On the Nature of Things

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     'T could 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 spuest 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 comes     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 north-west 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 possess     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 inter-mixed 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, 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 northwinds 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 northwinds     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 thereunder 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's, 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 spues     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.