On the Nature of Things

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 inter-tangled 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 quicken 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; follows 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 hot, 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 ship-wrecks 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 'tis 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 wouldst 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 wholes 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;