims he at lofty places? Why behold we
  Marks of his lightnings most on mountain tops?
  Then for what reason shoots he at the sea?-
  What sacrilege have waves and bulk of brine
  And floating fields of foam been guilty of?
  Besides, if 'tis his will that we beware
  Against the lightning-stroke, why feareth he
  To grant us power for to behold the shot?
  And, contrariwise, if wills he to o'erwhelm us,
  Quite off our guard, with fire, why thunders he
  Off in yon quarter, so that we may shun?
  Why rouseth he beforehand darkling air
  And the far din and rumblings? And O how
  Canst thou believe he shoots at one same time
  Into diverse directions? Or darest thou
  Contend that never hath it come to pass
  That divers strokes have happened at one time?
  But oft and often hath it come to pass,
  And often still it must, that, even as showers
  And rains o'er many regions fall, so too
  Dart many thunderbolts at one same time.
  Again, why never hurtles Jupiter
  A bolt upon the lands nor pours abroad
  Clap upon clap, when skies are cloudless all?
  Or, say, doth he, so soon as ever the clouds
  Have come thereunder, then into the same
  Descend in person, and that from thence he may
  Near-by decide upon the stroke of shaft?
  And, lastly, why, with devastating bolt
  Shakes he asunder holy shrines of gods
  And his own thrones of splendour, and to-breaks
  The well-wrought idols of divinities,
  And robs of glory his own images
  By wound of violence?
                         But to return apace,
  Easy it is from these same facts to know
  In just what wise those things (which from their sort
  The Greeks have named "bellows") do come down,
  Discharged from on high, upon the seas.
  For it haps that sometimes from the sky descends
  Upon the seas a column, as if pushed,
  Round which the surges seethe, tremendously
  Aroused by puffing gusts; and whatso'er
  Of ships are caught within that tumult then
  Come into extreme peril, dashed along.
  This haps when sometimes wind's aroused force
  Can't burst the cloud it tries to, but down-weighs
  That cloud, until 'tis like a column from sky
  Upon the seas pushed downward- gradually,
  As if a Somewhat from on high were shoved
  By fist and nether thrust of arm, and lengthened
  Far to the waves. And when the force of wind
  Hath rived this cloud, from out the cloud it rushes
  Down on the seas, and starts among the waves
  A wondrous seething, for the eddying whirl
  Descends and downward draws along with it
  That cloud of ductile body. And soon as ever
  'Thas shoved unto the levels of the main
  That laden cloud, the whirl suddenly then
  Plunges its whole self into the waters there
  And rouses all the sea with monstrous roar,
  Constraining it to seethe. It happens too
  That very vortex of the wind involves
  Itself in clouds, scraping from out the air
  The seeds of cloud, and counterfeits, as 'twere,
  The "bellows" pushed from heaven. And when this shape
  Hath dropped upon the lands and burst apart,
  It belches forth immeasurable might
  Of whirlwind and of blast. Yet since 'tis formed
  At most but rarely, and on land the hills
  Must block its way, 'tis seen more oft out there
  On the broad prospect of the level main
  Along the free horizons.
                            Into being
  The clouds condense, when in this upper space
  Of the high heaven have gathered suddenly,
  As round they flew, unnumbered particles-
  World's rougher ones, which can, though interlinked
  With scanty couplings, yet be fastened firm,
  The one on other caught. These particles
  First cause small clouds to form; and, thereupon,
  These catch the one on other and swarm in a flock
  And grow by their conjoining, and by winds
  Are borne along, along, until collects
  The tempest fury. Happens, too, the nearer
  The mountain summits neighbour to the sky,
  The more unceasingly their far crags smoke
  With the thick darkness of swart cloud, because
  When first the mists do form, ere ever the eyes
  Can there behold them (tenuous as they be),
  The carrier-winds will drive them up and on
  Unto the topmost summits of the mountain;
  And then at last it happens, when they be
  In vaster throng upgathered, that they can
  By this very condensation lie revealed,
  And that at same time they are seen to surge
  From very vertex of the mountain up
  Into far ether. For very fact and feeling,
  As we up-climb high mountains, proveth clear
  That windy are those upward regions free.
  Besides, the clothes hung-out along the shore,
  When in they take the clinging moisture, prove
  That Nature lifts from over all the sea
  Unnumbered particles. Whereby the more
  'Tis manifest that many particles
  Even from the salt upheavings of the main
  Can rise together to augment the bulk
  Of massed clouds. For moistures in these twain
  Are near akin. Besides, from out all rivers,
  As well as from the land itself, we see
  Up-rising mists and steam, which like a breath
  Are forced out from them and borne aloft,
  To curtain heaven with their murk, and make,
  By slow foregathering, the skiey clouds.
  For, in addition, lo, the heat on high
  Of constellated ether burdens down
  Upon them, and by sort of condensation
  Weaveth beneath the azure firmament
  The reek of darkling cloud. It happens, too,
  That hither to the skies from the Beyond
  Do come those particles which make the clouds
  And flying thunderheads. For I have taught
  That this their number is innumerable
  And infinite the sum of the Abyss,
  And I have shown with what stupendous speed
  Those bodies fly and how they're wont to pass
  Amain through incommunicable space.
  Therefore, 'tis not exceeding strange, if oft
  In little time tempest and darkness cover
  With bulking thunderheads hanging on high
  The oceans and the lands, since everywhere
  Through all the narrow tubes of yonder ether,
  Yea, so to speak, through all the breathing-holes
  Of the great upper-world encompassing,
  There be for the primordial elements
  Exits and entrances.
                         Now come, and how
  The rainy moisture thickens into being
  In the lofty clouds, and how upon the lands
  'Tis then discharged in down-pour of large showers,
  I will unfold. And first triumphantly
  Will I persuade thee that up-rise together,
  With clouds themselves, full many seeds of water
  From out all things, and that they both increase-
  Both clouds and water which is in the clouds-
  In like proportion, as our frames increase
  In like proportion with our blood, as well
  As sweat or any moisture in our members.
  Besides, the clouds take in from time to time
  Much moisture risen from the broad marine,-
  Whilst the winds bear them o'er the mighty sea,
  Like hanging fleeces of white wool. Thuswise,
  Even from all rivers is there lifted up
  Moisture into the clouds. And when therein
  The seeds of water so many in many ways
  Have come together, augmented from all sides,
  The close-jammed clouds then struggle to discharge
  Their rain-storms for a two-fold reason: lo,
  The wind's force crowds them, and the very excess
  Of storm-clouds (massed in a vaster throng)
  Giveth an urge and pressure from above
  And makes the rains out-pour. Besides when, too,
  The clouds are winnowed by the winds, or scattered
  Smitten on top by heat of sun, they send
  Their rainy moisture, and distil their drops,
  Even as the wax, by fiery warmth on top,
  Wasteth and liquefies abundantly.
  But comes the violence of the bigger rains
  When violently the clouds are weighted down
  Both by their cumulated mass and by
  The onset of the wind. And rains are wont
  To endure awhile and to abide for long,
  When many seeds of waters are aroused,
  And clouds on clouds and racks on racks outstream
  In piled layers and are borne along
  From every quarter, and when all the earth
  Smoking exhales her moisture. At such a time
  When sun with beams amid the tempest-murk
  Hath shone against the showers of black rains,
  Then in the swart clouds there emerges bright
  The radiance of the bow.
                            And as to things
  Not mentioned here which of themselves do grow
  Or of themselves are gendered, and all things
  Which in the clouds condense to being- all,
  Snow and the winds, hail and the hoar-frosts chill,
  And freezing, mighty force- of lakes and pools
  The mighty hardener, and mighty check
  Which in the winter curbeth everywhere
  The rivers as they go- 'tis easy still,
  Soon to discover and with mind to see
  How they all happen, whereby gendered,
  When once thou well hast understood just what
  Functions have been vouchsafed from of old
  Unto the procreant atoms of the world.
    Now come, and what the law of earthquakes is
  Hearken, and first of all take care to know
  That the under-earth, like to the earth around us,
  Is full of windy caverns all about;
  And many a pool and many a grim abyss
  She bears within her bosom, ay, and cliffs
  And jagged scarps; and many a river, hid
  Beneath her chine, rolls rapidly along
  Its billows and plunging boulders. For clear fact
  Requires that earth must be in every part
  Alike in constitution. Therefore, earth,
  With these things underneath affixed and set,
  Trembleth above, jarred by big down-tumblings,
  When time hath undermined the huge caves,
  The subterranean. Yea, whole mountains fall,
  And instantly from spot of that big jar
  There quiver the tremors far and wide abroad.
  And with good reason: since houses on the street
  Begin to quake throughout, when jarred by a cart
  Of no large weight; and, too, the furniture
  Within the house up-bounds, when a paving-block
  Gives either iron rim of the wheels a jolt.
  It happens, too, when some prodigious bulk
  Of age-worn soil is rolled from mountain slopes
  Into tremendous pools of water dark,
  That the reeling land itself is rocked about
  By the water's undulations; as a basin
  Sometimes won't come to rest until the fluid
  Within it ceases to be rocked about
  In random undulations.
                              And besides,
  When subterranean winds, up-gathered there
  In the hollow deeps, bulk forward from one spot,
  And press with the big urge of mighty powers
  Against the lofty grottos, then the earth
  Bulks to that quarter whither push amain
  The headlong winds. Then all the builded houses
  Above ground- and the more, the higher up-reared
  Unto the sky- lean ominously, careening
  Into the same direction; and the beams,
  Wrenched forward, over-hang, ready to go.
  Yet dread men to believe that there awaits
  The nature of the mighty world a time
  Of doom and cataclysm, albeit they see
  So great a bulk of lands to bulge and break!
  And lest the winds blew back again, no force
  Could rein things in nor hold from sure career
  On to disaster. But now because those winds
  Blow back and forth in alternation strong,
  And, so to say, rallying charge again,
  And then repulsed retreat, on this account
  Earth oftener threatens than she brings to pass
  Collapses dire. For to one side she leans,
  Then back she sways; and after tottering
  Forward, recovers then her seats of poise.
  Thus, this is why whole houses rock, the roofs
  More than the middle stories, middle more
  Than lowest, and the lowest least of all.

    Arises, too, this same great earth-quaking,
  When wind and some prodigious force of air,
  Collected from without or down within
  The old telluric deeps, have hurled themselves
  Amain into those caverns sub-terrene,
  And there at first tumultuously chafe
  Among the vasty grottos, borne about
  In mad rotations, till their lashed force
  Aroused out-bursts abroad, and then and there,
  Riving the deep earth, makes a mighty chasm-
  What once in Syrian Sidon did befall,
  And once in Peloponnesian Aegium,
  Twain cities which such out-break of wild air
  And earth's convulsion, following hard upon,
  O'erthrew of old. And many a walled town,
  Besides, hath fall'n by such omnipotent
  Convulsions on the land, and in the sea
  Engulfed hath sunken many a city down
  With all its populace. But if, indeed,
  They burst not forth, yet is the very rush
  Of the wild air and fury-force of wind
  Then dissipated, like an ague-fit,
  Through the innumerable pores of earth,
  To set her all a-shake- even as a chill,
  When it hath gone into our marrow-bones,
  Sets us convulsively, despite ourselves,
  A-shivering and a-shaking. Therefore, men
  With two-fold terror bustle in alarm
  Through cities to and fro: they fear the roofs
  Above the head; and underfoot they dread
  The caverns, lest the nature of the earth
  Suddenly rend them open, and she gape,
  Herself asunder, with tremendous maw,
  And, all confounded, seek to chock it full
  With her own ruins. Let men, then, go on
  Feigning at will that heaven and earth shall be
  Inviolable, entrusted evermore
  To an eternal weal: and yet at times
  The very force of danger here at hand
  Prods them on some side with this goad of fear-
  This among others- that the earth, withdrawn
  Abruptly from under their feet, be hurried down,
  Down into the abyss, and the Sum-of-Things
  Be following after, utterly fordone,
  Till be but wrack and wreckage of a world.
           EXTRAORDINARY AND PARADOXICAL
               TELLURIC PHENOMENA

    In chief, men marvel Nature renders not
  Bigger and bigger the bulk of ocean, since
  So vast the down-rush of the waters be,
  And every river out of every realm
  Cometh thereto; and add the random rains
  And flying tempests, which spatter every sea
  And every land bedew; add their own springs:
  Yet all of these unto the ocean's sum
  Shall be but as the increase of a drop.
  Wherefore 'tis less a marvel that the sea,
  The mighty ocean, increaseth not. Besides,
  Sun with his heat draws off a mighty part:
  Yea, we behold that sun with burning beams
  To dry our garments dripping all with wet;
  And many a sea, and far out-spread beneath,
  Do we behold. Therefore, however slight
  The portion of wet that sun on any spot
  Culls from the level main, he still will take
  From off the waves in such a wide expanse
  Abundantly. Then, further, also winds,
  Sweeping the level waters, can bear off
  A mighty part of wet, since we behold
  Oft in a single night the highways dried
  By winds, and soft mud crusted o'er at dawn.

    Again, I've taught thee that the clouds bear off
  Much moisture too, up-taken from the reaches
  Of the mighty main, and sprinkle it about
  O'er all the zones, when rain is on the lands
  And winds convey the aery racks of vapour.
  Lastly, since earth is porous through her frame,
  And neighbours on the seas, girdling their shores,
  The water's wet must seep into the lands
  From briny ocean, as from lands it comes
  Into the seas. For brine is filtered off,
  And then the liquid stuff seeps back again
  And all re-poureth at the river-heads,
  Whence in fresh-water currents it returns
  Over the lands, adown the channels which
  Were cleft erstwhile and erstwhile bore along
  The liquid-footed floods.
                              And now the cause
  Whereby athrough the throat of Aetna's Mount
  Such vast tornado-fires out-breathe at times,
  I will unfold: for with no middling might
  Of devastation the flamy tempest rose
  And held dominion in Sicilian fields:
  Drawing upon itself the upturned faces
  Of neighbouring clans, what time they saw afar
  The skiey vaults a-fume and sparkling all,
  And filled their bosoms with dread anxiety
  Of what new thing Nature were travailing at.

    In these affairs it much behooveth thee
  To look both wide and deep, and far abroad
  To peer to every quarter, that thou mayst
  Remember how boundless is the Sum-of-Things,
  And mark how infinitely small a part
  Of the whole Sum is this one sky of ours-
  O not so large a part as is one man
  Of the whole earth. And plainly if thou viewest
  This cosmic fact, placing it square in front,
  And plainly understandest, thou wilt leave
  Wondering at many things. For who of us
  Wondereth if some one gets into his joints
  A fever, gathering head with fiery heat,
  Or any other dolorous disease
  Along his members? For anon the foot
  Grows blue and bulbous; often the sharp twinge
  Seizes the teeth, attacks the very eyes;
  Out-breaks the sacred fire, and, crawling on
  Over the body, burneth every part
  It seizeth on, and works its hideous way
  Along the frame. No marvel this, since, lo,
  Of things innumerable be seeds enough,
  And this our earth and sky do bring to us
  Enough of bane from whence can grow the strength
  Of maladies uncounted. Thuswise, then,
  We must suppose to all the sky and earth
  Are ever supplied from out the infinite
  All things, O all in stores enough whereby
  The shaken earth can of a sudden move,
  And fierce typhoons can over sea and lands
  Go tearing on, and Aetna's fires o'erflow,
  And heaven become a flame-burst. For that, too,
  Happens at times, and the celestial vaults
  Glow into fire, and rainy tempests rise
  In heavier congregation, when, percase,
  The seeds of water have foregathered thus
  From out the infinite. "Aye, but passing huge
  The fiery turmoil of that conflagration!"
  So sayst thou; well, huge many a river seems
  To him that erstwhile ne'er a larger saw;
  Thus, huge seems tree or man; and everything
  Which mortal sees the biggest of each class,
  That he imagines to be "huge"; though yet
  All these, with sky and land and sea to boot,
  Are all as nothing to the sum entire
  Of the all-Sum.
                    But now I will unfold
  At last how yonder suddenly angered flame
  Out-blows abroad from vasty furnaces
  Aetnaean. First, the mountain's nature is
  All under-hollow, propped about, about
  With caverns of basaltic piers. And, lo,
  In all its grottos be there wind and air-
  For wind is made when air hath been uproused
  By violent agitation. When this air
  Is heated through and through, and, raging round,
  Hath made the earth and all the rocks it touches
  Horribly hot, and hath struck off from them
  Fierce fire of swiftest flame, it lifts itself
  And hurtles thus straight upwards through its throat
  Into high heav'n, and thus bears on afar
  Its burning blasts and scattereth afar
  Its ashes, and rolls a smoke of pitchy murk
  And heaveth the while boulders of wondrous weight
  Leaving no doubt in thee that 'tis the air's
  Tumultuous power. Besides, in mighty part,
  The sea there at the roots of that same mount
  Breaks its old billows and sucks back its surf.
  And grottos from the sea pass in below
  Even to the bottom of the mountain's throat.
  Herethrough thou must admit there go...

  And the conditions force the water and air
  Deeply to penetrate from the open sea,
  And to out-blow abroad, and to up-bear
  Thereby the flame, and to up-cast from deeps
  The boulders, and to rear the clouds of sand.
  For at the top be "bowls," as people there
  Are wont to name what we at Rome do call
  The throats and mouths.
                           There be, besides, some thing
  Of which 'tis not enough one only cause
  To state- but rather several, whereof one
  Will be the true: lo, if thou shouldst espy
  Lying afar some fellow's lifeless corse,
  'Twere meet to name all causes of a death,
  That cause of his death might thereby be named:
  For prove thou mayst he perished not by steel,
  By cold, nor even by poison nor disease,
  Yet somewhat of this sort hath come to him
  We know- And thus we have to say the same
  In divers cases.
                      Toward the summer, Nile
  Waxeth and overfloweth the champaign,
  Unique in all the landscape, river sole
  Of the Aegyptians. In mid-season heats
  Often and oft he waters Aegypt o'er,
  Either because in summer against his mouths
  Come those north winds which at that time of year
  Men name the Etesian blasts, and, blowing thus
  Upstream, retard, and, forcing back his waves,
  Fill him o'erfull and force his flow to stop.
  For out of doubt these blasts which driven be
  From icy constellations of the pole
  Are borne straight up the river. Comes that river
  From forth the sultry places down the south,
  Rising far up in midmost realm of day,
  Among black generations of strong men
  With sun-baked skins. 'Tis possible, besides,
  That a big bulk of piled sand may bar
  His mouths against his onward waves, when sea,
  Wild in the winds, tumbles the sand to inland;
  Whereby the river's outlet were less free,
  Likewise less headlong his descending floods.
  It may be, too, that in this season rains
  Are more abundant at its fountain head,
  Because the Etesian blasts of those north winds
  Then urge all clouds into those inland parts.
  And, soothly, when they're thus foregathered there.
  Urged yonder into midmost realm of day,
  Then, crowded against the lofty mountain sides,
  They're massed and powerfully pressed. Again,
  Perchance, his waters wax, O far away,
  Among the Aethiopians' lofty mountains,
  When the all-beholding sun with thawing beams
  Drives the white snows to flow into the vales.

    Now come; and unto thee I will unfold,
  As to the Birdless spots and Birdless tarns,
  What sort of nature they are furnished with.
  First, as to name of "birdless,"- that derives
  From very fact, because they noxious be
  Unto all birds. For when above those spots
  In horizontal flight the birds have come,
  Forgetting to oar with wings, they furl their sails,
  And, with down-drooping of their delicate necks,
  Fall headlong into earth, if haply such
  The nature of the spots, or into water,
  If haply spreads there under Birdless tarn.
  Such spot's at Cumae, where the mountains smoke,
  Charged with the pungent sulphur, and increased
  With steaming springs. And such a spot there is
  Within the walls of Athens, even there
  On summit of Acropolis, beside
  Fane of Tritonian Pallas bountiful,
  Where never cawing crows can wing their course,
  Not even when smoke the altars with good gifts-
  But evermore they flee- yet not from wrath
  Of Pallas, grieved at that espial old,
  As poets of the Greeks have sung the tale;
  But very nature of the place compels.
  In Syria also- as men say- a spot
  Is to be seen, where also four-foot kinds,
  As soon as ever they've set their steps within,
  Collapse, o'ercome by its essential power,
  As if there slaughtered to the under-gods.
  Lo, all these wonders work by natural law,
  And from what causes they are brought to pass
  The origin is manifest; so, haply,
  Let none believe that in these regions stands
  The gate of Orcus, nor us then suppose,
  Haply, that thence the under-gods draw down
  Souls to dark shores of Acheron- as stags,
  The wing-footed, are thought to draw to light,
  By sniffing nostrils, from their dusky lairs
  The wriggling generations of wild snakes.
  How far removed from true reason is this,
  Perceive thou straight; for now I'll try to say
  Somewhat about the very fact.
                                   And, first,
  This do I say, as oft I've said before:
  In earth are atoms of things of every sort;
  And know, these all thus rise from out the earth-
  Many life-giving which be good for food,
  And many which can generate disease
  And hasten death, O many primal seeds
  Of many things in many modes- since earth
  Contains them mingled and gives forth discrete.
  And we have shown before that certain things
  Be unto certain creatures suited more
  For ends of life, by virtue of a nature,
  A texture, and primordial shapes, unlike
  For kinds alike. Then too 'tis thine to see
  How many things oppressive be and foul
  To man, and to sensation most malign:
  Many meander miserably through ears;
  Many in-wind athrough the nostrils too,
  Malign and harsh when mortal draws a breath;
  Of not a few must one avoid the touch;
  Of not a few must one escape the sight;
  And some there be all loathsome to the taste;
  And many, besides, relax the languid limbs
  Along the frame, and undermine the soul
  In its abodes within. To certain trees
  There hath been given so dolorous a shade
  That often they gender achings of the head,
  If one but be beneath, outstretched on the sward.
  There is, again, on Helicon's high hills
  A tree that's wont to kill a man outright
  By fetid odour of its very flower.
  And when the pungent stench of the night-lamp,
  Extinguished but a moment since, assails
  The nostrils, then and there it puts to sleep
  A man afflicted with the falling sickness
  And foamings at the mouth. A woman, too,
  At the heavy castor drowses back in chair,
  And from her delicate fingers slips away
  Her gaudy handiwork, if haply she
  Hath got the whiff at menstruation-time.
  Once more, if thou delayest in hot baths,
  When thou art over-full, how readily
  From stool in middle of the steaming water
  Thou tumblest in a fit! How readily
  The heavy fumes of charcoal wind their way
  Into the brain, unless beforehand we
  Of water 've drunk. But when a burning fever,
  O'ermastering man, hath seized upon his limbs,
  Then odour of wine is like a hammer-blow.
  And seest thou not how in the very earth
  Sulphur is gendered and bitumen thickens
  With noisome stench. What direful stenches, too,
  Scaptensula out-breathes from down below,
  When men pursue the veins of silver and gold,
  With pick-axe probing round the hidden realms
  Deep in the earth?- Or what of deadly bane
  The mines of gold exhale? O what a look,
  And what a ghastly hue they give to men!
  And seest thou not, or hearest, how they're wont
  In little time to perish, and how fail
  The life-stores in those folk whom mighty power
  Of grim necessity confineth there
  In such a task? Thus, this telluric earth
  Out-streams with all these dread effluvia
  And breathes them out into the open world
  And into the visible regions under heaven.

    Thus, too, those Birdless places must up-send
  An essence bearing death to winged things,
  Which from the earth rises into the breezes
  To poison part of skiey space, and when
  Thither the winged is on pennons borne,
  There, seized by the unseen poison, 'tis ensnared,
  And from the horizontal of its flight
  Drops to the spot whence sprang the effluvium.
  And when 'thas there collapsed, then the same power
  Of that effluvium takes from all its limbs
  The relics of its life. That power first strikes
  The creatures with a wildering dizziness,
  And then thereafter, when they're once down-fallen
  Into the poison's very fountains, then
  Life, too, they vomit out perforce, because
  So thick the stores of bane around them fume.
    Again, at times it happens that this power,
  This exhalation of the Birdless places,
  Dispels the air betwixt the ground and birds,
  Leaving well-nigh a void. And thither when
  In horizontal flight the birds have come,
  Forthwith their buoyancy of pennons limps,
  All useless, and each effort of both wings
  Falls out in vain. Here, when without all power
  To buoy themselves and on their wings to lean,
  Lo, Nature constrains them by their weight to slip
  Down to the earth, and lying prostrate there
  Along the well-nigh empty void, they spend
  Their souls through all the openings of their frame.

    Further, the water of wells is colder then
  At summer time, because the earth by heat
  Is rarefied, and sends abroad in air
  Whatever seeds it peradventure have
  Of its own fiery exhalations.
  The more, then, the telluric ground is drained
  Of heat, the colder grows the water hid
  Within the earth. Further, when all the earth
  Is by the cold compressed, and thus contracts
  And, so to say, concretes, it happens, lo,
  That by contracting it expresses then
  Into the wells what heat it bears itself.

    'Tis said at Hammon's fane a fountain is,
  In daylight cold and hot in time of night.
  This fountain men be-wonder over-much,
  And think that suddenly it seethes in heat
  By intense sun, the subterranean, when
  Night with her terrible murk hath cloaked the lands-
  What's not true reasoning by a long remove:
  I' faith when sun o'erhead, touching with beams
  An open body of water, had no power
  To render it hot upon its upper side,
  Though his high light possess such burning glare,
  How, then, can he, when under the gross earth,
  Make water boil and glut with fiery heat?-
  And, specially, since scarcely potent he
  Through hedging walls of houses to inject
  His exhalations hot, with ardent rays.
  What, then, the principle? Why, this, indeed:
  The earth about that spring is porous more
  Than elsewhere the telluric ground, and be
  Many the seeds of fire hard by the water;
  On this account, when night with dew-fraught shades
  Hath whelmed the earth, anon the earth deep down
  Grows chill, contracts; and thuswise squeezes out
  Into the spring what seeds she holds of fire
  (As one might squeeze with fist), which render hot
  The touch and steam of the fluid. Next, when sun,
  Up-risen, with his rays has split the soil
  And rarefied the earth with waxing heat,
  Again into their ancient abodes return
  The seeds of fire, and all the Hot of water
  Into the earth retires; and this is why
  The fountain in the daylight gets so cold.
  Besides, the water's wet is beat upon
  By rays of sun, and, with the dawn, becomes
  Rarer in texture under his pulsing blaze;
  And, therefore, whatso seeds it holds of fire
  It renders up, even as it renders oft
  The frost that it contains within itself
  And thaws its ice and looseneth the knots.
  There is, moreover, a fountain cold in kind
  That makes a bit of tow (above it held)
  Take fire forthwith and shoot a flame; so, too,
  A pitch-pine torch will kindle and flare round
  Along its waves, wherever 'tis impelled
  Afloat before the breeze. No marvel, this:
  Because full many seeds of heat there be
  Within the water; and, from earth itself
  Out of the deeps must particles of fire
  Athrough the entire fountain surge aloft,
  And speed in exhalations into air
  Forth and abroad (yet not in numbers enow
  As to make hot the fountain). And, moreo'er,
  Some force constrains them, scattered through the water,
  Forthwith to burst abroad, and to combine
  In flame above. Even as a fountain far
  There is at Aradus amid the sea,
  Which bubbles out sweet water and disparts
  From round itself the salt waves; and, behold,
  In many another region the broad main
  Yields to the thirsty mariners timely help,
  Belching sweet waters forth amid salt waves.
  Just so, then, can those seeds of fire burst forth
  Athrough that other fount, and bubble out
  Abroad against the bit of tow; and when
  They there collect or cleave unto the torch,
  Forthwith they readily flash aflame, because
  The tow and torches, also, in themselves
  Have many seeds of latent fire. Indeed,
  And seest thou not, when near the nightly lamps
  Thou bringest a flaxen wick, extinguished
  A moment since, it catches fire before
  'Thas touched the flame, and in same wise a torch?
  And many another object flashes aflame
  When at a distance, touched by heat alone,
  Before 'tis steeped in veritable fire.
  This, then, we must suppose to come to pass
  In that spring also.
                        Now to other things!
  And I'll begin to treat by what decree
  Of Nature it came to pass that iron can be
  By that stone drawn which Greeks the magnet call
  After the country's name (its origin
  Being in country of Magnesian folk).
  This stone men marvel at; and sure it oft
  Maketh a chain of rings, depending, lo,
  From off itself! Nay, thou mayest see at times
  Five or yet more in order dangling down
  And swaying in the delicate winds, whilst one
  Depends from other, cleaving to under-side,
  And ilk one feels the stone's own power and bonds-
  So over-masteringly its power flows down.
    In things of this sort, much must be made sure
  Ere thou account of the thing itself canst give,
  And the approaches roundabout must be;
  Wherefore the more do I exact of thee
  A mind and ears attent.
                           First, from all things
  We see soever, evermore must flow,
  Must be discharged and strewn about, about,
  Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight.
  From certain things flow odours evermore,
  As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray
  From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls
  Along the coasts. Nor ever cease to seep
  The varied echoings athrough the air.
  Then, too, there comes into the mouth at times
  The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea
  We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch
  The wormwood being mixed, its bitter stings.
  To such degree from all things is each thing
  Borne streamingly along, and sent about
  To every region round; and Nature grants
  Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow,
  Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have,
  And all the time are suffered to descry
  And smell all things at hand and hear them sound.
    Now will I seek again to bring to mind
  How porous a body all things have- a fact
  Made manifest in my first canto, too.
  For truly, though to know this doth import
  For many things, yet for this very thing
  On which straightway I'm going to discourse,
  'Tis needful most of all to make it sure
  That naught's at hand but body mixed with void.
  A first ensample: in grottos, rocks o'erhead
  Sweat moisture and distil the oozy drops;
  Likewise, from all our body seeps the sweat;
  There grows the beard, and along our members all
  And along our frame the hairs. Through all our veins
  Disseminates the foods, and gives increase
  And aliment down to the extreme parts,
  Even to the tiniest finger-nails. Likewise,
  Through solid bronze the cold and fiery heat
  We feel to pass; likewise, we feel them pass
  Through gold, through silver, when we clasp in hand
  The brimming goblets. And, again, there flit
  Voices through houses' hedging walls of stone;
  Odour seeps through, and cold, and heat of fire
  That's wont to penetrate even strength of iron.
  Again, where corselet of the sky girds round

  And at same time, some Influence of bane,
  When from Beyond 'thas stolen into our world.
  And tempests, gathering from the earth and sky,
  Back to the sky and earth absorbed retire-
  With reason, since there's naught that's fashioned not
  With body porous.
                     Furthermore, not all
  The particles which be from things thrown off
  Are furnished with same qualities for sense,
  Nor be for all things equally adapt.
  A first ensample: the sun doth bake and parch
  The earth; but ice he thaws, and with his beams
  Compels the lofty snows, up-reared white
  Upon the lofty hills, to waste away;
  Then, wax, if set beneath the heat of him,
  Melts to a liquid. And the fire, likewise,
  Will melt the copper and will fuse the gold,
  But hides and flesh it shrivels up and shrinks.
  The water hardens the iron just off the fire,
  But hides and flesh (made hard by heat) it softens.
  The oleaster-tree as much delights
  The bearded she-goats, verily as though
  'Twere nectar-steeped and shed ambrosia;
  Than which is naught that burgeons into leaf
  More bitter food for man. A hog draws back
  For marjoram oil, and every unguent fears
  Fierce poison these unto the bristled hogs,
  Yet unto us from time to time they seem,
  As 'twere, to give new life. But, contrariwise,
  Though unto us the mire be filth most foul,
  To hogs that mire doth so delightsome seem
  That they with wallowing from belly to back
  Are never cloyed.
                     A point remains, besides,
  Which best it seems to tell of, ere I go
  To telling of the fact at hand itself.
  Since to the varied things assigned be
  The many pores, those pores must be diverse
  In nature one from other, and each have
  Its very shape, its own direction fixed.
  And so, indeed, in breathing creatures be
  The several senses, of which each takes in
  Unto itself, in its own fashion ever,
  Its own peculiar object. For we mark
  How sounds do into one place penetrate,
  Into another flavours of all juice,
  And savour of smell into a third. Moreover,
  One sort through rocks we see to seep, and, lo,
  One sort to pass through wood, another still
  Through gold, and others to go out and off
  Through silver and through glass. For we do see
  Through some pores form-and-look of things to flow,
  Through others heat to go, and some things still
  To speedier pass than others through same pores.
  Of verity, the nature of these same paths,
  Varying in many modes (as aforesaid)
  Because of unlike nature and warp and woof
  Of cosmic things, constrains it so to be.

    Wherefore, since all these matters now have been
  Established and settled well for us
  As premises prepared, for what remains
  'Twill not be hard to render clear account
  By means of these, and the whole cause reveal
  Whereby the magnet lures the strength of iron.
  First, stream there must from off the lode-stone seeds
  Innumerable, a very tide, which smites
  By blows that air asunder lying betwixt
  The stone and iron. And when is emptied out
  This space, and a large place between the two
  Is made a void, forthwith the primal germs
  Of iron, headlong slipping, fall conjoined
  Into the vacuum, and the ring itself
  By reason thereof doth follow after and go
  Thuswise with all its body. And naught there is
  That of its own primordial elements
  More thoroughly knit or tighter linked coheres
  Than nature and cold roughness of stout iron.
  Wherefore, 'tis less a marvel what I said,
  That from such elements no bodies can
  From out the iron collect in larger throng
  And be into the vacuum borne along,
  Without the ring itself do follow after.
  And this it does, and followeth on until
  'Thath reached the stone itself and cleaved to it
  By links invisible. Moreover, likewise,
  The motion's assisted by a thing of aid
  (Whereby the process easier becomes)-
  Namely, by this: as soon as rarer grows
  That air in front of the ring, and space between
  Is emptied more and made a void, forthwith
  It happens all the air that lies behind
  Conveys it onward, pushing from the rear.
  For ever doth the circumambient air
  Drub things unmoved, but here it pushes forth
  The iron, because upon one side the space
  Lies void and thus receives the iron in.
  This air, whereof I am reminding thee,
  Winding athrough the iron's abundant pores
  So subtly into the tiny parts thereof,
  Shoves it and pushes, as wind the ship and sails.
  The same doth happen in all directions forth:
  From whatso side a space is made a void,
  Whether from crosswise or above, forthwith
  The neighbour particles are borne along
  Into the vacuum; for of verity,
  They're set a-going by poundings from elsewhere,
  Nor by themselves of own accord can they
  Rise upwards into the air. Again, all things
  Must in their framework hold some air, because
  They are of framework porous, and the air
  Encompasses and borders on all things.
  Thus, then, this air in iron so deeply stored
  Is tossed evermore in vexed motion,
  And therefore drubs upon the ring sans doubt
  And shakes it up inside....

  In sooth, that ring is thither borne along
  To where 'thas once plunged headlong- thither, lo,
  Unto the void whereto it took its start.

    It happens, too, at times that nature of iron
  Shrinks from this stone away, accustomed
  By turns to flee and follow. Yea, I've seen
  Those Samothracian iron rings leap up,
  And iron filings in the brazen bowls
  Seethe furiously, when underneath was set
  The magnet stone. So strongly iron seems
  To crave to flee that rock. Such discord great
  Is gendered by the interposed brass,
  Because, forsooth, when first the tide of brass
  Hath seized upon and held possession of
  The iron's open passage-ways, thereafter
  Cometh the tide of the stone, and in that iron
  Findeth all spaces full, nor now hath holes
  To swim through, as before. 'Tis thus constrained
  With its own current 'gainst the iron's fabric
  To dash and beat; by means whereof it spews
  Forth from itself- and through the brass stirs up-
  The things which otherwise without the brass
  It sucks into itself. In these affairs
  Marvel thou not that from this stone the tide
  Prevails not likewise other things to move
  With its own blows: for some stand firm by weight,
  As gold; and some cannot be moved forever,
  Because so porous in their framework they
  That there the tide streams through without a break,
  Of which sort stuff of wood is seen to be.
  Therefore, when iron (which lies between the two)
  Hath taken in some atoms of the brass,
  Then do the streams of that Magnesian rock
  Move iron by their smitings.
                                Yet these things
  Are not so alien from others, that I
  Of this same sort am ill prepared to name
  Ensamples still of things exclusively
  To one another adapt. Thou seest, first,
  How lime alone cementeth stones: how wood
  Only by glue-of-bull with wood is joined-
  So firmly too that oftener the boards
  Crack open along the weakness of the grain
  Ere ever those taurine bonds will lax their hold.
  The vine-born juices with the water-springs
  Are bold to mix, though not the heavy pitch
  With the light oil-of-olive. And purple dye
  Of shell-fish so uniteth with the wool's
  Body alone that it cannot be ta'en
  Away forever- nay, though thou gavest toil
  To restore the same with the Neptunian flood,
  Nay, though all ocean willed to wash it out
  With all its waves. Again, gold unto gold
  Doth not one substance bind, and only one?
  And is not brass by tin joined unto brass?
  And other ensamples how many might one find!
  What then? Nor is there unto thee a need
  Of such long ways and roundabout, nor boots it
  For me much toil on this to spend. More fit
  It is in few words briefly to embrace
  Things many: things whose textures fall together
  So mutually adapt, that cavities
  To solids correspond, these cavities
  Of this thing to the solid parts of that,
  And those of that to solid parts of this-
  Such joinings are the best. Again, some things
  Can be the one with other coupled and held,
  Linked by hooks and eyes, as 'twere; and this
  Seems more the fact with iron and this stone.
    Now, of diseases what the law, and whence
  The Influence of bane upgathering can
  Upon the race of man and herds of cattle
  Kindle a devastation fraught with death,
  I will unfold. And, first, I've taught above
  That seeds there be of many things to us
  Life-giving, and that, contrariwise, there must
  Fly many round bringing disease and death.
  When these have, haply, chanced to collect
  And to derange the atmosphere of earth,
  The air becometh baneful. And, lo, all
  That Influence of bane, that pestilence,
  Or from Beyond down through our atmosphere,
  Like clouds and mists, descends, or else collects
  From earth herself and rises, when, a-soak
  And beat by rains unseasonable and suns,
  Our earth hath then contracted stench and rot.
  Seest thou not, also, that whoso arrive
  In region far from fatherland and home
  Are by the strangeness of the clime and waters
  Distempered?- since conditions vary much.
  For in what else may we suppose the clime
  Among the Britons to differ from Aegypt's own
  (Where totters awry the axis of the world),
  Or in what else to differ Pontic clime
  From Gades' and from climes adown the south,
  On to black generations of strong men
  With sun-baked skins? Even as we thus do see
  Four climes diverse under the four main-winds
  And under the four main-regions of the sky,
  So, too, are seen the colour and face of men
  Vastly to disagree, and fixed diseases
  To seize the generations, kind by kind:
  There is the elephant-disease which down
  In midmost Aegypt, hard by streams of Nile,
  Engendered is- and never otherwhere.
  In Attica the feet are oft attacked,
  And in Achaean lands the eyes. And so
  The divers spots to divers parts and limbs
  Are noxious; 'tis a variable air
  That causes this. Thus when an atmosphere,
  Alien by chance to us, begins to heave,
  And noxious airs begin to crawl along,
  They creep and wind like unto mist and cloud,
  Slowly, and everything upon their way
  They disarrange and force to change its state.
  It happens, too, that when they've come at last
  Into this atmosphere of ours, they taint
  And make it like themselves and alien.
  Therefore, asudden this devastation strange,
  This pestilence, upon the waters falls,
  Or settles on the very crops of grain
  Or other meat of men and feed of flocks.
  Or it remains a subtle force, suspense
  In the atmosphere itself; and when therefrom
  We draw our inhalations of mixed air,
  Into our body equally its bane
  Also we must suck in. In manner like,
  Oft comes the pestilence upon the kine,
  And sickness, too, upon the sluggish sheep.
  Nor aught it matters whether journey we
  To regions adverse to ourselves and change
  The atmospheric cloak, or whether Nature
  Herself import a tainted atmosphere
  To us or something strange to our own use
  Which can attack us soon as ever it come.
             THE PLAGUE ATHENS

    'Twas such a manner of disease, 'twas such
  Mortal miasma in Cecropian lands
  Whilom reduced the plains to dead men's bones,
  Unpeopled the highways, drained of citizens
  The Athenian town. For coming from afar,
  Rising in lands of Aegypt, traversing
  Reaches of air and floating fields of foam,
  At last on all Pandion's folk it swooped;
  Whereat by troops unto disease and death
  Were they o'er-given. At first, they'd bear about
  A skull on fire with heat, and eyeballs twain
  Red with suffusion of blank glare. Their throats,
  Black on the inside, sweated oozy blood;
  And the walled pathway of the voice of man
  Was clogged with ulcers; and the very tongue,
  The mind's interpreter, would trickle gore,
  Weakened by torments, tardy, rough to touch.
  Next when that Influence of bane had chocked,
  Down through the throat, the breast, and streamed had
  E'en into sullen heart of those sick folk,
  Then, verily, all the fences of man's life
  Began to topple. From the mouth the breath
  Would roll a noisome stink, as stink to heaven
  Rotting cadavers flung unburied out.
  And, lo, thereafter, all the body's strength
  And every power of mind would languish, now
  In very doorway of destruction.
  And anxious anguish and ululation (mixed
  With many a groan) companioned alway
  The intolerable torments. Night and day,
  Recurrent spasms of vomiting would rack
  Alway their thews and members, breaking down
  With sheer exhaustion men already spent.
  And yet on no one's body couldst thou mark
  The skin with o'er-much heat to burn aglow,
  But rather the body unto touch of hands
  Would offer a warmish feeling, and thereby
  Show red all over, with ulcers, so to say,
  Inbranded, like the "sacred fires" o'erspread
  Along the members. The inward parts of men,
  In truth, would blaze unto the very bones;
  A flame, like flame in furnaces, would blaze
  Within the stomach. Nor couldst aught apply
  Unto their members light enough and thin
  For shift of aid- but coolness and a breeze
  Ever and ever. Some would plunge those limbs
  On fire with bane into the icy streams,
  Hurling the body naked into the waves;
  Many would headlong fling them deeply down
  The water-pits, tumbling with eager mouth
  Already agape. The insatiable thirst
  That whelmed their parched bodies, lo, would make
  A goodly shower seem like to scanty drops.
  Respite of torment was there none. Their frames
  Forspent lay prone. With silent lips of fear
  Would Medicine mumble low, the while she saw
  So many a time men roll their eyeballs round,
  Staring wide-open, unvisited of sleep,
  The heralds of old death. And in those months
  Was given many another sign of death:
  The intellect of mind by sorrow and dread
  Deranged, the sad brow, the countenance
  Fierce and delirious, the tormented ears
  Beset with ringings, the breath quick and short
  Or huge and intermittent, soaking sweat
  A-glisten on neck, the spittle in fine gouts
  Tainted with colour of crocus and so salt,
  The cough scarce wheezing through the rattling throat.
  Aye, and the sinews in the fingered hands
  Were sure to contract, and sure the jointed frame
  To shiver, and up from feet the cold to mount
  Inch after inch: and toward the supreme hour
  At last the pinched nostrils, nose's tip
  A very point, eyes sunken, temples hollow,
  Skin cold and hard, the shuddering grimace,
  The pulled and puffy flesh above the brows!-
  O not long after would their frames lie prone
  In rigid death. And by about the eighth
  Resplendent light of sun, or at the most
  On the ninth flaming of his flambeau, they
  Would render up the life. If any then
  Had 'scaped the doom of that destruction, yet
  Him there awaited in the after days
  A wasting and a death from ulcers vile
  And black discharges of the belly, or else
  Through the clogged nostrils would there ooze along
  Much fouled blood, oft with an aching head:
  Hither would stream a man's whole strength and flesh.
  And whoso had survived that virulent flow
  Of the vile blood, yet into thews of him
  And into his joints and very genitals
  Would pass the old disease. And some there were,
  Dreading the doorways of destruction
  So much, lived on, deprived by the knife
  Of the male member; not a few, though lopped
  Of hands and feet, would yet persist in life,
  And some there were who lost their eyeballs: O
  So fierce a fear of death had fallen on them!
  And some, besides, were by oblivion
  Of all things seized, that even themselves they know
  No longer. And though corpse on corpse lay piled
  Unburied on ground, the race of birds and beasts
  Would or spring back, scurrying to escape
  The virulent stench, or, if they'd tasted there,
  Would languish in approaching death. But yet
  Hardly at all during those many suns
  Appeared a fowl, nor from the woods went forth
  The sullen generations of wild beasts-
  They languished with disease and died and died.
  In chief, the faithful dogs, in all the streets
  Outstretched, would yield their breath distressfully
  For so that Influence of bane would twist
  Life from their members. Nor was found one sure
  And universal principle of cure:
  For what to one had given the power to take
  The vital winds of air into his mouth,
  And to gaze upward at the vaults of sky,
  The same to others was their death and doom.
    In those affairs, O awfullest of all,
  O pitiable most was this, was this:
  Whoso once saw himself in that disease
  Entangled, ay, as damned unto death,
  Would lie in wanhope, with a sullen heart,
  Would, in fore-vision of his funeral,
  Give up the ghost, O then and there. For, lo,
  At no time did they cease one from another
  To catch contagion of the greedy plague,-
  As though but woolly flocks and horned herds;
  And this in chief would heap the dead on dead:
  For who forbore to look to their own sick,
  O these (too eager of life, of death afeard)
  Would then, soon after, slaughtering Neglect
  Visit with vengeance of evil death and base-
  Themselves deserted and forlorn of help.
  But who had stayed at hand would perish there
  By that contagion and the toil which then
  A sense of honour and the pleading voice
  Of weary watchers, mixed with voice of wail
  Of dying folk, forced them to undergo.
  This kind of death each nobler soul would meet.
  The funerals, uncompanioned, forsaken,
  Like rivals contended to be hurried through.

  And men contending to ensepulchre
  Pile upon pile the throng of their own dead:
  And weary with woe and weeping wandered home;
  And then the most would take to bed from grief.
  Nor could be found not one, whom nor disease
  Nor death, nor woe had not in those dread times
  Attacked.

    By now the shepherds and neatherds all,
  Yea, even the sturdy guiders of curved ploughs,
  Began to sicken, and their bodies would lie
  Huddled within back-corners of their huts,
  Delivered by squalor and disease to death.
  O often and often couldst thou then have seen
  On lifeless children lifeless parents prone,
  Or offspring on their fathers', mothers' corpse
  Yielding the life. And into the city poured
  O not in least part from the countryside
  That tribulation, which the peasantry
  Sick, sick, brought thither, thronging from every quarter,
  Plague-stricken mob. All places would they crowd,
  All buildings too; whereby the more would death
  Up-pile a-heap the folk so crammed in town.
  Ah, many a body thirst had dragged and rolled
  Along the highways there was lying strewn
  Besides Silenus-headed water-fountains,-
  The life-breath choked from that too dear desire
  Of pleasant waters. Ah, everywhere along
  The open places of the populace,
  And along the highways, O thou mightest see
  Of many a half-dead body the sagged limbs,
  Rough with squalor, wrapped around with rags,
  Perish from very nastiness, with naught
  But skin upon the bones, well-nigh already
  Buried- in ulcers vile and obscene filth.
  All holy temples, too, of deities
  Had Death becrammed with the carcasses;
  And stood each fane of the Celestial Ones
  Laden with stark cadavers everywhere-
  Places which warders of the shrines had crowded
  With many a guest. For now no longer men
  Did mightily esteem the old Divine,
  The worship of the gods: the woe at hand
  Did over-master. Nor in the city then
  Remained those rites of sepulture, with which
  That pious folk had evermore been wont
  To buried be. For it was wildered all
  In wild alarms, and each and every one
  With sullen sorrow would bury his own dead,
  As present shift allowed. And sudden stress
  And poverty to many an awful act
  Impelled; and with a monstrous screaming they
  Would, on the frames of alien funeral pyres,
  Place their own kin, and thrust the torch beneath
  Oft brawling with much bloodshed round about
  Rather than quit dead bodies loved in life.


                      -THE END-

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HYMN TO DEMETER

Translated by Hugh G.Evelyn-White

published 1914, Loeb Classical Library

 

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[Note: This Homeric Hymn, composed in approximately the seventh century BCE, served for centuries thereafter as the canonical hymn of the Eleusinian Mysteries. The text below was translated from the Greek by Hugh G. Evelyn-White and first published by the Loeb Classical Library in 1914. This text has been scanned and proof-read by Edward A. Beach, Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies, University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire.]

I begin to sing of rich-haired Demeter, awful goddess -- of her and her trim-ankled daughter whom Aidoneus [Hades] rapt away, given to him by all-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer. Apart from Demeter, lady of the golden sword and glorious fruits, she was playing with the deep-bosomed daughters of Oceanus and gathering flowers over a soft meadow, roses and crocuses and beautiful violets, irises also and hyacinths and the narcissus which Earth made to grow at the will of Zeus and to please the Host of Many, to be a snare for the bloom-like girl -- a marvellous, radiant flower. It was a thing of awe whether for deathless gods or mortal men to see: from its root grew a hundred blooms and it smelled most sweetly, so that all wide heaven above and the whole earth and the sea's salt swell laughed for joy. And the girl was amazed and reached out with both hands to take the lovely toy; but the wide-pathed earth yawned there in the plain of Nysa, and the lord, Host of Many, with his immortal horses sprang out upon her -- the Son of Cronos, He who has many names.[1]

He caught her up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. Then she cried out shrilly with her voice, calling upon her father, the Son of Cronos, who is most high and excellent. But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave, and the lord Helios, Hyperion's bright son, as she cried to her father, the Son of Cronos. But he was sitting aloof, apart from the gods, in his temple where many pray, and receiving sweet offerings from mortal men. So he, that Son of Cronos, of many names, who is Ruler of Many and Host of Many, was bearing her away by leave of Zeus on his immortal chariot -- his own brother's child and all unwilling.

[Line 33] And so long as she, the goddess, yet beheld earth and starry heaven and the strong-flowing sea where fishes shoal, and the rays of the sun, and still hoped to see her dear mother and the tribes of the eternal gods, so long hope calmed her great heart for all her trouble. . . . and the heights of the mountains and the depths of the sea rang with her immortal voice: and her queenly mother heard her.

Bitter pain seized her heart, and she rent the covering upon her divine hair with her dear hands: her dark cloak she cast down from both her shoulders and sped, like a wild-bird, over the firm land and yielding sea, seeking her child. But no one would tell her the truth, neither god nor mortal man; and of the birds of omen none came with true news for her. Then for nine days queenly Deo wandered over the earth with flaming torches in her hands, so grieved that she never tasted ambrosia and the sweet draught of nectar, nor sprinkled her body with water. But when the tenth enlightening dawn had come, Hecate, with a torch in her hands, met her, and spoke to her and told her news:

"Queenly Demeter, bringer of seasons and giver of good gifts, what god of heaven or what mortal man has rapt away Persephone and pierced with sorrow your dear heart? For I heard her voice, yet saw not with my eyes who it was. But I tell you truly and shortly all I know."

[Line 59] So, then, said Hecate. And the daughter of rich-haired Rhea answered her not, but sped swiftly with her, holding flaming torches in her hands. So they came to Helios, who is watchman of both gods and men, and stood in front of his horses: and the bright goddess enquired of him: "Helios, do you at least regard me, goddess as I am, if ever by word or deed of mine I have cheered your heart and spirit. Through the fruitless air I heard the thrilling cry of my daughter whom I bare, sweet scion of my body and lovely in form, as of one seized violently; though with my eyes I saw nothing. But you -- for with your beams you look down from the bright upper air over all the earth and sea -- tell me truly of my dear child if you have seen her anywhere, what god or mortal man has violently seized her against her will and mine, and so made off."

So said she. And the Son of Hyperion answered her: "Queen Demeter, daughter of rich-haired Rhea, I will tell you the truth; for I greatly reverence and pity you in your grief for your trim-ankled daughter. None other of the deathless gods is to blame, but only cloud-gathering Zeus who gave her to Hades, her father's brother, to be called his buxom wife. And Hades seized her and took her loudly crying in his chariot down to his realm of mist and gloom. Yet, goddess, cease your loud lament and keep not vain anger unrelentingly: Aidoneus, the Ruler of Many, is no unfitting husband among the deathless gods for your child, being our own brother and born of the same stock: also, for honour, he has that third share which he received when division was made at the first and is appointed lord of those among whom he dwells."

So he spake, and called to his horses: and at his chiding they quickly whirled the swift chariot along, like long-winged birds.

[Line 90] But grief yet more terrible and savage came into the heart of Demeter, and thereafter she was so angered with the dark-clouded Son of Cronos that she avoided the gathering of the gods and high Olympus, and went to the towns and rich fields of men, disfiguring her form a long while. And no one of men or deep-bosomed women knew her when they saw her, until she came to the house of wise Celeus who then was lord of fragrant Eleusis. Vexed in her dear heart, she sat near the wayside by the Maiden Well, from which the women of the place were used to draw water, in a shady place over which grew an olive shrub. And she was like an ancient woman who is cut off from childbearing and the gifts of garland-loving Aphrodite, like the nurses of king's children who deal justice, or like the house-keepers in their echoing halls. There the daughters of Celeus, son of Eleusis, saw her, as they coming for easy-drawn water, to carry it in pitchers of bronze to their dear father's house: four were they and like goddesses in the flower of their girlhood, Callidice and Cleisidice and lovely Demo and Callithoe who was the eldest of them all. They knew her not, -- for the gods are not easily discerned by mortals --, but startling near by her spoke winged words:

"Old mother, whence are you of folk born long ago? Why are you gone away from the city and do not draw near the houses? For there in the shady halls are women of just such age as you, and others younger; and they would welcome you both by word and by deed."

[Line 118] Thus they said. And she, that queen among goddesses answered them saying: "Hail, dear children, whosoever you are of woman-kind. I will tell you my story; for it is not unseemly that I should tell you truly what you ask. Doso is my name, for my stately mother gave it me. And now I am come from Crete over the sea's wide back, -- not willingly; but pirates brought me thence by force of strength against my liking. Afterwards they put in with their swift craft to Thoricus, and these the women landed on the shore in full throng and the men likewise, and they began to make ready a meal by the stern-cables of the ship. But my heart craved not pleasant food, and I fled secretly across the dark country and escaped my masters, that they should not take me unpurchased across the sea, there to win a price for me. And so I wandered and am come here: and I know not at all what land this is or what people are in it. But may all those who dwell on Olympus give you husbands and birth of children as parents desire, so you take pity on me, maidens, and show me this clearly that I may learn, dear children, to the house of what man and woman I may go, to work for them cheerfully at such tasks as belong to a woman of my age. Well could I nurse a new born child, holding him in my arms, or keep house, or spread my masters' bed in a recess of the well-built chamber, or teach the women their work."

So said the goddess. And straightway the unwed maiden Callidice, goodliest in form of the daughters of Celeus, answered her and said:

[Line 147] "Mother, what the gods send us, we mortals bear perforce, although we suffer; for they are much stronger than we. But now I will teach you clearly, telling you the names of men who have great power and honour here and are chief among the people, guarding our city's coif of towers by their wisdom and true judgements: there is wise Triptolemus and Dioclus and Polyxeinus and blameless Eumolpus and Dolichus and our own brave father. All these have wives who manage in the house, and no one of them, so soon as she had seen you, would dishonour you and turn you from the house, but they will welcome you; for indeed you are godlike. But if you will, stay here; and we will go to our father's house and tell Metaneira, our deep-bosomed mother, all this matter fully, that she may bid you rather come to our home than search after the houses of others. She has an only son, late-born, who is being nursed in our well-built house, a child of many prayers and welcome: if you could bring him up until he reached the full measure of youth, any one of womankind who should see you would straightway envy you, such gifts would our mother give for his upbringing."

So she spake: and the goddess bowed her head in assent. And they filled their shining vessels with water and carried them off rejoicing. Quickly they came to their father's great house and straightway told their mother according as they had heard and seen. Then she bade them go with all speed and invite the stranger to come for a measureless hire. As hinds or heifers in spring time, when sated with pasture, bound about a meadow, so they, holding up the folds of their lovely garments, darted down the hollow path, and their hair like a crocus flower streamed about their shoulders. And they found the good goddess near the wayside where they had left her before, and led her to the house of their dear father. And she walked behind, distressed in her dear heart, with her head veiled and wearing a dark cloak which waved about the slender feet of the goddess.

[Line 184] Soon they came to the house of heaven-nurtured Celeus and went through the portico to where their queenly mother sat by a pillar of the close-fitted roof, holding her son, a tender scion, in her bosom. And the girls ran to her. But the goddess walked to the threshold: and her head reached the roof and she filled the doorway with a heavenly radiance. Then awe and reverence and pale fear took hold of Metaneira, and she rose up from her couch before Demeter, and bade her be seated. But Demeter, bringer of seasons and giver of perfect gifts, would not sit upon the bright couch, but stayed silent with lovely eyes cast down until careful Iambe placed a jointed seat for her and threw over it a silvery fleece. Then she sat down and held her veil in her hands before her face. A long time she sat upon the stool[2] without speaking because of her sorrow, and greeted no one by word or by sign, but rested, never smiling, and tasting neither food nor drinks because she pined with longing for her deep-bosomed daughter, until careful Iambe -- who pleased her moods in aftertime also -- moved the holy lady with many a quip and jest to smile and laugh and cheer her heart. Then Metaneira filled a cup with sweet wine and offered it to her; but she refused it, for she said it was not lawful for her to drink red wine, but bade them mix meal and water with soft mint and give her to drink. And Metaneira mixed the draught and gave it to the goddess as she bade. So the great queen Deo received it to observe the sacrament.[3]

[Line 212] And of them all, well-girded Metaneira first began to speak: "Hail, lady! For I think you are not meanly but nobly born; truly dignity and grace are conspicuous upon your eyes as in the eyes of kings that deal justice. Yet we mortals bear per-force what the gods send us, though we be grieved; for a yoke is set upon our necks. But now, since you are come here, you shall have what I can bestow: and nurse me this child whom the gods gave me in my old age and beyond my hope, a son much prayed for. If you should bring him up until he reach the full measure of youth, any one of woman-kind that sees you will straightway envy you, so great reward would I give for his upbringing."

Then rich-haired Demeter answered her: "And to you, also, lady, all hail, and may the gods give you good! Gladly will I take the boy to my breast, as you bid me, and will nurse him. Never, I ween, through any heedlessness of his nurse shall witchcraft hurt him nor yet the Undercutter: for I know a charm far stronger than the Woodcutter, and I know an excellent safeguard against woeful witchcraft."[4]

When she had so spoken, she took the child in her fragrant bosom with her divine hands: and his mother was glad in her heart. So the goddess nursed in the palace Demophoon, wise Celeus' goodly son whom well-girded Metaneira bare. And the child grew like some immortal being, not fed with food nor nourished at the breast: for by day rich-crowned Demeter would anoint him with ambrosia as if he were the offspring of a god and breathe sweetly upon him as she held him in her bosom. But at night she would hide him like a brand in the heart of the fire, unknown to his dear parents. And it wrought great wonder in these that he grew beyond his age; for he was like the gods face to face. And she would have made him deathless and unaging, had not well-girded Metaneira in her heedlessness kept watch by night from her sweet-smelling chamber and spied. But she wailed and smote her two hips, because she feared for her son and was greatly distraught in her heart; so she lamented and uttered winged words:

[Line 248] "Demophoon, my son, the strange woman buries you deep in fire and works grief and bitter sorrow for me."

Thus she spoke, mourning. And the bright goddess, lovely-crowned Demeter, heard her, and was wroth with her. So with her divine hands she snatched from the fire the dear son whom Metaneira had born unhoped-for in the palace, and cast him from her to the ground; for she was terribly angry in her heart. Forthwith she said to well-girded Metaneira:

"Witless are you mortals and dull to foresee your lot, whether of good or evil, that comes upon you. For now in your heedlessness you have wrought folly past healing; for -- be witness the oath of the gods, the relentless water of Styx -- I would have made your dear son deathless and unaging all his days and would have bestowed on him ever-lasting honour, but now he can in no way escape death and the fates. Yet shall unfailing honour always rest upon him, because he lay upon my knees and slept in my arms. But, as the years move round and when he is in his prime, the sons of the Eleusinians shall ever wage war and dread strife with one another continually. Lo! I am that Demeter who has share of honour and is the greatest help and cause of joy to the undying gods and mortal men. But now, let all the people build me a great temple and an altar below it and beneath the city and its sheer wall upon a rising hillock above Callichorus. And I myself will teach my rites, that hereafter you may reverently perform them and so win the favour of my heart."

[Line 275] When she had so said, the goddess changed her stature and her looks, thrusting old age away from her: beauty spread round about her and a lovely fragrance was wafted from her sweet-smelling robes, and from the divine body of the goddess a light shone afar, while golden tresses spread down over her shoulders, so that the strong house was filled with brightness as with lightning. And so she went out from the palace.

And straightway Metaneira's knees were loosed and she remained speechless for a long while and did not remember to take up her late-born son from the ground. But his sisters heard his pitiful wailing and sprang down from their well-spread beds: one of them took up the child in her arms and laid him in her bosom, while another revived the fire, and a third rushed with soft feet to bring their mother from her fragrant chamber. And they gathered about the struggling child and washed him, embracing him lovingly; but he was not comforted, because nurses and handmaids much less skillful were holding him now.

All night long they sought to appease the glorious goddess, quaking with fear. But, as soon as dawn began to show, they told powerful Celeus all things without fail, as the lovely-crowned goddess Demeter charged them. So Celeus called the countless people to an assembly and bade them make a goodly temple for rich-haired Demeter and an altar upon the rising hillock. And they obeyed him right speedily and harkened to his voice, doing as he commanded. As for the child, he grew like an immortal being.

[Line 301] Now when they had finished building and had drawn back from their toil, they went every man to his house. But golden-haired Demeter sat there apart from all the blessed gods and stayed, wasting with yearning for her deep-bosomed daughter. Then she caused a most dreadful and cruel year for mankind over the all-nourishing earth: the ground would not make the seed sprout, for rich-crowned Demeter kept it hid. In the fields the oxen drew many a curved plough in vain, and much white barley was cast upon the land without avail. So she would have destroyed the whole race of man with cruel famine and have robbed them who dwell on Olympus of their glorious right of gifts and sacrifices, had not Zeus perceived and marked this in his heart. First he sent golden-winged Iris to call rich-haired Demeter, lovely in form. So he commanded. And she obeyed the dark-clouded Son of Cronos, and sped with swift feet across the space between. She came to the stronghold of fragrant Eleusis, and there finding dark-cloaked Demeter in her temple, spake to her and uttered winged words:

"Demeter, father Zeus, whose wisdom is everlasting, calls you to come join the tribes of the eternal gods: come therefore, and let not the message I bring from Zeus pass unobeyed."

Thus said Iris imploring her. But Demeter's heart was not moved. Then again the father sent forth all the blessed and eternal gods besides: and they came, one after the other, and kept calling her and offering many very beautiful gifts and whatever rights she might be pleased to choose among the deathless gods. Yet no one was able to persuade her mind and will, so wroth was she in her heart; but she stubbornly rejected all their words: for she vowed that she would never set foot on fragrant Olympus nor let fruit spring out of the ground, until she beheld with her eyes her own fair-faced daughter.

[Line 334] Now when all-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer heard this, he sent the Slayer of Argus whose wand is of gold to Erebus, so that having won over Hades with soft words, he might lead forth chaste Persephone to the light from the misty gloom to join the gods, and that her mother might see her with her eyes and cease from her anger. And Hermes obeyed, and leaving the house of Olympus, straightway sprang down with speed to the hidden places of the earth. And he found the lord Hades in his house seated upon a couch, and his shy mate with him, much reluctant, because she yearned for her mother. But she was afar off, brooding on her fell design because of the deeds of the blessed gods. And the strong Slayer of Argus drew near and said:

"Dark-haired Hades, ruler over the departed, father Zeus bids me bring noble Persephone forth from Erebus unto the gods, that her mother may see her with her eyes and cease from her dread anger with the immortals; for now she plans an awful deed, to destroy the weakly tribes of earthborn men by keeping seed hidden beneath the earth, and so she makes an end of the honours of the undying gods. For she keeps fearful anger and does not consort with the gods, but sits aloof in her fragrant temple, dwelling in the rocky hold of Eleusis."

So he said. And Aidoneus, ruler over the dead, smiled grimly and obeyed the behest of Zeus the king. For he straightway urged wise Persephone, saying:

[Line 360] "Go now, Persephone, to your dark-robed mother, go, and feel kindly in your heart towards me: be not so exceedingly cast down; for I shall be no unfitting husband for you among the deathless gods, that am own brother to father Zeus. And while you are here, you shall rule all that lives and moves and shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore."

When he said this, wise Persephone was filled with joy and hastily sprang up for gladness. But he on his part secretly gave her sweet pomegranate seed to eat, taking care for himself that she might not remain continually with grave, dark-robed Demeter. Then Aidoneus the Ruler of Many openly got ready his deathless horses beneath the golden chariots And she mounted on the chariot and the strong Slayer of Argus took reins and whip in his dear hands and drove forth from the hall, the horses speeding readily. Swiftly they traversed their long course, and neither the sea nor river-waters nor grassy glens nor mountain-peaks checked the career of the immortal horses, but they clave the deep air above them as they went. And Hermes brought them to the place where rich-crowned Demeter was staying and checked them before her fragrant temple.

[Line 384] And when Demeter saw them, she rushed forth as does a Maenad down some thick-wooded mountain, while Persephone on the other side, when she saw her mother's sweet eyes, left the chariot and horses, and leaped down to run to her, and falling upon her neck, embraced her. But while Demeter was still holding her dear child in her arms, her heart suddenly misgave her for some snare, so that she feared greatly and ceased fondling her daughter and asked of her at once: "My child, tell me, surely you have not tasted any food while you were below? Speak out and hide nothing, but let us both know. For if you have not, you shall come back from loathly Hades and live with me and your father, the dark-clouded Son of Cronos and be honoured by all the deathless gods; but if you have tasted food, you must go back again beneath the secret places of the earth, there to dwell a third part of the seasons every year: yet for the two parts you shall be with me and the other deathless gods. But when the earth shall bloom with the fragrant flowers of spring in every kind, then from the realm of darkness and gloom thou shalt come up once more to be a wonder for gods and mortal men. And now tell me how he rapt you away to the realm of darkness and gloom, and by what trick did the strong Host of Many beguile you?"

[Line 405] Then beautiful Persephone answered her thus: "Mother, I will tell you all without error. When luck-bringing Hermes came, swift messenger from my father the Son of Cronos and the other Sons of Heaven, bidding me come back from Erebus that you might see me with your eyes and so cease from your anger and fearful wrath against the gods, I sprang up at once for joy; but he secretly put in my mouth sweet food, a pomegranate seed, and forced me to taste against my will. Also I will tell how he rapt me away by the deep plan of my father the Son of Cronos and carried me off beneath the depths of the earth, and will relate the whole matter as you ask. All we were playing in a lovely meadow, Leucippe and Phaeno and Electra and Ianthe, Melita also and Iache with Rhodea and Callirhoe and Melobosis and Tyche and Ocyrhoe, fair as a flower, Chryseis, Ianeira, Acaste and Admete and Rhodope and Pluto and charming Calypso; Styx too was there and Urania and lovely Galaxaura with Pallas who rouses battles and Artemis delighting in arrows.[5] We were playing and gathering sweet flowers in our hands, soft crocuses mingled with irises and hyacinths, and rose-blooms and lilies, marvellous to see, and the narcissus which the wide earth caused to grow yellow as a crocus. That I plucked in my joy; but the earth parted beneath, and there the strong lord, the Host of Many, sprang forth and in his golden chariot he bore me away, all unwilling, beneath the earth: then I cried with a shrill cry. All this is true, sore though it grieves me to tell the tale."

[Line 434] So did they then, with hearts at one, greatly cheer each the other's soul and spirit with many an embrace: their hearts had relief from their griefs while each took and gave back joyousness.

Then bright-coiffed Hecate came near to them, and often did she embrace the daughter of holy Demeter: and from that time the lady Hecate was minister and companion to Persephone.

And all-seeing Zeus sent a messenger to them, rich-haired Rhea, to bring dark-cloaked Demeter to join the families of the gods: and he promised to give her what rights she should choose among the deathless gods and agreed that her daughter should go down for the third part of the circling year to darkness and gloom, but for the two parts should live with her mother and the other deathless gods. Thus he commanded. And the goddess did not disobey the message of Zeus; swiftly she rushed down from the peaks of Olympus and came to the plain of Rharus, rich, fertile corn-land once, but then in nowise fruitful, for it lay idle and utterly leafless, because the white grain was hidden by design of trim-ankled Demeter. But afterwards, as spring-time waxed, it was soon to be waving with long ears of corn, and its rich furrows to be loaded with grain upon the ground, while others would already be bound in sheaves. There first she landed from the fruitless upper air: and glad were the goddesses to see each other and cheered in heart. Then bright-coiffed Rhea said to Demeter:

[Line 459] "Come, my daughter; for far-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer calls you to join the families of the gods, and has promised to give you what rights you please among the deathless gods, and has agreed that for a third part of the circling year your daughter shall go down to darkness and gloom, but for the two parts shall be with you and the other deathless gods: so has he declared it shall be and has bowed his head in token. But come, my child, obey, and be not too angry unrelentingly with the dark-clouded Son of Cronos; but rather increase forthwith for men the fruit that gives them life."

So spake Rhea. And rich-crowned Demeter did not refuse but straightway made fruit to spring up from the rich lands, so that the whole wide earth was laden with leaves and flowers. Then she went, and to the kings who deal justice, Triptolemus and Diocles, the horse-driver, and to doughty Eumolpus and Celeus, leader of the people, she showed the conduct of her rites and taught them all her mysteries, to Triptolemus and Polyxeinus and Diocles also, -- awful mysteries which no one may in any way transgress or pry into or utter, for deep awe of the gods checks the voice. Happy is he among men upon earth who has seen these mysteries; but he who is uninitiate and who has no part in them, never has lot of like good things once he is dead, down in the darkness and gloom.

[Line 483] But when the bright goddess had taught them all, they went to Olympus to the gathering of the other gods. And there they dwell beside Zeus who delights in thunder, awful and reverend goddesses. Right blessed is he among men on earth whom they freely love: soon they do send Plutus as guest to his great house, Plutus who gives wealth to mortal men.

And now, queen of the land of sweet Eleusis and sea-girt Paros and rocky Antron, lady, giver of good gifts, bringer of seasons, queen Deo, be gracious, you and your daughter all beauteous Persephone, and for my song grant me heart-cheering substance. And now I will remember you and another song also.

 

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Notes

[1] The Greeks feared to name Pluto directly and mentioned him by one of many descriptive titles, such as "Host of Many": compare the Christian use of diabolos or our "Evil One."

[2] Demeter chooses the lowlier seat, supposedly as being more suitable to her assumed condition, but really because in her sorrow she refuses all comforts.

[3] An act of communion -- the drinking of the potion (kykeon) here described -- was one of the most important pieces of ritual in the Eleusinian mysteries, as commemorating the sorrows of the goddess.

[4] Undercutter and Woodcutter are probably popular names (after the style of Hesiod's "Boneless One") for the worm thought to be the cause of teething and toothache.

[5] The list of names is taken -- with five additions -- from Hesiod, Theogony 349 ff.

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Stanzas of Dzyan

From The Secret Doctrine

by H. P. Blavatsky -- Vol. 1

[1888]

 

 

[[Vol. 1, Page 25]]

PART I.

COSMIC EVOLUTION.

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SEVEN STANZAS TRANSLATED WITH COMMENTARIES
FROM THE
SECRET BOOK OF DZYAN.

 

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[[Vol. 1, Page 26]]

Nor Aught nor Nought existed; yon bright sky
Was not, nor heaven's broad roof outstretched above.
What covered all? what sheltered? what concealed?
Was it the water's fathomless abyss?
There was not death -- yet there was nought immortal,
There was no confine betwixt day and night;
The only One breathed breathless by itself,
Other than It there nothing since has been.
Darkness there was, and all at first was veiled
In gloom profound -- an ocean without light --
The germ that still lay covered in the husk
Burst forth, one nature, from the fervent heat.

. . . . . . . .

Who knows the secret? who proclaimed it here?
Whence, whence this manifold creation sprang?
The Gods themselves came later into being --
Who knows from whence this great creation sprang?
That, whence all this great creation came,
Whether Its will created or was mute,
The Most High Seer that is in highest heaven,
He knows it -- or perchance even He knows not."

"Gazing into eternity . . .
Ere the foundations of the earth were laid,

. . . . .

Thou wert. And when the subterranean flame
Shall burst its prison and devour the frame . . .
Thou shalt be still as Thou wert before
And knew no change, when time shall be no more.
Oh! endless thought, divine ETERNITY."

 

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[[Vol. 1, Page]] 27 THE SECRET DOCTRINE.

COSMIC EVOLUTION.

In Seven Stanzas translated from the Book of Dzyan.

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STANZA I.

1. THE ETERNAL PARENT WRAPPED IN HER EVER INVISIBLE ROBES HAD SLUMBERED ONCE AGAIN FOR SEVEN ETERNITIES.

2. TIME WAS NOT, FOR IT LAY ASLEEP IN THE INFINITE BOSOM OF DURATION.

3. UNIVERSAL MIND WAS NOT, FOR THERE WERE NO AH-HI TO CONTAIN IT.

4. THE SEVEN WAYS TO BLISS WERE NOT. THE GREAT CAUSES OF MISERY WERE NOT, FOR THERE WAS NO ONE TO PRODUCE AND GET ENSNARED BY THEM.

5. DARKNESS ALONE FILLED THE BOUNDLESS ALL, FOR FATHER, MOTHER AND SON WERE ONCE MORE ONE, AND THE SON HAD NOT AWAKENED YET FOR THE NEW WHEEL, AND HIS PILGRIMAGE THEREON.

6. THE SEVEN SUBLIME LORDS AND THE SEVEN TRUTHS HAD CEASED TO BE, AND THE UNIVERSE, THE SON OF NECESSITY, WAS IMMERSED IN PARANISHPANNA, TO BE OUTBREATHED BY THAT WHICH IS AND YET IS NOT. NAUGHT WAS.

7. THE CAUSES OF EXISTENCE HAD BEEN DONE AWAY WITH; THE VISIBLE THAT WAS, AND THE INVISIBLE THAT IS, RESTED IN ETERNAL NON-BEING -- THE ONE BEING.

8. ALONE THE ONE FORM OF EXISTENCE STRETCHED BOUNDLESS, INFINITE, CAUSELESS, IN DREAMLESS SLEEP; AND LIFE PULSATED UNCONSCIOUS IN UNIVERSAL SPACE, THROUGHOUT THAT ALL-PRESENCE WHICH IS SENSED BY THE OPENED EYE OF THE DANGMA.

9. BUT WHERE WAS THE DANGMA WHEN THE ALAYA OF THE UNIVERSE WAS IN PARAMARTHA AND THE GREAT WHEEL WAS ANUPADAKA?

 

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[[Vol. 1, Page]] 28 THE SECRET DOCTRINE.

STANZA II.

1. . . . WHERE WERE THE BUILDERS, THE LUMINOUS SONS OF MANVANTARIC DAWN? . . . IN THE UNKNOWN DARKNESS IN THEIR AH-HI PARANISHPANNA. THE PRODUCERS OF FORM FROM NO-FORM -- THE ROOT OF THE WORLD -- THE DEVAMATRI AND SVABHAVAT, RESTED IN THE BLISS OF NON-BEING.

2. . . . WHERE WAS SILENCE? WHERE THE EARS TO SENSE IT? NO, THERE WAS NEITHER SILENCE NOR SOUND; NAUGHT SAVE CEASELESS ETERNAL BREATH, WHICH KNOWS ITSELF NOT.

3. THE HOUR HAD NOT YET STRUCK; THE RAY HAD NOT YET FLASHED INTO THE GERM; THE MATRIPADMA HAD NOT YET SWOLLEN.

4. HER HEART HAD NOT YET OPENED FOR THE ONE RAY TO ENTER, THENCE TO FALL, AS THREE INTO FOUR, INTO THE LAP OF MAYA.

5. THE SEVEN SONS WERE NOT YET BORN FROM THE WEB OF LIGHT. DARKNESS ALONE WAS FATHER-MOTHER, SVABHAVAT; AND SVABHAVAT WAS IN DARKNESS.

6. THESE TWO ARE THE GERM, AND THE GERM IS ONE. THE UNIVERSE WAS STILL CONCEALED IN THE DIVINE THOUGHT AND THE DIVINE BOSOM. . . .

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STANZA III.

1. . . . THE LAST VIBRATION OF THE SEVENTH ETERNITY THRILLS THROUGH INFINITUDE. THE MOTHER SWELLS, EXPANDING FROM WITHIN WITHOUT, LIKE THE BUD OF THE LOTUS.

2. THE VIBRATION SWEEPS ALONG, TOUCHING WITH ITS SWIFT WING THE WHOLE UNIVERSE AND THE GERM THAT DWELLETH IN DARKNESS: THE DARKNESS THAT BREATHES OVER THE SLUMBERING WATERS OF LIFE. . .

3. DARKNESS RADIATES LIGHT, AND LIGHT DROPS ONE SOLITARY RAY INTO THE MOTHER-DEEP. THE RAY SHOOTS THROUGH THE VIRGIN EGG, THE RAY CAUSES THE ETERNAL EGG TO THRILL, AND DROP THE NON-ETERNAL GERM, WHICH CONDENSES INTO THE WORLD-EGG.

 

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[[Vol. 1, Page]] 29 THE SECRET DOCTRINE.

4. THEN THE THREE FALL INTO THE FOUR. THE RADIANT ESSENCE BECOMES SEVEN INSIDE, SEVEN OUTSIDE. THE LUMINOUS EGG, WHICH IN ITSELF IS THREE, CURDLES AND SPREADS IN MILK-WHITE CURDS THROUGHOUT THE DEPTHS OF MOTHER, THE ROOT THAT GROWS IN THE DEPTHS OF THE OCEAN OF LIFE.

5. THE ROOT REMAINS, THE LIGHT REMAINS, THE CURDS REMAIN, AND STILL OEAOHOO IS ONE.

6. THE ROOT OF LIFE WAS IN EVERY DROP OF THE OCEAN OF IMMORTALITY, AND THE OCEAN WAS RADIANT LIGHT, WHICH WAS FIRE, AND HEAT, AND MOTION. DARKNESS VANISHED AND WAS NO MORE; IT DISAPPEARED IN ITS OWN ESSENCE, THE BODY OF FIRE AND WATER, OR FATHER AND MOTHER.

7. BEHOLD, OH LANOO! THE RADIANT CHILD OF THE TWO, THE UNPARALLELED REFULGENT GLORY: BRIGHT SPACE SON OF DARK SPACE, WHICH EMERGES FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE GREAT DARK WATERS. IT IS OEAOHOO THE YOUNGER, THE * * * HE SHINES FORTH AS THE SON; HE IS THE BLAZING DIVINE DRAGON OF WISDOM; THE ONE IS FOUR, AND FOUR TAKES TO ITSELF THREE,** AND THE UNION PRODUCES THE SAPTA, IN WHOM ARE THE SEVEN WHICH BECOME THE TRIDASA (OR THE HOSTS AND THE MULTITUDES). BEHOLD HIM LIFTING THE VEIL AND UNFURLING IT FROM EAST TO WEST. HE SHUTS OUT THE ABOVE, AND LEAVES THE BELOW TO BE SEEN AS THE GREAT ILLUSION. HE MARKS THE PLACES FOR THE SHINING ONES, AND TURNS THE UPPER INTO A SHORELESS SEA OF FIRE, AND THE ONE MANIFESTED INTO THE GREAT WATERS.

8. WHERE WAS THE GERM AND WHERE WAS NOW DARKNESS? WHERE IS THE SPIRIT OF THE FLAME THAT BURNS IN THY LAMP, OH LANOO? THE GERM IS THAT, AND THAT IS LIGHT, THE WHITE BRILLIANT SON OF THE DARK HIDDEN FATHER.

9. LIGHT IS COLD FLAME, AND FLAME IS FIRE, AND FIRE PRODUCES HEAT, WHICH YIELDS WATER: THE WATER OF LIFE IN THE GREAT MOTHER.

10. FATHER-MOTHER SPIN A WEB WHOSE UPPER END IS FASTENED TO SPIRIT -- THE LIGHT OF THE ONE DARKNESS -- AND THE LOWER ONE TO ITS SHADOWY END, MATTER; AND THIS WEB IS THE UNIVERSE SPUN OUT OF THE TWO SUBSTANCES MADE IN ONE, WHICH IS SVABHAVAT.

[[Footnote(s)]] -------------------------------------------------

** In the English translation from the Sanskrit the numbers are given in that language, Eka, Chatur, etc., etc. It was thought best to give them in English.

 

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[[Vol. 1, Page]] 30 THE SECRET DOCTRINE.

11. IT EXPANDS WHEN THE BREATH OF FIRE IS UPON IT; IT CONTRACTS WHEN THE BREATH OF THE MOTHER TOUCHES IT. THEN THE SONS DISSOCIATE AND SCATTER, TO RETURN INTO THEIR MOTHER'S BOSOM AT THE END OF THE GREAT DAY, AND RE-BECOME ONE WITH HER; WHEN IT IS COOLING IT BECOMES RADIANT, AND THE SONS EXPAND AND CONTRACT THROUGH THEIR OWN SELVES AND HEARTS; THEY EMBRACE INFINITUDE.

12. THEN SVABHAVAT SENDS FOHAT TO HARDEN THE ATOMS. EACH IS A PART OF THE WEB. REFLECTING THE "SELF-EXISTENT LORD" LIKE A MIRROR, EACH BECOMES IN TURN A WORLD.

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STANZA IV.

1. . . . LISTEN, YE SONS OF THE EARTH, TO YOUR INSTRUCTORS -- THE SONS OF THE FIRE. LEARN, THERE IS NEITHER FIRST NOR LAST, FOR ALL IS ONE: NUMBER ISSUED FROM NO NUMBER.

2. LEARN WHAT WE WHO DESCEND FROM THE PRIMORDIAL SEVEN, WE WHO ARE BORN FROM THE PRIMORDIAL FLAME, HAVE LEARNT FROM OUR FATHERS. . . .

3. FROM THE EFFULGENCY OF LIGHT -- THE RAY OF THE EVER-DARKNESS -- SPRUNG IN SPACE THE RE-AWAKENED ENERGIES; THE ONE FROM THE EGG, THE SIX, AND THE FIVE. THEN THE THREE, THE ONE, THE FOUR, THE ONE, THE FIVE -- THE TWICE SEVEN THE SUM TOTAL. AND THESE ARE THE ESSENCES, THE FLAMES, THE ELEMENTS, THE BUILDERS, THE NUMBERS, THE ARUPA, THE RUPA, AND THE FORCE OF DIVINE MAN -- THE SUM TOTAL. AND FROM THE DIVINE MAN EMANATED THE FORMS, THE SPARKS, THE SACRED ANIMALS, AND THE MESSENGERS OF THE SACRED FATHERS WITHIN THE HOLY FOUR.

4. THIS WAS THE ARMY OF THE VOICE -- THE DIVINE MOTHER OF THE SEVEN. THE SPARKS OF THE SEVEN ARE SUBJECT TO, AND THE SERVANTS OF, THE FIRST, THE SECOND, THE THIRD, THE FOURTH, THE FIFTH, THE SIXTH, AND THE SEVENTH OF THE SEVEN. THESE "SPARKS" ARE CALLED SPHERES, TRIANGLES, CUBES, LINES, AND MODELLERS; FOR THUS STANDS THE ETERNAL NIDANA -- THE OEAOHOO, WHICH IS:

 

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[[Vol. 1, Page]] 31 THE SECRET DOCTRINE.

5. "DARKNESS" THE BOUNDLESS, OR THE NO-NUMBER, ADI-NIDANA SVABHAVAT: --

I. THE ADI-SANAT, THE NUMBER, FOR HE IS ONE.

II. THE VOICE OF THE LORD SVABHAVAT, THE NUMBERS, FOR HE IS ONE AND NINE.

III. THE "FORMLESS SQUARE."

AND THESE THREE ENCLOSED WITHIN THE ARE THE SACRED FOUR; AND THE TEN ARE THE ARUPA UNIVERSE. THEN COME THE "SONS," THE SEVEN FIGHTERS, THE ONE, THE EIGHTH LEFT OUT, AND HIS BREATH WHICH IS THE LIGHT-MAKER.

6. THEN THE SECOND SEVEN, WHO ARE THE LIPIKA, PRODUCED BY THE THREE. THE REJECTED SON IS ONE. THE "SON-SUNS" ARE COUNTLESS.

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STANZA V.

1. THE PRIMORDIAL SEVEN, THE FIRST SEVEN BREATHS OF THE DRAGON OF WISDOM, PRODUCE IN THEIR TURN FROM THEIR HOLY CIRCUMGYRATING BREATHS THE FIERY WHIRLWIND.

2. THEY MAKE OF HIM THE MESSENGER OF THEIR WILL. THE DZYU BECOMES FOHAT, THE SWIFT SON OF THE DIVINE SONS WHOSE SONS ARE THE LIPIKA, RUNS CIRCULAR ERRANDS. FOHAT IS THE STEED AND THE THOUGHT IS THE RIDER. HE PASSES LIKE LIGHTNING THROUGH THE FIERY CLOUDS; TAKES THREE, AND FIVE, AND SEVEN STRIDES THROUGH THE SEVEN REGIONS ABOVE, AND THE SEVEN BELOW. HE LIFTS HIS VOICE, AND CALLS THE INNUMERABLE SPARKS, AND JOINS THEM.

3. HE IS THEIR GUIDING SPIRIT AND LEADER. WHEN HE COMMENCES WORK, HE SEPARATES THE SPARKS OF THE LOWER KINGDOM THAT FLOAT AND THRILL WITH JOY IN THEIR RADIANT DWELLINGS, AND FORMS THEREWITH THE GERMS OF WHEELS. HE PLACES THEM IN THE SIX DIRECTIONS OF SPACE, AND ONE IN THE MIDDLE -- THE CENTRAL WHEEL.

4. FOHAT TRACES SPIRAL LINES TO UNITE THE SIXTH TO THE SEVENTH -- THE CROWN; AN ARMY OF THE SONS OF LIGHT STANDS AT EACH ANGLE, AND THE LIPIKA IN THE MIDDLE WHEEL, THEY SAY: THIS IS GOOD, THE

 

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FIRST DIVINE WORLD IS READY, THE FIRST IS NOW THE SECOND. THEN THE "DIVINE ARUPA" REFLECTS ITSELF IN CHHAYA LOKA, THE FIRST GARMENT OF THE ANUPADAKA.

5. FOHAT TAKES FIVE STRIDES AND BUILDS A WINGED WHEEL AT EACH CORNER OF THE SQUARE, FOR THE FOUR HOLY ONES AND THEIR ARMIES.

6. THE LIPIKA CIRCUMSCRIBE THE TRIANGLE, THE FIRST ONE, THE CUBE, THE SECOND ONE, AND THE PENTACLE WITHIN THE EGG. IT IS THE RING CALLED "PASS NOT" FOR THOSE WHO DESCEND AND ASCEND. ALSO FOR THOSE WHO DURING THE KALPA ARE PROGRESSING TOWARDS THE GREAT DAY "BE WITH US." THUS WERE FORMED THE RUPA AND THE ARUPA: FROM ONE LIGHT SEVEN LIGHTS; FROM EACH OF THE SEVEN, SEVEN TIMES SEVEN LIGHTS. THE WHEELS WATCH THE RING. . . . .

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STANZA VI.

1. BY THE POWER OF THE MOTHER OF MERCY AND KNOWLEDGE -- KWAN-YIN -- THE "TRIPLE" OF KWAN-SHAI-YIN, RESIDING IN KWAN-YIN-TIEN, FOHAT, THE BREATH OF THEIR PROGENY, THE SON OF THE SONS, HAVING CALLED FORTH, FROM THE LOWER ABYSS, THE ILLUSIVE FORM OF SIEN-TCHANG AND THE SEVEN ELEMENTS:*

2. THE SWIFT AND RADIANT ONE PRODUCES THE SEVEN LAYA CENTRES, AGAINST WHICH NONE WILL PREVAIL TO THE GREAT DAY "BE-WITH-US," AND SEATS THE UNIVERSE ON THESE ETERNAL FOUNDATIONS SURROUNDING TSIEN-TCHAN WITH THE ELEMENTARY GERMS.

3. OF THE SEVEN -- FIRST ONE MANIFESTED, SIX CONCEALED, TWO MANIFESTED, FIVE CONCEALED; THREE MANIFESTED, FOUR CONCEALED; FOUR PRODUCED, THREE HIDDEN; FOUR AND ONE TSAN REVEALED, TWO AND ONE HALF CONCEALED; SIX TO BE MANIFESTED, ONE LAID ASIDE. LASTLY, SEVEN SMALL WHEELS REVOLVING; ONE GIVING BIRTH TO THE OTHER.

[[Footnote(s)]] -------------------------------------------------

* Verse 1 of Stanza VI. is of a far later date than the other Stanzas, though still very ancient. The old text of this verse, having names entirely unknown to the Orientalists would give no clue to the student.

 

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[[Vol. 1, Page]] 33 THE SECRET DOCTRINE.

4. HE BUILDS THEM IN THE LIKENESS OF OLDER WHEELS, PLACING THEM ON THE IMPERISHABLE CENTRES.

HOW DOES FOHAT BUILD THEM? HE COLLECTS THE FIERY DUST. HE MAKES BALLS OF FIRE, RUNS THROUGH THEM, AND ROUND THEM, INFUSING LIFE THEREINTO THEN' SETS THEM INTO MOTION; SOME ONE WAY, SOME THE OTHER WAY. THEY ARE COLD, HE MAKES THEM HOT. THEY ARE DRY, HE MAKES THEM MOIST. THEY SHINE, HE FANS AND COOLS THEM. THUS ACTS FOHAT FROM ONE TWILIGHT TO THE OTHER, DURING SEVEN ETERNITIES.

5. AT THE FOURTH, THE SONS ARE TOLD TO CREATE THEIR IMAGES. ONE THIRD REFUSES -- TWO OBEY.

THE CURSE IS PRONOUNCED; THEY WILL BE BORN ON THE FOURTH, SUFFER AND CAUSE SUFFERING; THIS IS THE FIRST WAR.

6. THE OLDER WHEELS ROTATED DOWNWARDS AND UPWARDS. . . . THE MOTHER'S SPAWN FILLED THE WHOLE. THERE WERE BATTLES FOUGHT BETWEEN THE CREATORS AND THE DESTROYERS, AND BATTLES FOUGHT FOR SPACE; THE SEED APPEARING AND RE-APPEARING CONTINUOUSLY.

7. MAKE THY CALCULATIONS, LANOO, IF THOU WOULDEST LEARN THE CORRECT AGE OF THY SMALL WHEEL. ITS FOURTH SPOKE IS OUR MOTHER. REACH THE FOURTH "FRUIT" OF THE FOURTH PATH OF KNOWLEDGE THAT LEADS TO NIRVANA, AND THOU SHALT COMPREHEND, FOR THOU SHALT SEE . . . . .

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STANZA VII.

1. BEHOLD THE BEGINNING OF SENTIENT FORMLESS LIFE.

FIRST THE DIVINE, THE ONE FROM THE MOTHER-SPIRIT; THEN THE SPIRITUAL; THE THREE FROM THE ONE, THE FOUR FROM THE ONE, AND THE FIVE FROM WHICH THE THREE, THE FIVE, AND THE SEVEN. THESE ARE THE THREE-FOLD, THE FOUR-FOLD DOWNWARD; THE "MIND-BORN" SONS OF THE FIRST LORD; THE SHINING SEVEN.

IT IS THEY WHO ARE THOU, ME, HIM, OH LANOO. THEY, WHO WATCH OVER THEE, AND THY MOTHER EARTH.

 

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2. THE ONE RAY MULTIPLIES THE SMALLER RAYS. LIFE PRECEDES FORM, AND LIFE SURVIVES THE LAST ATOM OF FORM. THROUGH THE COUNTLESS RAYS PROCEEDS THE LIFE-RAY, THE ONE, LIKE A THREAD THROUGH MANY JEWELS.

3. WHEN THE ONE BECOMES TWO, THE THREEFOLD APPEARS, AND THE THREE ARE ONE; AND IT IS OUR THREAD, OH LANOO, THE HEART OF THE MAN-PLANT CALLED SAPTASARMA.

4. IT IS THE ROOT THAT NEVER DIES; THE THREE-TONGUED FLAME OF THE FOUR WICKS. THE WICKS ARE THE SPARKS, THAT DRAW FROM THE THREE-TONGUED FLAME SHOT OUT BY THE SEVEN -- THEIR FLAME -- THE BEAMS AND SPARKS OF ONE MOON REFLECTED IN THE RUNNING WAVES OF ALL THE RIVERS OF EARTH.

5. THE SPARK HANGS FROM THE FLAME BY THE FINEST THREAD OF FOHAT. IT JOURNEYS THROUGH THE SEVEN WORLDS OF MAYA. IT STOPS IN THE FIRST, AND IS A METAL AND A STONE; IT PASSES INTO THE SECOND AND BEHOLD -- A PLANT; THE PLANT WHIRLS THROUGH SEVEN CHANGES AND BECOMES A SACRED ANIMAL. FROM THE COMBINED ATTRIBUTES OF THESE, MANU, THE THINKER IS FORMED. WHO FORMS HIM? THE SEVEN LIVES, AND THE ONE LIFE. WHO COMPLETES HIM? THE FIVE-FOLD LHA. AND WHO PERFECTS THE LAST BODY? FISH, SIN, AND SOMA. . . . .

6. FROM THE FIRST-BORN THE THREAD BETWEEN THE SILENT WATCHER AND HIS SHADOW BECOMES MORE STRONG AND RADIANT WITH EVERY CHANGE. THE MORNING SUN-LIGHT HAS CHANGED INTO NOON-DAY GLORY. . . . .

7. THIS IS THY PRESENT WHEEL, SAID THE FLAME TO THE SPARK. THOU ART MYSELF, MY IMAGE, AND MY SHADOW. I HAVE CLOTHED MYSELF IN THEE, AND THOU ART MY VAHAN TO THE DAY, "BE WITH US," WHEN THOU SHALT RE-BECOME MYSELF AND OTHERS, THYSELF AND ME. THEN THE BUILDERS, HAVING DONNED THEIR FIRST CLOTHING, DESCEND ON RADIANT EARTH AND REIGN OVER MEN -- WHO ARE THEMSELVES. . . .