On the Nature of Things

BOOK V

PROEM

     O WHO can build with puissant breast a song     Worthy the majesty of these great finds?     Or who in words so strong that he can frame     The fit laudations for deserts of him     Who left us heritors of such vast prizes,     By his own breast discovered and sought out?—     There shall be none, methinks, of mortal stock.     For if must needs be named for him the name     Demanded by the now known majesty     Of these high matters, then a god was he,—     Hear me, illustrious Memmius—a god;     Who first and chief found out that plan of life     Which now is called philosophy, and who     By cunning craft, out of such mighty waves,     Out of such mighty darkness, moored life     In havens so serene, in light so clear.     Compare those old discoveries divine     Of others: lo, according to the tale,     Ceres established for mortality     The grain, and Bacchus juice of vine-born grape,     Though life might yet without these things abide,     Even as report saith now some peoples live.     But man's well-being was impossible     Without a breast all free. Wherefore the more     That man doth justly seem to us a god,     From whom sweet solaces of life, afar     Distributed o'er populous domains,     Now soothe the minds of men. But if thou thinkest     Labours of Hercules excel the same,     Much farther from true reasoning thou farest.     For what could hurt us now that mighty maw     Of Nemeaean Lion, or what the Boar     Who bristled in Arcadia? Or, again,     O what could Cretan Bull, or Hydra, pest     Of Lerna, fenced with vipers venomous?     Or what the triple-breasted power of her     The three-fold Geryon…     The sojourners in the Stymphalian fens     So dreadfully offend us, or the Steeds     Of Thracian Diomedes breathing fire     From out their nostrils off along the zones     Bistonian and Ismarian? And the Snake,     The dread fierce gazer, guardian of the golden     And gleaming apples of the Hesperides,     Coiled round the tree-trunk with tremendous bulk,     O what, again, could he inflict on us     Along the Atlantic shore and wastes of sea?—     Where neither one of us approacheth nigh     Nor no barbarian ventures. And the rest     Of all those monsters slain, even if alive,     Unconquered still, what injury could they do?     None, as I guess. For so the glutted earth     Swarms even now with savage beasts, even now     Is filled with anxious terrors through the woods     And mighty mountains and the forest deeps—     Quarters 'tis ours in general to avoid.     But lest the breast be purged, what conflicts then,     What perils, must bosom, in our own despite!     O then how great and keen the cares of lust     That split the man distraught! How great the fears!     And lo, the pride, grim greed, and wantonness—     How great the slaughters in their train! and lo,     Debaucheries and every breed of sloth!     Therefore that man who subjugated these,     And from the mind expelled, by words indeed,     Not arms, O shall it not be seemly him     To dignify by ranking with the gods?—     And all the more since he was wont to give,     Concerning the immortal gods themselves,     Many pronouncements with a tongue divine,     And to unfold by his pronouncements all     The nature of the world.ARGUMENT OF THE BOOK AND NEW PROEM     AGAINST A TELEOLOGICAL CONCEPT                                 And walking now     In his own footprints, I do follow through     His reasonings, and with pronouncements teach     The covenant whereby all things are framed,     How under that covenant they must abide     Nor ever prevail to abrogate the aeons'     Inexorable decrees,—how (as we've found),     In class of mortal objects, o'er all else,     The mind exists of earth-born frame create     And impotent unscathed to abide     Across the mighty aeons, and how come     In sleep those idol-apparitions,     That so befool intelligence when we     Do seem to view a man whom life has left.     Thus far we've gone; the order of my plan     Hath brought me now unto the point where I     Must make report how, too, the universe     Consists of mortal body, born in time,     And in what modes that congregated stuff     Established itself as earth and sky,     Ocean, and stars, and sun, and ball of moon;     And then what living creatures rose from out     The old telluric places, and what ones     Were never born at all; and in what mode     The human race began to name its things     And use the varied speech from man to man;     And in what modes hath bosomed in their breasts     That awe of gods, which halloweth in all lands     Fanes, altars, groves, lakes, idols of the gods.     Also I shall untangle by what power     The steersman nature guides the sun's courses,     And the meanderings of the moon, lest we,     Percase, should fancy that of own free will     They circle their perennial courses round,     Timing their motions for increase of crops     And living creatures, or lest we should think     They roll along by any plan of gods.     For even those men who have learned full well     That godheads lead a long life free of care,     If yet meanwhile they wonder by what plan     Things can go on (and chiefly yon high things     Observed o'erhead on the ethereal coasts),     Again are hurried back unto the fears     Of old religion and adopt again     Harsh masters, deemed almighty,—wretched men,     Unwitting what can be and what cannot,     And by what law to each its scope prescribed,     Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time.     But for the rest,—lest we delay thee here     Longer by empty promises—behold,     Before all else, the seas, the lands, the sky:     O Memmius, their threefold nature, lo,     Their bodies three, three aspects so unlike,     Three frames so vast, a single day shall give     Unto annihilation! Then shall crash     That massive form and fabric of the world     Sustained so many aeons! Nor do I     Fail to perceive how strange and marvellous     This fact must strike the intellect of man,—     Annihilation of the sky and earth     That is to be,—and with what toil of words     'Tis mine to prove the same; as happens oft     When once ye offer to man's listening ears     Something before unheard of, but may not     Subject it to the view of eyes for him     Nor put it into hand—the sight and touch,     Whereby the opened highways of belief     Lead most directly into human breast     And regions of intelligence. But yet     I will speak out. The fact itself, perchance,     Will force belief in these my words, and thou     Mayst see, in little time, tremendously     With risen commotions of the lands all things     Quaking to pieces—which afar from us     May she, the steersman Nature, guide: and may     Reason, O rather than the fact itself,     Persuade us that all things can be o'erthrown     And sink with awful-sounding breakage down!     But ere on this I take a step to utter     Oracles holier and soundlier based     Than ever the Pythian pronounced for men     From out the tripod and the Delphian laurel,     I will unfold for thee with learned words     Many a consolation, lest perchance,     Still bridled by religion, thou suppose     Lands, sun, and sky, sea, constellations, moon,     Must dure forever, as of frame divine—     And so conclude that it is just that those,     (After the manner of the Giants), should all     Pay the huge penalties for monstrous crime,     Who by their reasonings do overshake     The ramparts of the universe and wish     There to put out the splendid sun of heaven,     Branding with mortal talk immortal things—     Though these same things are even so far removed     From any touch of deity and seem     So far unworthy of numbering with the gods,     That well they may be thought to furnish rather     A goodly instance of the sort of things     That lack the living motion, living sense.     For sure 'tis quite beside the mark to think     That judgment and the nature of the mind     In any kind of body can exist—     Just as in ether can't exist a tree,     Nor clouds in the salt sea, nor in the fields     Can fishes live, nor blood in timber be,     Nor sap in boulders: fixed and arranged     Where everything may grow and have its place.     Thus nature of mind cannot arise alone     Without the body, nor have its being far     From thews and blood. Yet if 'twere possible?—     Much rather might this very power of mind     Be in the head, the shoulders, or the heels,     And, born in any part soever, yet     In the same man, in the same vessel abide     But since within this body even of ours     Stands fixed and appears arranged sure     Where soul and mind can each exist and grow,     Deny we must the more that they can dure     Outside the body and the breathing form     In rotting clods of earth, in the sun's fire,     In water, or in ether's skiey coasts.     Therefore these things no whit are furnished     With sense divine, since never can they be     With life-force quickened.                            Likewise, thou canst ne'er     Believe the sacred seats of gods are here     In any regions of this mundane world;     Indeed, the nature of the gods, so subtle,     So far removed from these our senses, scarce     Is seen even by intelligence of mind.     And since they've ever eluded touch and thrust     Of human hands, they cannot reach to grasp     Aught tangible to us. For what may not     Itself be touched in turn can never touch.     Wherefore, besides, also their seats must be     Unlike these seats of ours,—even subtle too,     As meet for subtle essence—as I'll prove     Hereafter unto thee with large discourse.     Further, to say that for the sake of men     They willed to prepare this world's magnificence,     And that 'tis therefore duty and behoof     To praise the work of gods as worthy praise,     And that 'tis sacrilege for men to shake     Ever by any force from out their seats     What hath been stablished by the Forethought old     To everlasting for races of mankind,     And that 'tis sacrilege to assault by words     And overtopple all from base to beam,—     Memmius, such notions to concoct and pile,     Is verily—to dote. Our gratefulness,     O what emoluments could it confer     Upon Immortals and upon the Blessed     That they should take a step to manage aught     For sake of us? Or what new factor could,     After so long a time, inveigle them—     The hitherto reposeful—to desire     To change their former life? For rather he     Whom old things chafe seems likely to rejoice     At new; but one that in fore-passed time     Hath chanced upon no ill, through goodly years,     O what could ever enkindle in such an one     Passion for strange experiment? Or what     The evil for us, if we had ne'er been born?—     As though, forsooth, in darkling realms and woe     Our life were lying till should dawn at last     The day-spring of creation! Whosoever     Hath been begotten wills perforce to stay     In life, so long as fond delight detains;     But whoso ne'er hath tasted love of life,     And ne'er was in the count of living things,     What hurts it him that he was never born?     Whence, further, first was planted in the gods     The archetype for gendering the world     And the fore-notion of what man is like,     So that they knew and pre-conceived with mind     Just what they wished to make? Or how were known     Ever the energies of primal germs,     And what those germs, by interchange of place,     Could thus produce, if nature's self had not     Given example for creating all?     For in such wise primordials of things,     Many in many modes, astir by blows     From immemorial aeons, in motion too     By their own weights, have evermore been wont     To be so borne along and in all modes     To meet together and to try all sorts     Which, by combining one with other, they     Are powerful to create, that thus it is     No marvel now, if they have also fallen     Into arrangements such, and if they've passed     Into vibrations such, as those whereby     This sum of things is carried on to-day     By fixed renewal. But knew I never what     The seeds primordial were, yet would I dare     This to affirm, even from deep judgments based     Upon the ways and conduct of the skies—     This to maintain by many a fact besides—     That in no wise the nature of all things     For us was fashioned by a power divine—     So great the faults it stands encumbered with.     First, mark all regions which are overarched     By the prodigious reaches of the sky:     One yawning part thereof the mountain-chains     And forests of the beasts do have and hold;     And cliffs, and desert fens, and wastes of sea     (Which sunder afar the beaches of the lands)     Possess it merely; and, again, thereof     Well-nigh two-thirds intolerable heat     And a perpetual fall of frost doth rob     From mortal kind. And what is left to till,     Even that the force of nature would o'errun     With brambles, did not human force oppose,—     Long wont for livelihood to groan and sweat     Over the two-pronged mattock and to cleave     The soil in twain by pressing on the plough.     Unless, by the ploughshare turning the fruitful clods     And kneading the mould, we quicken into birth,     [The crops] spontaneously could not come up     Into the free bright air. Even then sometimes,     When things acquired by the sternest toil     Are now in leaf, are now in blossom all,     Either the skiey sun with baneful heats     Parches, or sudden rains or chilling rime     Destroys, or flaws of winds with furious whirl     Torment and twist. Beside these matters, why     Doth nature feed and foster on land and sea     The dreadful breed of savage beasts, the foes     Of the human clan? Why do the seasons bring     Distempers with them? Wherefore stalks at large     Death, so untimely? Then, again, the babe,     Like to the castaway of the raging surf,     Lies naked on the ground, speechless, in want     Of every help for life, when nature first     Hath poured him forth upon the shores of light     With birth-pangs from within the mother's womb,     And with a plaintive wail he fills the place,—     As well befitting one for whom remains     In life a journey through so many ills.     But all the flocks and herds and all wild beasts     Come forth and grow, nor need the little rattles,     Nor must be treated to the humouring nurse's     Dear, broken chatter; nor seek they divers clothes     To suit the changing skies; nor need, in fine,     Nor arms, nor lofty ramparts, wherewithal     Their own to guard—because the earth herself     And nature, artificer of the world, bring forth     Aboundingly all things for all.

THE WORLD IS NOT ETERNAL

                               And first,     Since body of earth and water, air's light breath,     And fiery exhalations (of which four     This sum of things is seen to be compact)     So all have birth and perishable frame,     Thus the whole nature of the world itself     Must be conceived as perishable too.     For, verily, those things of which we see     The parts and members to have birth in time     And perishable shapes, those same we mark     To be invariably born in time     And born to die. And therefore when I see     The mightiest members and the parts of this     Our world consumed and begot again,     'Tis mine to know that also sky above     And earth beneath began of old in time     And shall in time go under to disaster.     And lest in these affairs thou deemest me     To have seized upon this point by sleight to serve     My own caprice—because I have assumed     That earth and fire are mortal things indeed,     And have not doubted water and the air     Both perish too and have affirmed the same     To be again begotten and wax big—     Mark well the argument: in first place, lo,     Some certain parts of earth, grievously parched     By unremitting suns, and trampled on     By a vast throng of feet, exhale abroad     A powdery haze and flying clouds of dust,     Which the stout winds disperse in the whole air.     A part, moreover, of her sod and soil     Is summoned to inundation by the rains;     And rivers graze and gouge the banks away.     Besides, whatever takes a part its own     In fostering and increasing [aught]…     Is rendered back; and since, beyond a doubt,     Earth, the all-mother, is beheld to be     Likewise the common sepulchre of things,     Therefore thou seest her minished of her plenty,     And then again augmented with new growth.     And for the rest, that sea, and streams, and springs     Forever with new waters overflow,     And that perennially the fluids well,     Needeth no words—the mighty flux itself     Of multitudinous waters round about     Declareth this. But whatso water first     Streams up is ever straightway carried off,     And thus it comes to pass that all in all     There is no overflow; in part because     The burly winds (that over-sweep amain)     And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves)     Do minish the level seas; in part because     The water is diffused underground     Through all the lands. The brine is filtered off,     And then the liquid stuff seeps back again     And all regathers at the river-heads,     Whence in fresh-water currents on it flows     Over the lands, adown the channels which     Were cleft erstwhile and erstwhile bore along     The liquid-footed floods.                               Now, then, of air     I'll speak, which hour by hour in all its body     Is changed innumerably. For whatso'er     Streams up in dust or vapour off of things,     The same is all and always borne along     Into the mighty ocean of the air;     And did not air in turn restore to things     Bodies, and thus recruit them as they stream,     All things by this time had resolved been     And changed into air. Therefore it never     Ceases to be engendered off of things     And to return to things, since verily     In constant flux do all things stream.                                   Likewise,     The abounding well-spring of the liquid light,     The ethereal sun, doth flood the heaven o'er     With constant flux of radiance ever new,     And with fresh light supplies the place of light,     Upon the instant. For whatever effulgence     Hath first streamed off, no matter where it falls,     Is lost unto the sun. And this 'tis thine     To know from these examples: soon as clouds     Have first begun to under-pass the sun,     And, as it were, to rend the rays of light     In twain, at once the lower part of them     Is lost entire, and earth is overcast     Where'er the thunderheads are rolled along—     So know thou mayst that things forever need     A fresh replenishment of gleam and glow,     And each effulgence, foremost flashed forth,     Perisheth one by one. Nor otherwise     Can things be seen in sunlight, lest alway     The fountain-head of light supply new light.     Indeed your earthly beacons of the night,     The hanging lampions and the torches, bright     With darting gleams and dense with livid soot,     Do hurry in like manner to supply     With ministering heat new light amain;     Are all alive to quiver with their fires,—     Are so alive, that thus the light ne'er leaves     The spots it shines on, as if rent in twain:     So speedily is its destruction veiled     By the swift birth of flame from all the fires.     Thus, then, we must suppose that sun and moon     And stars dart forth their light from under-births     Ever and ever new, and whatso flames     First rise do perish always one by one—     Lest, haply, thou shouldst think they each endure     Inviolable.                Again, perceivest not     How stones are also conquered by Time?—     Not how the lofty towers ruin down,     And boulders crumble?—Not how shrines of gods     And idols crack outworn?—Nor how indeed     The holy Influence hath yet no power     There to postpone the Terminals of Fate,     Or headway make 'gainst Nature's fixed decrees?     Again, behold we not the monuments     Of heroes, now in ruins, asking us,     In their turn likewise, if we don't believe     They also age with eld? Behold we not     The rended basalt ruining amain     Down from the lofty mountains, powerless     To dure and dree the mighty forces there     Of finite time?—for they would never fall     Rended asudden, if from infinite Past     They had prevailed against all engin'ries     Of the assaulting aeons, with no crash.     Again, now look at This, which round, above,     Contains the whole earth in its one embrace:     If from itself it procreates all things—     As some men tell—and takes them to itself     When once destroyed, entirely must it be     Of mortal birth and body; for whate'er     From out itself giveth to other things     Increase and food, the same perforce must be     Minished, and then recruited when it takes     Things back into itself.                            Besides all this,     If there had been no origin-in-birth     Of lands and sky, and they had ever been     The everlasting, why, ere Theban war     And obsequies of Troy, have other bards     Not also chanted other high affairs?     Whither have sunk so oft so many deeds     Of heroes? Why do those deeds live no more,     Ingrafted in eternal monuments     Of glory? Verily, I guess, because     The Sum is new, and of a recent date     The nature of our universe, and had     Not long ago its own exordium.     Wherefore, even now some arts are being still     Refined, still increased: now unto ships     Is being added many a new device;     And but the other day musician-folk     Gave birth to melic sounds of organing;     And, then, this nature, this account of things     Hath been discovered latterly, and I     Myself have been discovered only now,     As first among the first, able to turn     The same into ancestral Roman speech.     Yet if, percase, thou deemest that ere this     Existed all things even the same, but that     Perished the cycles of the human race     In fiery exhalations, or cities fell     By some tremendous quaking of the world,     Or rivers in fury, after constant rains,     Had plunged forth across the lands of earth     And whelmed the towns—then, all the more must thou     Confess, defeated by the argument,     That there shall be annihilation too     Of lands and sky. For at a time when things     Were being taxed by maladies so great,     And so great perils, if some cause more fell     Had then assailed them, far and wide they would     Have gone to disaster and supreme collapse.     And by no other reasoning are we     Seen to be mortal, save that all of us     Sicken in turn with those same maladies     With which have sickened in the past those men     Whom nature hath removed from life.     gain,     Whatever abides eternal must indeed     Either repel all strokes, because 'tis made     Of solid body, and permit no entrance     Of aught with power to sunder from within     The parts compact—as are those seeds of stuff     Whose nature we've exhibited before;     Or else be able to endure through time     For this: because they are from blows exempt,     As is the void, the which abides untouched,     Unsmit by any stroke; or else because     There is no room around, whereto things can,     As 'twere, depart in dissolution all,—     Even as the sum of sums eternal is,     Without or place beyond whereto things may     Asunder fly, or bodies which can smite,     And thus dissolve them by the blows of might.     But not of solid body, as I've shown,     Exists the nature of the world, because     In things is intermingled there a void;     Nor is the world yet as the void, nor are,     Moreover, bodies lacking which, percase,     Rising from out the infinite, can fell     With fury-whirlwinds all this sum of things,     Or bring upon them other cataclysm     Of peril strange; and yonder, too, abides     The infinite space and the profound abyss—     Whereinto, lo, the ramparts of the world     Can yet be shivered. Or some other power     Can pound upon them till they perish all.     Thus is the door of doom, O nowise barred     Against the sky, against the sun and earth     And deep-sea waters, but wide open stands     And gloats upon them, monstrous and agape.     Wherefore, again, 'tis needful to confess     That these same things are born in time; for things     Which are of mortal body could indeed     Never from infinite past until to-day     Have spurned the multitudinous assaults     Of the immeasurable aeons old.     Again, since battle so fiercely one with other     The four most mighty members the world,     Aroused in an all unholy war,     Seest not that there may be for them an end     Of the long strife?—Or when the skiey sun     And all the heat have won dominion o'er     The sucked-up waters all?—And this they try     Still to accomplish, though as yet they fail,—     For so aboundingly the streams supply     New store of waters that 'tis rather they     Who menace the world with inundations vast     From forth the unplumbed chasms of the sea.     But vain—since winds (that over-sweep amain)     And skiey sun (that with his rays dissolves)     Do minish the level seas and trust their power     To dry up all, before the waters can     Arrive at the end of their endeavouring.     Breathing such vasty warfare, they contend     In balanced strife the one with other still     Concerning mighty issues,—though indeed     The fire was once the more victorious,     And once—as goes the tale—the water won     A kingdom in the fields. For fire o'ermastered     And licked up many things and burnt away,     What time the impetuous horses of the Sun     Snatched Phaethon headlong from his skiey road     Down the whole ether and over all the lands.     But the omnipotent Father in keen wrath     Then with the sudden smite of thunderbolt     Did hurl the mighty-minded hero off     Those horses to the earth. And Sol, his sire,     Meeting him as he fell, caught up in hand     The ever-blazing lampion of the world,     And drave together the pell-mell horses there     And yoked them all a-tremble, and amain,     Steering them over along their own old road,     Restored the cosmos,—as forsooth we hear     From songs of ancient poets of the Greeks—     A tale too far away from truth, meseems.     For fire can win when from the infinite     Has risen a larger throng of particles     Of fiery stuff; and then its powers succumb,     Somehow subdued again, or else at last     It shrivels in torrid atmospheres the world.     And whilom water too began to win—     As goes the story—when it overwhelmed     The lives of men with billows; and thereafter,     When all that force of water-stuff which forth     From out the infinite had risen up     Did now retire, as somehow turned aside,     The rain-storms stopped, and streams their fury checked.FORMATION OF THE WORLD AND     ASTRONOMICAL QUESTIONS     But in what modes that conflux of first-stuff     Did found the multitudinous universe     Of earth, and sky, and the unfathomed deeps     Of ocean, and courses of the sun and moon,     I'll now in order tell. For of a truth     Neither by counsel did the primal germs     'Stablish themselves, as by keen act of mind,     Each in its proper place; nor did they make,     Forsooth, a compact how each germ should move;     But, lo, because primordials of things,     Many in many modes, astir by blows     From immemorial aeons, in motion too     By their own weights, have evermore been wont     To be so borne along and in all modes     To meet together and to try all sorts     Which, by combining one with other, they     Are powerful to create: because of this     It comes to pass that those primordials,     Diffused far and wide through mighty aeons,     The while they unions try, and motions too,     Of every kind, meet at the last amain,     And so become oft the commencements fit     Of mighty things—earth, sea, and sky, and race     Of living creatures.                         In that long-ago     The wheel of the sun could nowhere be discerned     Flying far up with its abounding blaze,     Nor constellations of the mighty world,     Nor ocean, nor heaven, nor even earth nor air.     Nor aught of things like unto things of ours     Could then be seen—but only some strange storm     And a prodigious hurly-burly mass     Compounded of all kinds of primal germs,     Whose battling discords in disorder kept     Interstices, and paths, coherencies,     And weights, and blows, encounterings, and motions,     Because, by reason of their forms unlike     And varied shapes, they could not all thuswise     Remain conjoined nor harmoniously     Have interplay of movements. But from there     Portions began to fly asunder, and like     With like to join, and to block out a world,     And to divide its members and dispose     Its mightier parts—that is, to set secure     The lofty heavens from the lands, and cause     The sea to spread with waters separate,     And fires of ether separate and pure     Likewise to congregate apart.                                  For, lo,     First came together the earthy particles     (As being heavy and intertangled) there     In the mid-region, and all began to take     The lowest abodes; and ever the more they got     One with another intertangled, the more     They pressed from out their mass those particles     Which were to form the sea, the stars, the sun,     And moon, and ramparts of the mighty world—     For these consist of seeds more smooth and round     And of much smaller elements than earth.     And thus it was that ether, fraught with fire,     First broke away from out the earthen parts,     Athrough the innumerable pores of earth,     And raised itself aloft, and with itself     Bore lightly off the many starry fires;     And not far otherwise we often see     And the still lakes and the perennial streams     Exhale a mist, and even as earth herself     Is seen at times to smoke, when first at dawn     The light of the sun, the many-rayed, begins     To redden into gold, over the grass     Begemmed with dew. When all of these are brought     Together overhead, the clouds on high     With now concreted body weave a cover     Beneath the heavens. And thuswise ether too,     Light and diffusive, with concreted body     On all sides spread, on all sides bent itself     Into a dome, and, far and wide diffused     On unto every region on all sides,     Thus hedged all else within its greedy clasp.     Hard upon ether came the origins     Of sun and moon, whose globes revolve in air     Midway between the earth and mightiest ether,—     For neither took them, since they weighed too little     To sink and settle, but too much to glide     Along the upmost shores; and yet they are     In such a wise midway between the twain     As ever to whirl their living bodies round,     And ever to dure as parts of the wide Whole;     In the same fashion as certain members may     In us remain at rest, whilst others move.     When, then, these substances had been withdrawn,     Amain the earth, where now extend the vast     Cerulean zones of all the level seas,     Caved in, and down along the hollows poured     The whirlpools of her brine; and day by day     The more the tides of ether and rays of sun     On every side constrained into one mass     The earth by lashing it again, again,     Upon its outer edges (so that then,     Being thus beat upon, 'twas all condensed     About its proper centre), ever the more     The salty sweat, from out its body squeezed,     Augmented ocean and the fields of foam     By seeping through its frame, and all the more     Those many particles of heat and air     Escaping, began to fly aloft, and form,     By condensation there afar from earth,     The high refulgent circuits of the heavens.     The plains began to sink, and windy slopes     Of the high mountains to increase; for rocks     Could not subside, nor all the parts of ground     Settle alike to one same level there.     Thus, then, the massy weight of earth stood firm     With now concreted body, when (as 'twere)     All of the slime of the world, heavy and gross,     Had run together and settled at the bottom,     Like lees or bilge. Then ocean, then the air,     Then ether herself, the fraught-with-fire, were all     Left with their liquid bodies pure and free,     And each more lighter than the next below;     And ether, most light and liquid of the three,     Floats on above the long aerial winds,     Nor with the brawling of the winds of air     Mingles its liquid body. It doth leave     All there—those under-realms below her heights—     There to be overset in whirlwinds wild,—     Doth leave all there to brawl in wayward gusts,     Whilst, gliding with a fixed impulse still,     Itself it bears its fires along. For, lo,     That ether can flow thus steadily on, on,     With one unaltered urge, the Pontus proves—     That sea which floweth forth with fixed tides,     Keeping one onward tenor as it glides.     And that the earth may there abide at rest     In the mid-region of the world, it needs     Must vanish bit by bit in weight and lessen,     And have another substance underneath,     Conjoined to it from its earliest age     In linked unison with the vasty world's     Realms of the air in which it roots and lives.     On this account, the earth is not a load,     Nor presses down on winds of air beneath;     Even as unto a man his members be     Without all weight—the head is not a load     Unto the neck; nor do we feel the whole     Weight of the body to centre in the feet.     But whatso weights come on us from without,     Weights laid upon us, these harass and chafe,     Though often far lighter. For to such degree     It matters always what the innate powers     Of any given thing may be. The earth     Was, then, no alien substance fetched amain,     And from no alien firmament cast down     On alien air; but was conceived, like air,     In the first origin of this the world,     As a fixed portion of the same, as now     Our members are seen to be a part of us.     Besides, the earth, when of a sudden shook     By the big thunder, doth with her motion shake     All that's above her—which she ne'er could do     By any means, were earth not bounden fast     Unto the great world's realms of air and sky:     For they cohere together with common roots,     Conjoined both, even from their earliest age,     In linked unison. Aye, seest thou not     That this most subtle energy of soul     Supports our body, though so heavy a weight,—     Because, indeed, 'tis with it so conjoined     In linked unison? What power, in sum,     Can raise with agile leap our body aloft,     Save energy of mind which steers the limbs?     Now seest thou not how powerful may be     A subtle nature, when conjoined it is     With heavy body, as air is with the earth     Conjoined, and energy of mind with us?     Now let us sing what makes the stars to move.     In first place, if the mighty sphere of heaven     Revolveth round, then needs we must aver     That on the upper and the under pole     Presses a certain air, and from without     Confines them and encloseth at each end;     And that, moreover, another air above     Streams on athwart the top of the sphere and tends     In same direction as are rolled along     The glittering stars of the eternal world;     Or that another still streams on below     To whirl the sphere from under up and on     In opposite direction—as we see     The rivers turn the wheels and water-scoops.     It may be also that the heavens do all     Remain at rest, whilst yet are borne along     The lucid constellations; either because     Swift tides of ether are by sky enclosed,     And whirl around, seeking a passage out,     And everywhere make roll the starry fires     Through the Summanian regions of the sky;     Or else because some air, streaming along     From an eternal quarter off beyond,     Whileth the driven fires, or, then, because     The fires themselves have power to creep along,     Going wherever their food invites and calls,     And feeding their flaming bodies everywhere     Throughout the sky. Yet which of these is cause     In this our world 'tis hard to say for sure;     But what can be throughout the universe,     In divers worlds on divers plan create,     This only do I show, and follow on     To assign unto the motions of the stars     Even several causes which 'tis possible     Exist throughout the universal All;     Of which yet one must be the cause even here     Which maketh motion for our constellations.     Yet to decide which one of them it be     Is not the least the business of a man     Advancing step by cautious step, as I.     Nor can the sun's wheel larger be by much     Nor its own blaze much less than either seems     Unto our senses. For from whatso spaces     Fires have the power on us to cast their beams     And blow their scorching exhalations forth     Against our members, those same distances     Take nothing by those intervals away     From bulk of flames; and to the sight the fire     Is nothing shrunken. Therefore, since the heat     And the outpoured light of skiey sun     Arrive our senses and caress our limbs,     Form too and bigness of the sun must look     Even here from earth just as they really be,     So that thou canst scarce nothing take or add.     And whether the journeying moon illuminate     The regions round with bastard beams, or throw     From off her proper body her own light,—     Whichever it be, she journeys with a form     Naught larger than the form doth seem to be     Which we with eyes of ours perceive. For all     The far removed objects of our gaze     Seem through much air confused in their look     Ere minished in their bigness. Wherefore, moon,     Since she presents bright look and clear-cut form,     May there on high by us on earth be seen     Just as she is with extreme bounds defined,     And just of the size. And lastly, whatso fires     Of ether thou from earth beholdest, these     Thou mayst consider as possibly of size     The least bit less, or larger by a hair     Than they appear—since whatso fires we view     Here in the lands of earth are seen to change     From time to time their size to less or more     Only the least, when more or less away,     So long as still they bicker clear, and still     Their glow's perceived.                          Nor need there be for men     Astonishment that yonder sun so small     Can yet send forth so great a light as fills     Oceans and all the lands and sky aflood,     And with its fiery exhalations steeps     The world at large. For it may be, indeed,     That one vast-flowing well-spring of the whole     Wide world from here hath opened and out-gushed,     And shot its light abroad; because thuswise     The elements of fiery exhalations     From all the world around together come,     And thuswise flow into a bulk so big     That from one single fountain-head may stream     This heat and light. And seest thou not, indeed,     How widely one small water-spring may wet     The meadow-lands at times and flood the fields?     'Tis even possible, besides, that heat     From forth the sun's own fire, albeit that fire     Be not a great, may permeate the air     With the fierce hot—if but, perchance, the air     Be of condition and so tempered then     As to be kindled, even when beat upon     Only by little particles of heat—     Just as we sometimes see the standing grain     Or stubble straw in conflagration all     From one lone spark. And possibly the sun,     Agleam on high with rosy lampion,     Possesses about him with invisible heats     A plenteous fire, by no effulgence marked,     So that he maketh, he, the Fraught-with-fire,     Increase to such degree the force of rays.     Nor is there one sure cause revealed to men     How the sun journeys from his summer haunts     On to the mid-most winter turning-points     In Capricorn, the thence reverting veers     Back to solstitial goals of Cancer; nor     How 'tis the moon is seen each month to cross     That very distance which in traversing     The sun consumes the measure of a year.     I say, no one clear reason hath been given     For these affairs. Yet chief in likelihood     Seemeth the doctrine which the holy thought     Of great Democritus lays down: that ever     The nearer the constellations be to earth     The less can they by whirling of the sky     Be borne along, because those skiey powers     Of speed aloft do vanish and decrease     In under-regions, and the sun is thus     Left by degrees behind amongst those signs     That follow after, since the sun he lies     Far down below the starry signs that blaze;     And the moon lags even tardier than the sun:     In just so far as is her course removed     From upper heaven and nigh unto the lands,     In just so far she fails to keep the pace     With starry signs above; for just so far     As feebler is the whirl that bears her on,     (Being, indeed, still lower than the sun),     In just so far do all the starry signs,     Circling around, o'ertake her and o'erpass.     Therefore it happens that the moon appears     More swiftly to return to any sign     Along the Zodiac, than doth the sun,     Because those signs do visit her again     More swiftly than they visit the great sun.     It can be also that two streams of air     Alternately at fixed periods     Blow out from transverse regions of the world,     Of which the one may thrust the sun away     From summer-signs to mid-most winter goals     And rigors of the cold, and the other then     May cast him back from icy shades of chill     Even to the heat-fraught regions and the signs     That blaze along the Zodiac. So, too,     We must suppose the moon and all the stars,     Which through the mighty and sidereal years     Roll round in mighty orbits, may be sped     By streams of air from regions alternate.     Seest thou not also how the clouds be sped     By contrary winds to regions contrary,     The lower clouds diversely from the upper?     Then, why may yonder stars in ether there     Along their mighty orbits not be borne     By currents opposite the one to other?     But night o'erwhelms the lands with vasty murk     Either when sun, after his diurnal course,     Hath walked the ultimate regions of the sky     And wearily hath panted forth his fires,     Shivered by their long journeying and wasted     By traversing the multitudinous air,     Or else because the self-same force that drave     His orb along above the lands compels     Him then to turn his course beneath the lands.     Matuta also at a fixed hour     Spreadeth the roseate morning out along     The coasts of heaven and deploys the light,     Either because the self-same sun, returning     Under the lands, aspires to seize the sky,     Striving to set it blazing with his rays     Ere he himself appear, or else because     Fires then will congregate and many seeds     Of heat are wont, even at a fixed time,     To stream together—gendering evermore     New suns and light. Just so the story goes     That from the Idaean mountain-tops are seen     Dispersed fires upon the break of day     Which thence combine, as 'twere, into one ball     And form an orb. Nor yet in these affairs     Is aught for wonder that these seeds of fire     Can thus together stream at time so fixed     And shape anew the splendour of the sun.     For many facts we see which come to pass     At fixed time in all things: burgeon shrubs     At fixed time, and at a fixed time     They cast their flowers; and Eld commands the teeth,     At time as surely fixed, to drop away,     And Youth commands the growing boy to bloom     With the soft down and let from both his cheeks     The soft beard fall. And lastly, thunder-bolts,     Snow, rains, clouds, winds, at seasons of the year     Nowise unfixed, all do come to pass.     For where, even from their old primordial start     Causes have ever worked in such a way,     And where, even from the world's first origin,     Thuswise have things befallen, so even now     After a fixed order they come round     In sequence also.                       Likewise, days may wax     Whilst the nights wane, and daylight minished be     Whilst nights do take their augmentations,     Either because the self-same sun, coursing     Under the lands and over in two arcs,     A longer and a briefer, doth dispart     The coasts of ether and divides in twain     His orbit all unequally, and adds,     As round he's borne, unto the one half there     As much as from the other half he's ta'en,     Until he then arrives that sign of heaven     Where the year's node renders the shades of night     Equal unto the periods of light.     For when the sun is midway on his course     Between the blasts of northwind and of south,     Heaven keeps his two goals parted equally,     By virtue of the fixed position old     Of the whole starry Zodiac, through which     That sun, in winding onward, takes a year,     Illumining the sky and all the lands     With oblique light—as men declare to us     Who by their diagrams have charted well     Those regions of the sky which be adorned     With the arranged signs of Zodiac.     Or else, because in certain parts the air     Under the lands is denser, the tremulous     Bright beams of fire do waver tardily,     Nor easily can penetrate that air     Nor yet emerge unto their rising-place:     For this it is that nights in winter time     Do linger long, ere comes the many-rayed     Round Badge of the day. Or else because, as said,     In alternating seasons of the year     Fires, now more quick, and now more slow, are wont     To stream together,—the fires which make the sun     To rise in some one spot—therefore it is     That those men seem to speak the truth [who hold     A new sun is with each new daybreak born].     The moon she possibly doth shine because     Strook by the rays of sun, and day by day     May turn unto our gaze her light, the more     She doth recede from orb of sun, until,     Facing him opposite across the world,     She hath with full effulgence gleamed abroad,     And, at her rising as she soars above,     Hath there observed his setting; thence likewise     She needs must hide, as 'twere, her light behind     By slow degrees, the nearer now she glides,     Along the circle of the Zodiac,     From her far place toward fires of yonder sun,—     As those men hold who feign the moon to be     Just like a ball and to pursue a course     Betwixt the sun and earth. There is, again,     Some reason to suppose that moon may roll     With light her very own, and thus display     The varied shapes of her resplendence there.     For near her is, percase, another body,     Invisible, because devoid of light,     Borne on and gliding all along with her,     Which in three modes may block and blot her disk.     Again, she may revolve upon herself,     Like to a ball's sphere—if perchance that be—     One half of her dyed o'er with glowing light,     And by the revolution of that sphere     She may beget for us her varying shapes,     Until she turns that fiery part of her     Full to the sight and open eyes of men;     Thence by slow stages round and back she whirls,     Withdrawing thus the luminiferous part     Of her sphered mass and ball, as, verily,     The Babylonian doctrine of Chaldees,     Refuting the art of Greek astrologers,     Labours, in opposition, to prove sure—     As if, forsooth, the thing for which each fights,     Might not alike be true,—or aught there were     Wherefore thou mightest risk embracing one     More than the other notion. Then, again,     Why a new moon might not forevermore     Created be with fixed successions there     Of shapes and with configurations fixed,     And why each day that bright created moon     Might not miscarry and another be,     In its stead and place, engendered anew,     'Tis hard to show by reason, or by words     To prove absurd—since, lo, so many things     Can be create with fixed successions:     Spring-time and Venus come, and Venus' boy,     The winged harbinger, steps on before,     And hard on Zephyr's foot-prints Mother Flora,     Sprinkling the ways before them, filleth all     With colours and with odours excellent;     Whereafter follows arid Heat, and he     Companioned is by Ceres, dusty one,     And by the Etesian Breezes of the north;     Then cometh Autumn on, and with him steps     Lord Bacchus, and then other Seasons too     And other Winds do follow—the high roar     Of great Volturnus, and the Southwind strong     With thunder-bolts. At last earth's Shortest-Day     Bears on to men the snows and brings again     The numbing cold. And Winter follows her,     His teeth with chills a-chatter. Therefore, 'tis     The less a marvel, if at fixed time     A moon is thus begotten and again     At fixed time destroyed, since things so many     Can come to being thus at fixed time.     Likewise, the sun's eclipses and the moon's     Far occultations rightly thou mayst deem     As due to several causes. For, indeed,     Why should the moon be able to shut out     Earth from the light of sun, and on the side     To earthward thrust her high head under sun,     Opposing dark orb to his glowing beams—     And yet, at same time, one suppose the effect     Could not result from some one other body     Which glides devoid of light forevermore?     Again, why could not sun, in weakened state,     At fixed time for-lose his fires, and then,     When he has passed on along the air     Beyond the regions, hostile to his flames,     That quench and kill his fires, why could not he     Renew his light? And why should earth in turn     Have power to rob the moon of light, and there,     Herself on high, keep the sun hid beneath,     Whilst the moon glideth in her monthly course     Athrough the rigid shadows of the cone?—     And yet, at same time, some one other body     Not have the power to under-pass the moon,     Or glide along above the orb of sun,     Breaking his rays and outspread light asunder?     And still, if moon herself refulgent be     With her own sheen, why could she not at times     In some one quarter of the mighty world     Grow weak and weary, whilst she passeth through     Regions unfriendly to the beams her own?