On the Nature of Things

THE SOUL IS MORTAL

     Now come: that thou mayst able be to know     That minds and the light souls of all that live     Have mortal birth and death, I will go on     Verses to build meet for thy rule of life,     Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil.     But under one name I'd have thee yoke them both;     And when, for instance, I shall speak of soul,     Teaching the same to be but mortal, think     Thereby I'm speaking also of the mind—     Since both are one, a substance inter-joined.     First, then, since I have taught how soul exists     A subtle fabric, of particles minute,     Made up from atoms smaller much than those     Of water's liquid damp, or fog, or smoke,     So in mobility it far excels,     More prone to move, though strook by lighter cause     Even moved by images of smoke or fog—     As where we view, when in our sleeps we're lulled,     The altars exhaling steam and smoke aloft—     For, beyond doubt, these apparitions come     To us from outward. Now, then, since thou seest,     Their liquids depart, their waters flow away,     When jars are shivered, and since fog and smoke     Depart into the winds away, believe     The soul no less is shed abroad and dies     More quickly far, more quickly is dissolved     Back to its primal bodies, when withdrawn     From out man's members it has gone away.     For, sure, if body (container of the same     Like as a jar), when shivered from some cause,     And rarefied by loss of blood from veins,     Cannot for longer hold the soul, how then     Thinkst thou it can be held by any air—     A stuff much rarer than our bodies be?     Besides we feel that mind to being comes     Along with body, with body grows and ages.     For just as children totter round about     With frames infirm and tender, so there follows     A weakling wisdom in their minds; and then,     Where years have ripened into robust powers,     Counsel is also greater, more increased     The power of mind; thereafter, where already     The body's shattered by master-powers of eld,     And fallen the frame with its enfeebled powers,     Thought hobbles, tongue wanders, and the mind gives way;     All fails, all's lacking at the selfsame time.     Therefore it suits that even the soul's dissolved,     Like smoke, into the lofty winds of air;     Since we behold the same to being come     Along with body and grow, and, as I've taught,     Crumble and crack, therewith outworn by eld.     Then, too, we see, that, just as body takes     Monstrous diseases and the dreadful pain,     So mind its bitter cares, the grief, the fear;     Wherefore it tallies that the mind no less     Partaker is of death; for pain and disease     Are both artificers of death,—as well     We've learned by the passing of many a man ere now.     Nay, too, in diseases of body, often the mind     Wanders afield; for 'tis beside itself,     And crazed it speaks, or many a time it sinks,     With eyelids closing and a drooping nod,     In heavy drowse, on to eternal sleep;     From whence nor hears it any voices more,     Nor able is to know the faces here     Of those about him standing with wet cheeks     Who vainly call him back to light and life.     Wherefore mind too, confess we must, dissolves,     Seeing, indeed, contagions of disease     Enter into the same. Again, O why,     When the strong wine has entered into man,     And its diffused fire gone round the veins,     Why follows then a heaviness of limbs,     A tangle of the legs as round he reels,     A stuttering tongue, an intellect besoaked,     Eyes all aswim, and hiccups, shouts, and brawls,     And whatso else is of that ilk?—Why this?—     If not that violent and impetuous wine     Is wont to confound the soul within the body?     But whatso can confounded be and balked,     Gives proof, that if a hardier cause got in,     'Twould hap that it would perish then, bereaved     Of any life thereafter. And, moreover,     Often will some one in a sudden fit,     As if by stroke of lightning, tumble down     Before our eyes, and sputter foam, and grunt,     Blither, and twist about with sinews taut,     Gasp up in starts, and weary out his limbs     With tossing round. No marvel, since distract     Through frame by violence of disease.     Confounds, he foams, as if to vomit soul,     As on the salt sea boil the billows round     Under the master might of winds. And now     A groan's forced out, because his limbs are griped,     But, in the main, because the seeds of voice     Are driven forth and carried in a mass     Outwards by mouth, where they are wont to go,     And have a builded highway. He becomes     Mere fool, since energy of mind and soul     Confounded is, and, as I've shown, to-riven,     Asunder thrown, and torn to pieces all     By the same venom. But, again, where cause     Of that disease has faced about, and back     Retreats sharp poison of corrupted frame     Into its shadowy lairs, the man at first     Arises reeling, and gradually comes back     To all his senses and recovers soul.     Thus, since within the body itself of man     The mind and soul are by such great diseases     Shaken, so miserably in labour distraught,     Why, then, believe that in the open air,     Without a body, they can pass their life,     Immortal, battling with the master winds?     And, since we mark the mind itself is cured,     Like the sick body, and restored can be     By medicine, this is forewarning too     That mortal lives the mind. For proper it is     That whosoe'er begins and undertakes     To alter the mind, or meditates to change     Any another nature soever, should add     New parts, or readjust the order given,     Or from the sum remove at least a bit.     But what's immortal willeth for itself     Its parts be nor increased, nor rearranged,     Nor any bit soever flow away:     For change of anything from out its bounds     Means instant death of that which was before.     Ergo, the mind, whether in sickness fallen,     Or by the medicine restored, gives signs,     As I have taught, of its mortality.     So surely will a fact of truth make head     'Gainst errors' theories all, and so shut off     All refuge from the adversary, and rout     Error by two-edged confutation.     And since the mind is of a man one part,     Which in one fixed place remains, like ears,     And eyes, and every sense which pilots life;     And just as hand, or eye, or nose, apart,     Severed from us, can neither feel nor be,     But in the least of time is left to rot,     Thus mind alone can never be, without     The body and the man himself, which seems,     As 'twere the vessel of the same—or aught     Whate'er thou'lt feign as yet more closely joined:     Since body cleaves to mind by surest bonds.     Again, the body's and the mind's live powers     Only in union prosper and enjoy;     For neither can nature of mind, alone of self     Sans body, give the vital motions forth;     Nor, then, can body, wanting soul, endure     And use the senses. Verily, as the eye,     Alone, up-rended from its roots, apart     From all the body, can peer about at naught,     So soul and mind it seems are nothing able,     When by themselves. No marvel, because, commixed     Through veins and inwards, and through bones and thews,     Their elements primordial are confined     By all the body, and own no power free     To bound around through interspaces big,     Thus, shut within these confines, they take on     Motions of sense, which, after death, thrown out     Beyond the body to the winds of air,     Take on they cannot—and on this account,     Because no more in such a way confined.     For air will be a body, be alive,     If in that air the soul can keep itself,     And in that air enclose those motions all     Which in the thews and in the body itself     A while ago 'twas making. So for this,     Again, again, I say confess we must,     That, when the body's wrappings are unwound,     And when the vital breath is forced without,     The soul, the senses of the mind dissolve,—     Since for the twain the cause and ground of life     Is in the fact of their conjoined estate.     Once more, since body's unable to sustain     Division from the soul, without decay     And obscene stench, how canst thou doubt but that     The soul, uprisen from the body's deeps,     Has filtered away, wide-drifted like a smoke,     Or that the changed body crumbling fell     With ruin so entire, because, indeed,     Its deep foundations have been moved from place,     The soul out-filtering even through the frame,     And through the body's every winding way     And orifice? And so by many means     Thou'rt free to learn that nature of the soul     Hath passed in fragments out along the frame,     And that 'twas shivered in the very body     Ere ever it slipped abroad and swam away     Into the winds of air. For never a man     Dying appears to feel the soul go forth     As one sure whole from all his body at once,     Nor first come up the throat and into mouth;     But feels it failing in a certain spot,     Even as he knows the senses too dissolve     Each in its own location in the frame.     But were this mind of ours immortal mind,     Dying 'twould scarce bewail a dissolution,     But rather the going, the leaving of its coat,     Like to a snake. Wherefore, when once the body     Hath passed away, admit we must that soul,     Shivered in all that body, perished too.     Nay, even when moving in the bounds of life,     Often the soul, now tottering from some cause,     Craves to go out, and from the frame entire     Loosened to be; the countenance becomes     Flaccid, as if the supreme hour were there;     And flabbily collapse the members all     Against the bloodless trunk—the kind of case     We see when we remark in common phrase,     "That man's quite gone," or "fainted dead away";     And where there's now a bustle of alarm,     And all are eager to get some hold upon     The man's last link of life. For then the mind     And all the power of soul are shook so sore,     And these so totter along with all the frame,     That any cause a little stronger might     Dissolve them altogether.—Why, then, doubt     That soul, when once without the body thrust,     There in the open, an enfeebled thing,     Its wrappings stripped away, cannot endure     Not only through no everlasting age,     But even, indeed, through not the least of time?     Then, too, why never is the intellect,     The counselling mind, begotten in the head,     The feet, the hands, instead of cleaving still     To one sole seat, to one fixed haunt, the breast,     If not that fixed places be assigned     For each thing's birth, where each, when 'tis create,     Is able to endure, and that our frames     Have such complex adjustments that no shift     In order of our members may appear?     To that degree effect succeeds to cause,     Nor is the flame once wont to be create     In flowing streams, nor cold begot in fire.     Besides, if nature of soul immortal be,     And able to feel, when from our frame disjoined,     The same, I fancy, must be thought to be     Endowed with senses five,—nor is there way     But this whereby to image to ourselves     How under-souls may roam in Acheron.     Thus painters and the elder race of bards     Have pictured souls with senses so endowed.     But neither eyes, nor nose, nor hand, alone     Apart from body can exist for soul,     Nor tongue nor ears apart. And hence indeed     Alone by self they can nor feel nor be.     And since we mark the vital sense to be     In the whole body, all one living thing,     If of a sudden a force with rapid stroke     Should slice it down the middle and cleave in twain,     Beyond a doubt likewise the soul itself,     Divided, dissevered, asunder will be flung     Along with body. But what severed is     And into sundry parts divides, indeed     Admits it owns no everlasting nature.     We hear how chariots of war, areek     With hurly slaughter, lop with flashing scythes     The limbs away so suddenly that there,     Fallen from the trunk, they quiver on the earth,     The while the mind and powers of the man     Can feel no pain, for swiftness of his hurt,     And sheer abandon in the zest of battle:     With the remainder of his frame he seeks     Anew the battle and the slaughter, nor marks     How the swift wheels and scythes of ravin have dragged     Off with the horses his left arm and shield;     Nor other how his right has dropped away,     Mounting again and on. A third attempts     With leg dismembered to arise and stand,     Whilst, on the ground hard by, the dying foot     Twitches its spreading toes. And even the head,     When from the warm and living trunk lopped off,     Keeps on the ground the vital countenance     And open eyes, until 't has rendered up     All remnants of the soul. Nay, once again:     If, when a serpent's darting forth its tongue,     And lashing its tail, thou gettest chance to hew     With axe its length of trunk to many parts,     Thou'lt see each severed fragment writhing round     With its fresh wound, and spattering up the sod,     And there the fore-part seeking with the jaws     After the hinder, with bite to stop the pain.     So shall we say that these be souls entire     In all those fractions?—but from that 'twould follow     One creature'd have in body many souls.     Therefore, the soul, which was indeed but one,     Has been divided with the body too:     Each is but mortal, since alike is each     Hewn into many parts. Again, how often     We view our fellow going by degrees,     And losing limb by limb the vital sense;     First nails and fingers of the feet turn blue,     Next die the feet and legs, then o'er the rest     Slow crawl the certain footsteps of cold death.     And since this nature of the soul is torn,     Nor mounts away, as at one time, entire,     We needs must hold it mortal. But perchance     If thou supposest that the soul itself     Can inward draw along the frame, and bring     Its parts together to one place, and so     From all the members draw the sense away,     Why, then, that place in which such stock of soul     Collected is, should greater seem in sense.     But since such place is nowhere, for a fact,     As said before, 'tis rent and scattered forth,     And so goes under. Or again, if now     I please to grant the false, and say that soul     Can thus be lumped within the frames of those     Who leave the sunshine, dying bit by bit,     Still must the soul as mortal be confessed;     Nor aught it matters whether to wrack it go,     Dispersed in the winds, or, gathered in a mass     From all its parts, sink down to brutish death,     Since more and more in every region sense     Fails the whole man, and less and less of life     In every region lingers.                            And besides,     If soul immortal is, and winds its way     Into the body at the birth of man,     Why can we not remember something, then,     Of life-time spent before? why keep we not     Some footprints of the things we did of, old?     But if so changed hath been the power of mind,     That every recollection of things done     Is fallen away, at no o'erlong remove     Is that, I trow, from what we mean by death.     Wherefore 'tis sure that what hath been before     Hath died, and what now is is now create.     Moreover, if after the body hath been built     Our mind's live powers are wont to be put in,     Just at the moment that we come to birth,     And cross the sills of life, 'twould scarcely fit     For them to live as if they seemed to grow     Along with limbs and frame, even in the blood,     But rather as in a cavern all alone.     (Yet all the body duly throngs with sense.)     But public fact declares against all this:     For soul is so entwined through the veins,     The flesh, the thews, the bones, that even the teeth     Share in sensation, as proven by dull ache,     By twinge from icy water, or grating crunch     Upon a stone that got in mouth with bread.     Wherefore, again, again, souls must be thought     Nor void of birth, nor free from law of death;     Nor, if, from outward, in they wound their way,     Could they be thought as able so to cleave     To these our frames, nor, since so interwove,     Appears it that they're able to go forth     Unhurt and whole and loose themselves unscathed     From all the thews, articulations, bones.     But, if perchance thou thinkest that the soul,     From outward winding in its way, is wont     To seep and soak along these members ours,     Then all the more 'twill perish, being thus     With body fused—for what will seep and soak     Will be dissolved and will therefore die.     For just as food, dispersed through all the pores     Of body, and passed through limbs and all the frame,     Perishes, supplying from itself the stuff     For other nature, thus the soul and mind,     Though whole and new into a body going,     Are yet, by seeping in, dissolved away,     Whilst, as through pores, to all the frame there pass     Those particles from which created is     This nature of mind, now ruler of our body,     Born from that soul which perished, when divided     Along the frame. Wherefore it seems that soul     Hath both a natal and funeral hour.     Besides are seeds of soul there left behind     In the breathless body, or not? If there they are,     It cannot justly be immortal deemed,     Since, shorn of some parts lost, 'thas gone away:     But if, borne off with members uncorrupt,     'Thas fled so absolutely all away     It leaves not one remainder of itself     Behind in body, whence do cadavers, then,     From out their putrid flesh exhale the worms,     And whence does such a mass of living things,     Boneless and bloodless, o'er the bloated frame     Bubble and swarm? But if perchance thou thinkest     That souls from outward into worms can wind,     And each into a separate body come,     And reckonest not why many thousand souls     Collect where only one has gone away,     Here is a point, in sooth, that seems to need     Inquiry and a putting to the test:     Whether the souls go on a hunt for seeds     Of worms wherewith to build their dwelling places,     Or enter bodies ready-made, as 'twere.     But why themselves they thus should do and toil     'Tis hard to say, since, being free of body,     They flit around, harassed by no disease,     Nor cold nor famine; for the body labours     By more of kinship to these flaws of life,     And mind by contact with that body suffers     So many ills. But grant it be for them     However useful to construct a body     To which to enter in, 'tis plain they can't.     Then, souls for self no frames nor bodies make,     Nor is there how they once might enter in     To bodies ready-made—for they cannot     Be nicely interwoven with the same,     And there'll be formed no interplay of sense     Common to each.                      Again, why is't there goes     Impetuous rage with lion's breed morose,     And cunning with foxes, and to deer why given     The ancestral fear and tendency to flee,     And why in short do all the rest of traits     Engender from the very start of life     In the members and mentality, if not     Because one certain power of mind that came     From its own seed and breed waxes the same     Along with all the body? But were mind     Immortal, were it wont to change its bodies,     How topsy-turvy would earth's creatures act!     The Hyrcan hound would flee the onset oft     Of antlered stag, the scurrying hawk would quake     Along the winds of air at the coming dove,     And men would dote, and savage beasts be wise;     For false the reasoning of those that say     Immortal mind is changed by change of body—     For what is changed dissolves, and therefore dies.     For parts are re-disposed and leave their order;     Wherefore they must be also capable     Of dissolution through the frame at last,     That they along with body perish all.     But should some say that always souls of men     Go into human bodies, I will ask:     How can a wise become a dullard soul?     And why is never a child's a prudent soul?     And the mare's filly why not trained so well     As sturdy strength of steed? We may be sure     They'll take their refuge in the thought that mind     Becomes a weakling in a weakling frame.     Yet be this so, 'tis needful to confess     The soul but mortal, since, so altered now     Throughout the frame, it loses the life and sense     It had before. Or how can mind wax strong     Coequally with body and attain     The craved flower of life, unless it be     The body's colleague in its origins?     Or what's the purport of its going forth     From aged limbs?—fears it, perhaps, to stay,     Pent in a crumbled body? Or lest its house,     Outworn by venerable length of days,     May topple down upon it? But indeed     For an immortal perils are there none.     Again, at parturitions of the wild     And at the rites of Love, that souls should stand     Ready hard by seems ludicrous enough—     Immortals waiting for their mortal limbs     In numbers innumerable, contending madly     Which shall be first and chief to enter in!—     Unless perchance among the souls there be     Such treaties stablished that the first to come     Flying along, shall enter in the first,     And that they make no rivalries of strength!     Again, in ether can't exist a tree,     Nor clouds in ocean deeps, nor in the fields     Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be,     Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged     Where everything may grow and have its place.     Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone     Without the body, nor exist afar     From thews and blood. But if 'twere possible,     Much rather might this very power of mind     Be in the head, the shoulders or the heels,     And, born in any part soever, yet     In the same man, in the same vessel abide.     But since within this body even of ours     Stands fixed and appears arranged sure     Where soul and mind can each exist and grow,     Deny we must the more that they can have     Duration and birth, wholly outside the frame.     For, verily, the mortal to conjoin     With the eternal, and to feign they feel     Together, and can function each with each,     Is but to dote: for what can be conceived     Of more unlike, discrepant, ill-assorted,     Than something mortal in a union joined     With an immortal and a secular     To bear the outrageous tempests?                               Then, again,     Whatever abides eternal must indeed     Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made     Of solid body, and permit no entrance     Of aught with power to sunder from within     The parts compact—as are those seeds of stuff     Whose nature we've exhibited before;     Or else be able to endure through time     For this: because they are from blows exempt,     As is the void, the which abides untouched,     Unsmit by any stroke; or else because     There is no room around, whereto things can,     As 'twere, depart in dissolution all,—     Even as the sum of sums eternal is,     Without or place beyond whereto things may     Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite,     And thus dissolve them by the blows of might.     But if perchance the soul's to be adjudged     Immortal, mainly on ground 'tis kept secure     In vital forces—either because there come     Never at all things hostile to its weal,     Or else because what come somehow retire,     Repelled or ere we feel the harm they work,     For, lo, besides that, when the frame's diseased,     Soul sickens too, there cometh, many a time,     That which torments it with the things to be,     Keeps it in dread, and wearies it with cares;     And even when evil acts are of the past,     Still gnaw the old transgressions bitterly.     Add, too, that frenzy, peculiar to the mind,     And that oblivion of the things that were;     Add its submergence in the murky waves     Of drowse and torpor.

FOLLY OF THE FEAR OF DEATH

                           Therefore death to us     Is nothing, nor concerns us in the least,     Since nature of mind is mortal evermore.     And just as in the ages gone before     We felt no touch of ill, when all sides round     To battle came the Carthaginian host,     And the times, shaken by tumultuous war,     Under the aery coasts of arching heaven     Shuddered and trembled, and all humankind     Doubted to which the empery should fall     By land and sea, thus when we are no more,     When comes that sundering of our body and soul     Through which we're fashioned to a single state,     Verily naught to us, us then no more,     Can come to pass, naught move our senses then—     No, not if earth confounded were with sea,     And sea with heaven. But if indeed do feel     The nature of mind and energy of soul,     After their severance from this body of ours,     Yet nothing 'tis to us who in the bonds     And wedlock of the soul and body live,     Through which we're fashioned to a single state.     And, even if time collected after death     The matter of our frames and set it all     Again in place as now, and if again     To us the light of life were given, O yet     That process too would not concern us aught,     When once the self-succession of our sense     Has been asunder broken. And now and here,     Little enough we're busied with the selves     We were aforetime, nor, concerning them,     Suffer a sore distress. For shouldst thou gaze     Backwards across all yesterdays of time     The immeasurable, thinking how manifold     The motions of matter are, then couldst thou well     Credit this too: often these very seeds     (From which we are to-day) of old were set     In the same order as they are to-day—     Yet this we can't to consciousness recall     Through the remembering mind. For there hath been     An interposed pause of life, and wide     Have all the motions wandered everywhere     From these our senses. For if woe and ail     Perchance are toward, then the man to whom     The bane can happen must himself be there     At that same time. But death precludeth this,     Forbidding life to him on whom might crowd     Such irk and care; and granted 'tis to know:     Nothing for us there is to dread in death,     No wretchedness for him who is no more,     The same estate as if ne'er born before,     When death immortal hath ta'en the mortal life.     Hence, where thou seest a man to grieve because     When dead he rots with body laid away,     Or perishes in flames or jaws of beasts,     Know well: he rings not true, and that beneath     Still works an unseen sting upon his heart,     However he deny that he believes.     His shall be aught of feeling after death.     For he, I fancy, grants not what he says,     Nor what that presupposes, and he fails     To pluck himself with all his roots from life     And cast that self away, quite unawares     Feigning that some remainder's left behind.     For when in life one pictures to oneself     His body dead by beasts and vultures torn,     He pities his state, dividing not himself     Therefrom, removing not the self enough     From the body flung away, imagining     Himself that body, and projecting there     His own sense, as he stands beside it: hence     He grieves that he is mortal born, nor marks     That in true death there is no second self     Alive and able to sorrow for self destroyed,     Or stand lamenting that the self lies there     Mangled or burning. For if it an evil is     Dead to be jerked about by jaw and fang     Of the wild brutes, I see not why 'twere not     Bitter to lie on fires and roast in flames,     Or suffocate in honey, and, reclined     On the smooth oblong of an icy slab,     Grow stiff in cold, or sink with load of earth     Down-crushing from above.                               "Thee now no more     The joyful house and best of wives shall welcome,     Nor little sons run up to snatch their kisses     And touch with silent happiness thy heart.     Thou shalt not speed in undertakings more,     Nor be the warder of thine own no more.     Poor wretch," they say, "one hostile hour hath ta'en     Wretchedly from thee all life's many guerdons,"     But add not, "yet no longer unto thee     Remains a remnant of desire for them"     If this they only well perceived with mind     And followed up with maxims, they would free     Their state of man from anguish and from fear.     "O even as here thou art, aslumber in death,     So shalt thou slumber down the rest of time,     Released from every harrying pang. But we,     We have bewept thee with insatiate woe,     Standing beside whilst on the awful pyre     Thou wert made ashes; and no day shall take     For us the eternal sorrow from the breast."     But ask the mourner what's the bitterness     That man should waste in an eternal grief,     If, after all, the thing's but sleep and rest?     For when the soul and frame together are sunk     In slumber, no one then demands his self     Or being. Well, this sleep may be forever,     Without desire of any selfhood more,     For all it matters unto us asleep.     Yet not at all do those primordial germs     Roam round our members, at that time, afar     From their own motions that produce our senses—     Since, when he's startled from his sleep, a man     Collects his senses. Death is, then, to us     Much less—if there can be a less than that     Which is itself a nothing: for there comes     Hard upon death a scattering more great     Of the throng of matter, and no man wakes up     On whom once falls the icy pause of life.     This too, O often from the soul men say,     Along their couches holding of the cups,     With faces shaded by fresh wreaths awry:     "Brief is this fruit of joy to paltry man,     Soon, soon departed, and thereafter, no,     It may not be recalled."—As if, forsooth,     It were their prime of evils in great death     To parch, poor tongues, with thirst and arid drought,     Or chafe for any lack.                           Once more, if Nature     Should of a sudden send a voice abroad,     And her own self inveigh against us so:     "Mortal, what hast thou of such grave concern     That thou indulgest in too sickly plaints?     Why this bemoaning and beweeping death?     For if thy life aforetime and behind     To thee was grateful, and not all thy good     Was heaped as in sieve to flow away     And perish unavailingly, why not,     Even like a banqueter, depart the halls,     Laden with life? why not with mind content     Take now, thou fool, thy unafflicted rest?     But if whatever thou enjoyed hath been     Lavished and lost, and life is now offence,     Why seekest more to add—which in its turn     Will perish foully and fall out in vain?     O why not rather make an end of life,     Of labour? For all I may devise or find     To pleasure thee is nothing: all things are     The same forever. Though not yet thy body     Wrinkles with years, nor yet the frame exhausts     Outworn, still things abide the same, even if     Thou goest on to conquer all of time     With length of days, yea, if thou never diest"—     What were our answer, but that Nature here     Urges just suit and in her words lays down     True cause of action? Yet should one complain,     Riper in years and elder, and lament,     Poor devil, his death more sorely than is fit,     Then would she not, with greater right, on him     Cry out, inveighing with a voice more shrill:     "Off with thy tears, and choke thy whines, buffoon!     Thou wrinklest—after thou hast had the sum     Of the guerdons of life; yet, since thou cravest ever     What's not at hand, contemning present good,     That life has slipped away, unperfected     And unavailing unto thee. And now,     Or ere thou guessed it, death beside thy head     Stands—and before thou canst be going home     Sated and laden with the goodly feast.     But now yield all that's alien to thine age,—     Up, with good grace! make room for sons: thou must."     Justly, I fancy, would she reason thus,     Justly inveigh and gird: since ever the old     Outcrowded by the new gives way, and ever     The one thing from the others is repaired.     Nor no man is consigned to the abyss     Of Tartarus, the black. For stuff must be,     That thus the after-generations grow,—     Though these, their life completed, follow thee;     And thus like thee are generations all—     Already fallen, or some time to fall.     So one thing from another rises ever;     And in fee-simple life is given to none,     But unto all mere usufruct.                                Look back:     Nothing to us was all fore-passed eld     Of time the eternal, ere we had a birth.     And Nature holds this like a mirror up     Of time-to-be when we are dead and gone.     And what is there so horrible appears?     Now what is there so sad about it all?     Is't not serener far than any sleep?     And, verily, those tortures said to be     In Acheron, the deep, they all are ours     Here in this life. No Tantalus, benumbed     With baseless terror, as the fables tell,     Fears the huge boulder hanging in the air:     But, rather, in life an empty dread of Gods     Urges mortality, and each one fears     Such fall of fortune as may chance to him.     Nor eat the vultures into Tityus     Prostrate in Acheron, nor can they find,     Forsooth, throughout eternal ages, aught     To pry around for in that mighty breast.     However hugely he extend his bulk—     Who hath for outspread limbs not acres nine,     But the whole earth—he shall not able be     To bear eternal pain nor furnish food     From his own frame forever. But for us     A Tityus is he whom vultures rend     Prostrate in love, whom anxious anguish eats,     Whom troubles of any unappeased desires     Asunder rip. We have before our eyes     Here in this life also a Sisyphus     In him who seeketh of the populace     The rods, the axes fell, and evermore     Retires a beaten and a gloomy man.     For to seek after power—an empty name,     Nor given at all—and ever in the search     To endure a world of toil, O this it is     To shove with shoulder up the hill a stone     Which yet comes rolling back from off the top,     And headlong makes for levels of the plain.     Then to be always feeding an ingrate mind,     Filling with good things, satisfying never—     As do the seasons of the year for us,     When they return and bring their progenies     And varied charms, and we are never filled     With the fruits of life—O this, I fancy, 'tis     To pour, like those young virgins in the tale,     Waters into a sieve, unfilled forever.     Cerberus and Furies, and that Lack of Light     Tartarus, out-belching from his mouth the surge     Of horrible heat—the which are nowhere, nor     Indeed can be: but in this life is fear     Of retributions just and expiations     For evil acts: the dungeon and the leap     From that dread rock of infamy, the stripes,     The executioners, the oaken rack,     The iron plates, bitumen, and the torch.     And even though these are absent, yet the mind,     With a fore-fearing conscience, plies its goads     And burns beneath the lash, nor sees meanwhile     What terminus of ills, what end of pine     Can ever be, and feareth lest the same     But grow more heavy after death. Of truth,     The life of fools is Acheron on earth.     This also to thy very self sometimes     Repeat thou mayst: "Lo, even good Ancus left     The sunshine with his eyes, in divers things     A better man than thou, O worthless hind;     And many other kings and lords of rule     Thereafter have gone under, once who swayed     O'er mighty peoples. And he also, he—     Who whilom paved a highway down the sea,     And gave his legionaries thoroughfare     Along the deep, and taught them how to cross     The pools of brine afoot, and did contemn,     Trampling upon it with his cavalry,     The bellowings of ocean—poured his soul     From dying body, as his light was ta'en.     And Scipio's son, the thunderbolt of war,     Horror of Carthage, gave his bones to earth,     Like to the lowliest villein in the house.     Add finders-out of sciences and arts;     Add comrades of the Heliconian dames,     Among whom Homer, sceptered o'er them all,     Now lies in slumber sunken with the rest.     Then, too, Democritus, when ripened eld     Admonished him his memory waned away,     Of own accord offered his head to death.     Even Epicurus went, his light of life     Run out, the man in genius who o'er-topped     The human race, extinguishing all others,     As sun, in ether arisen, all the stars.     Wilt thou, then, dally, thou complain to go?—     For whom already life's as good as dead,     Whilst yet thou livest and lookest?—who in sleep     Wastest thy life—time's major part, and snorest     Even when awake, and ceasest not to see     The stuff of dreams, and bearest a mind beset     By baseless terror, nor discoverest oft     What's wrong with thee, when, like a sotted wretch,     Thou'rt jostled along by many crowding cares,     And wanderest reeling round, with mind aswim."     If men, in that same way as on the mind     They feel the load that wearies with its weight,     Could also know the causes whence it comes,     And why so great the heap of ill on heart,     O not in this sort would they live their life,     As now so much we see them, knowing not     What 'tis they want, and seeking ever and ever     A change of place, as if to drop the burden.     The man who sickens of his home goes out,     Forth from his splendid halls, and straight—returns,     Feeling i'faith no better off abroad.     He races, driving his Gallic ponies along,     Down to his villa, madly,—as in haste     To hurry help to a house afire.—At once     He yawns, as soon as foot has touched the threshold,     Or drowsily goes off in sleep and seeks     Forgetfulness, or maybe bustles about     And makes for town again. In such a way     Each human flees himself—a self in sooth,     As happens, he by no means can escape;     And willy-nilly he cleaves to it and loathes,     Sick, sick, and guessing not the cause of ail.     Yet should he see but that, O chiefly then,     Leaving all else, he'd study to divine     The nature of things, since here is in debate     Eternal time and not the single hour,     Mortal's estate in whatsoever remains     After great death.                    And too, when all is said,     What evil lust of life is this so great     Subdues us to live, so dreadfully distraught     In perils and alarms? one fixed end     Of life abideth for mortality;     Death's not to shun, and we must go to meet.     Besides we're busied with the same devices,     Ever and ever, and we are at them ever,     And there's no new delight that may be forged     By living on. But whilst the thing we long for     Is lacking, that seems good above all else;     Thereafter, when we've touched it, something else     We long for; ever one equal thirst of life     Grips us agape. And doubtful 'tis what fortune     The future times may carry, or what be     That chance may bring, or what the issue next     Awaiting us. Nor by prolonging life     Take we the least away from death's own time,     Nor can we pluck one moment off, whereby     To minish the aeons of our state of death.     Therefore, O man, by living on, fulfil     As many generations as thou may:     Eternal death shall there be waiting still;     And he who died with light of yesterday     Shall be no briefer time in death's No-more     Than he who perished months or years before.