ABSENCE OF SECONDARY QUALITIES Now come, this wisdom by my sweet toil soughtLook thou perceive, lest haply thou shouldst guessThat the white objects shining to thine eyesAre gendered of white atoms, or the blackOf a black seed; or yet believe that aughtThat's steeped in any hue should take its dyeFrom 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 mindItself can dart no influence of its ownInto these bodies, wide thou wand'rest off.For since the blind-born, who have ne'er surveyedThe light of sun, yet recognise by touchThings that from birth had ne'er a hue for them,'Tis thine to know that bodies can be broughtNo less unto the ken of our minds too,Though yet those bodies with no dye be smeared.Again, ourselves whatever in the darkWe touch, the same we do not find to beTinctured with any colour. Now that hereI 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 boundsMeans instant death of that which was before.Wherefore be mindful not to stain with colourThe seeds of things, lest things return for theeAll utterly to naught. But now, if seedsReceive no property of colour, and yetBe still endowed with variable formsFrom which all kinds of colours they begetAnd vary (by reason that ever it matters muchWith what seeds, and in what positions joined,And what the motions that they give and get),Forthwith most easily thou mayst deviseWhy what was black of hue an hour agoCan of a sudden like the marble gleam,-As ocean, when the high winds have upheavedIts level plains, is changed to hoary wavesOf marble whiteness: for, thou mayst declare,That, when the thing we often see as blackIs in its matter then commixed anew,Some atoms rearranged, and some withdrawn,And added some, 'tis seen forthwith to turnGlowing and white. But if of azure seedsConsist the level waters of the deep,They could in nowise whiten: for howeverThou shakest azure seeds, the same can neverPass 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 shapesA cube's produced all uniform in shape,'Twould be but natural, even as in the cubeWe 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 leastThe whole in being externally a cube;But differing hues of things do block and keepThe whole from being of one resultant hue.Then, too, the reason which entices usAt times to attribute colours to the seedsFalls quite to pieces, since white things are notCreate from white things, nor are black from black,But evermore they are create from thingsOf divers colours. Verily, the whiteWill rise more readily, is sooner bornOut of no colour, than of black or aughtWhich 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 beIn the viewless dark? Nay, in the light itselfA colour changes, gleaming variedly,When smote by vertical or slanting ray.Thus in the sunlight shows the down of dovesThat circles, garlanding, the nape and throat:Now it is ruddy with a bright gold-bronze,Now, by a strange sensation it becomesGreen-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 receivesWithin itself one kind of blow, when saidTo feel a white hue, then another kind,When feeling a black or any other hue,And since it matters nothing with what hueThe 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 germsCan be of any sheen thou wilt, why, then,Are not those objects which are of them madeSuffused, 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 beOf any single varied dye thou wilt. Again, the more an object's rent to bits,The more thou see its colour fade awayLittle by little till 'tis quite extinct;As happens when the gaudy linen's pickedShred 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 awayFrom out their colour, long ere they departBack to the old primordials of things.And, last, since thou concedest not all bodiesSend out a voice or smell, it happens thusThat 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 muchOrphaned of colour, as others without smell,And reft of sound; and those the mind alertNo less can apprehend than it can markThe things that lack some other qualities.
But think not haply that the primal bodiesRemain despoiled alone of colour: so,Are they from warmth dissevered and from coldAnd from hot exhalations; and they move,Both sterile of sound and dry of juice; and throwNot any odour from their proper bodies.Just as, when undertaking to prepareA liquid balm of myrrh and marjoram,And flower of nard, which to our nostrils breathesOdour of nectar, first of all behoovesThou seek, as far as find thou may and can,The inodorous olive-oil (which never sendsOne whiff of scent to nostrils), that it mayThe least debauch and ruin with sharp tangThe odorous essence with its body mixedAnd in it seethed. And on the same accountThe primal germs of things must not be thoughtTo furnish colour in begetting things,Nor sound, since pow'rless they to send forth aughtFrom out themselves, nor any flavour, too,Nor cold, nor exhalation hot or warm. . . . . . .The rest; yet since these things are mortal all-The pliant mortal, with a body soft;The brittle mortal, with a crumbling frame;The hollow with a porous-all must beDisjoined from the primal elements,If still we wish under the world to layImmortal ground-works, whereupon may restThe sum of weal and safety, lest for theeAll things return to nothing utterly. Now, too: whate'er we see possessing senseMust yet confessedly be stablished allFrom elements insensate. And those signs,So clear to all and witnessed out of hand,Do not refute this dictum nor oppose;But rather themselves do lead us by the hand,Compelling belief that living things are bornOf elements insensate, as I say.Sooth, we may see from out the stinking dungLive worms spring up, when, after soaking rains,The drenched earth rots; and all things change the same:Lo, change the rivers, the fronds, the gladsome pasturesInto the cattle, the cattle their nature changeInto our bodies, and from our body, oftGrow strong the powers and bodies of wild beastsAnd mighty-winged birds. Thus nature changesAll foods to living frames, and procreatesFrom them the senses of live creatures all,In manner about as she uncoils in flamesDry logs of wood and turns them all to fire.And seest not, therefore, how it matters muchAfter what order are set the primal germs,And with what other germs they all are mixed,And what the motions that they give and get?
But now, what is't that strikes thy sceptic mind,Constraining thee to sundry argumentsAgainst belief that from insensate germsThe sensible is gendered?- Verily,'Tis this: that liquids, earth, and wood, though mixed,Are yet unable to gender vital sense.And, therefore, 'twill be well in these affairsThis to remember: that I have not saidSenses are born, under conditions all,From all things absolutely which createObjects that feel; but much it matters hereFirstly, how small the seeds which thus composeThe feeling thing, then, with what shapes endowed,And lastly what they in positions be,In motions, in arrangements. Of which factsNaught we perceive in logs of wood and clods;And yet even these, when sodden by the rains,Give birth to wormy grubs, because the bodiesOf matter, from their old arrangements stirredBy the new factor, then combine anewIn such a way as genders living things. Next, they who deem that feeling objects canFrom feeling objects be create, and these,In turn, from others that are wont to feel . . . . . .When soft they make them; for all sense is linkedWith flesh, and thews, and veins- and such, we see,Are fashioned soft and of a mortal frame.Yet be't that these can last forever on:They'll have the sense that's proper to a part,Or else be judged to have a sense the sameAs that within live creatures as a whole.But of themselves those parts can never feel,For all the sense in every member backTo something else refers- a severed hand,Or any other member of our frame,Itself alone cannot support sensation.It thus remains they must resemble, then,Live creatures as a whole, to have the powerOf feeling sensation concordant in each partWith the vital sense; and so they're bound to feelThe things we feel exactly as do we.If such the case, how, then, can they be namedThe primal germs of things, and how avoidThe highways of destruction?- since they beMere living things and living things be allOne and the same with mortal. Grant they could,Yet by their meetings and their unions all,Naught would result, indeed, besides a throngAnd hurly-burly all of living things-Precisely as men, and cattle, and wild beasts,By mere conglomeration each with eachCan still beget not anything of new.But if by chance they lose, inside a body,Their own sense and another sense take on,What, then, avails it to assign them thatWhich is withdrawn thereafter? And besides,To touch on proof that we pronounced before,Just as we see the eggs of feathered fowlsTo change to living chicks, and swarming wormsTo bubble forth when from the soaking rainsThe earth is sodden, sure, sensations allCan out of non-sensations be begot.
But if one say that sense can so far riseFrom non-sense by mutation, or becauseBrought forth as by a certain sort of birth,'Twill serve to render plain to him and proveThere is no birth, unless there be beforeSome formed union of the elements,Nor any change, unless they be unite. In first place, senses can't in body beBefore its living nature's been begot,-Since all its stuff, in faith, is held dispersedAbout through rivers, air, and earth, and allThat is from earth created, nor has metIn combination, and, in proper mode,Conjoined into those vital motions whichKindle the all-perceiving senses- theyThat keep and guard each living thing soever. Again, a blow beyond its nature's strengthShatters forthwith each living thing soe'er,And on it goes confounding all the senseOf body and mind. For of the primal germsAre loosed their old arrangements, and, throughout,The vital motions blocked,- until the stuff,Shaken profoundly through the frame entire,Undoes the vital knots of soul from bodyAnd throws that soul, to outward wide-dispersed,Through all the pores. For what may we surmiseA blow inflicted can achieve besidesShaking asunder and loosening all apart?It happens also, when less sharp the blow,The vital motions which are left are wontOft to win out- win out, and stop and stillThe uncouth tumults gendered by the blow,And call each part to its own courses back,And shake away the motion of death which nowBegins its own dominion in the body,And kindle anew the senses almost gone.For by what other means could they the moreCollect their powers of thought and turn againFrom very doorways of destructionBack unto life, rather than pass wheretoThey be already well-nigh sped and soPass quite away? Again, since pain is thereWhere bodies of matter, by some force stirred up,Through vitals and through joints, within their seatsQuiver and quake inside, but soft delight,When they remove unto their place again:'Tis thine to know the primal germs can beAssaulted by no pain, nor from themselvesTake no delight; because indeed they areNot made of any bodies of first things,Under whose strange new motions they might acheOr pluck the fruit of any dear new sweet.And so they must be furnished with no sense.
Once more, if thus, that every living thingMay have sensation, needful 'tis to assignSense also to its elements, what thenOf those fixed elements from which mankindHath been, by their peculiar virtue, formed?Of verity, they'll laugh aloud, like men,Shaken asunder by a spasm of mirth,Or sprinkle with dewy tear-drops cheeks and chins,And have the cunning hardihood to sayMuch on the composition of the world,And in their turn inquire what elementsThey have themselves,- since, thus the same in kindAs a whole mortal creature, even theyMust also be from other elements,And then those others from others evermore-So that thou darest nowhere make a stop.Oho, I'll follow thee until thou grantThe seed (which here thou say'st speaks, laughs, and thinks)Is yet derived out of other seedsWhich in their turn are doing just the same.But if we see what raving nonsense this,And that a man may laugh, though not, forsooth,Compounded out of laughing elements,And think and utter reason with learn'd speech,Though not himself compounded, for a fact,Of sapient seeds and eloquent, why, then,Cannot those things which we perceive to haveTheir own sensation be composed as wellOf intermixed seeds quite void of sense?
INFINITE WORLDS Once more, we all from seed celestial spring,To all is that same father, from whom earth,The fostering mother, as she takes the dropsOf liquid moisture, pregnant bears her broods-The shining grains, and gladsome shrubs and trees,And bears the human race and of the wildThe generations all, the while she yieldsThe foods wherewith all feed their frames and leadThe genial life and propagate their kind;Wherefore she owneth that maternal name,By old desert. What was before from earth,The same in earth sinks back, and what was sentFrom shores of ether, that, returning home,The vaults of sky receive. Nor thus doth deathSo far annihilate things that she destroysThe bodies of matter; but she dissipatesTheir combinations, and conjoins anewOne element with others; and contrivesThat all things vary forms and change their coloursAnd get sensations and straight give them o'er.And thus may'st know it matters with what othersAnd in what structure the primordial germsAre held together, and what motions theyAmong themselves do give and get; nor thinkThat aught we see hither and thither afloatUpon the crest of things, and now a birthAnd straightway now a ruin, inheres at restDeep in the eternal atoms of the world. Why, even in these our very verses hereIt matters much with what and in what orderEach element is set: the same denoteSky, and the ocean, lands, and streams, and sun;The same, the grains, and trees, and living things.And if not all alike, at least the most-But what distinctions by positions wrought!And thus no less in things themselves, when onceAround are changed the intervals between,The paths of matter, its connections, weights,Blows, clashings, motions, order, structure, shapes,The things themselves must likewise changed be. Now to true reason give thy mind for us.Since here strange truth is putting forth its mightTo hit thee in thine ears, a new aspectOf things to show its front. Yet naught there isSo easy that it standeth not at firstMore hard to credit than it after is;And naught soe'er that's great to such degree,Nor wonderful so far, but all mankindLittle by little abandon their surprise.Look upward yonder at the bright clear skyAnd what it holds- the stars that wander o'er,The moon, the radiance of the splendour-sun:Yet all, if now they first for mortals were,If unforeseen now first asudden shown,What might there be more wonderful to tell,What that the nations would before have daredLess to believe might be?- I fancy, naught-So strange had been the marvel of that sight.The which o'erwearied to behold, to-dayNone deigns look upward to those lucent realms.Then, spew not reason from thy mind away,Beside thyself because the matter's new,But rather with keen judgment nicely weigh;And if to thee it then appeareth true,Render thy hands, or, if 'tis false at last,Gird thee to combat. For my mind-of-manNow seeks the nature of the vast BeyondThere on the other side, that boundless sumWhich lies without the ramparts of the world,Toward which the spirit longs to peer afar,Toward which indeed the swift elan of thoughtFlies unencumbered forth.
Firstly, we find,Off to all regions round, on either side,Above, beneath, throughout the universeEnd is there none- as I have taught, as tooThe very thing of itself declares aloud,And as from nature of the unbottomed deepShines clearly forth. Nor can we once supposeIn any way 'tis likely, (seeing that spaceTo all sides stretches infinite and free,And seeds, innumerable in number, in sumBottomless, there in many a manner fly,Bestirred in everlasting motion there),That only this one earth and sky of oursHath been create and that those bodies of stuff,So many, perform no work outside the same;Seeing, moreover, this world too hath beenBy nature fashioned, even as seeds of thingsBy innate motion chanced to clash and cling-After they'd been in many a manner drivenTogether at random, without design, in vain-And as at last those seeds together dwelt,Which, when together of a sudden thrown,Should alway furnish the commencements fitOf mighty things- the earth, the sea, the sky,And race of living creatures. Thus, I say,Again, again, 'tmust be confessed there areSuch congregations of matter otherwhere,Like this our world which vasty ether holdsIn huge embrace. Besides, when matter abundantIs ready there, when space on hand, nor objectNor any cause retards, no marvel 'tisThat things are carried on and made complete,Perforce. And now, if store of seeds there isSo great that not whole life-times of the livingCan count the tale...And if their force and nature abide the same,Able to throw the seeds of things togetherInto their places, even as here are thrownThe seeds together in this world of ours,'Tmust be confessed in other realms there areStill other worlds, still other breeds of men,And other generations of the wild. Hence too it happens in the sum there isNo one thing single of its kind in birth,And single and sole in growth, but rather it isOne member of some generated race,Among full many others of like kind.First, cast thy mind abroad upon the living:Thou'lt find the race of mountain-ranging wildEven thus to be, and thus the scions of menTo be begot, and lastly the mute flocksOf scaled fish, and winged frames of birds.Wherefore confess we must on grounds the sameThat earth, sun, moon, and ocean, and all else,Exist not sole and single- rather in numberExceeding number. Since that deeply setOld boundary stone of life remains for themNo less, and theirs a body of mortal birthNo less, than every kind which here on earthIs so abundant in its members found. Which well perceived if thou hold in mind,Then Nature, delivered from every haughty lord,And forthwith free, is seen to do all thingsHerself and through herself of own accord,Rid of all gods. For- by their holy heartsWhich pass in long tranquillity of peaceUntroubled ages and a serene life!-Who hath the power (I ask), who hath the powerTo rule the sum of the immeasurable,To hold with steady hand the giant reinsOf the unfathomed deep? Who hath the powerAt once to roll a multitude of skies,At once to heat with fires ethereal allThe fruitful lands of multitudes of worlds,To be at all times in all places near,To stablish darkness by his clouds, to shakeThe serene spaces of the sky with sound,And hurl his lightnings,- ha, and whelm how oftIn ruins his own temples, and to rave,Retiring to the wildernesses, thereAt practice with that thunderbolt of his,Which yet how often shoots the guilty by,And slays the honourable blameless ones!
Ere since the birth-time of the world, ere sinceThe risen first-born day of sea, earth, sun,Have many germs been added from outside,Have many seeds been added round about,Which the great All, the while it flung them on,Brought hither, that from them the sea and landsCould grow more big, and that the house of heavenMight get more room and raise its lofty roofsFar over earth, and air arise around.For bodies all, from out all regions, areDivided by blows, each to its proper thing,And all retire to their own proper kinds:The moist to moist retires; earth gets increaseFrom earthy body; and fires, as on a forge,Beat out new fire; and ether forges ether;Till nature, author and ender of the world,Hath led all things to extreme bound of growth:As haps when that which hath been poured insideThe vital veins of life is now no moreThan that which ebbs within them and runs off.This is the point where life for each thing ends;This is the point where nature with her powersCurbs all increase. For whatsoe'er thou seestGrow big with glad increase, and step by stepClimb upward to ripe age, these to themselvesTake in more bodies than they send from selves,Whilst still the food is easily infusedThrough all the veins, and whilst the things are notSo far expanded that they cast awaySuch numerous atoms as to cause a wasteGreater than nutriment whereby they wax.For 'tmust be granted, truly, that from thingsMany a body ebbeth and runs off;But yet still more must come, until the thingsHave touched development's top pinnacle;Then old age breaks their powers and ripe strengthAnd falls away into a worser part.For ever the ampler and more wide a thing,As soon as ever its augmentation ends,It scatters abroad forthwith to all sides roundMore bodies, sending them from out itself.Nor easily now is food disseminateThrough all its veins; nor is that food enoughTo equal with a new supply on handThose plenteous exhalations it gives off.Thus, fairly, all things perish, when with ebbingThey're made less dense and when from blows withoutThey are laid low; since food at last will failExtremest eld, and bodies from outsideCease not with thumping to undo a thingAnd overmaster by infesting blows.
Thus, too, the ramparts of the mighty worldOn all sides round shall taken be by storm,And tumble to wrack and shivered fragments down.For food it is must keep things whole, renewing;'Tis food must prop and give support to all,-But to no purpose, since nor veins sufficeTo hold enough, nor nature ministersAs much as needful. And even now 'tis thus:Its age is broken and the earth, outwornWith many parturitions, scarce createsThe little lives- she who created erstAll generations and gave forth at birthEnormous bodies of wild beasts of old.For never, I fancy, did a golden cordFrom off the firmament above let downThe mortal generations to the fields;Nor sea, nor breakers pounding on the rocksCreated them; but earth it was who bore-The same to-day who feeds them from herself.Besides, herself of own accord, she firstThe shining grains and vineyards of all joyCreated for mortality; herselfGave the sweet fruitage and the pastures glad,Which now to-day yet scarcely wax in size,Even when aided by our toiling arms.We break the ox, and wear away the strengthOf sturdy farm-hands; iron tools to-dayBarely avail for tilling of the fields,So niggardly they grudge our harvestings,So much increase our labour. Now to-dayThe aged ploughman, shaking of his head,Sighs o'er and o'er that labours of his handsHave fallen out in vain, and, as he thinksHow present times are not as times of old,Often he praises the fortunes of his sire,And crackles, prating, how the ancient race,Fulfilled with piety, supported lifeWith simple comfort in a narrow plot,Since, man for man, the measure of each fieldWas smaller far i' the old days. And, again,The gloomy planter of the withered vineRails at the season's change and wearies heaven,Nor grasps that all of things by sure degreesAre wasting away and going to the tomb,Outworn by venerable length of life.
BOOK III
PROEM
O thou who first uplifted in such darkSo clear a torch aloft, who first shed lightUpon the profitable ends of man,O thee I follow, glory of the Greeks,And set my footsteps squarely planted nowEven in the impress and the marks of thine-Less like one eager to dispute the palm,More as one craving out of very loveThat I may copy thee!- for how should swallowContend with swans or what compare could beIn a race between young kids with tumbling legsAnd the strong might of the horse? Our father thou,And finder-out of truth, and thou to usSuppliest a father's precepts; and from outThose scriven leaves of thine, renowned soul(Like bees that sip of all in flowery wolds),We feed upon thy golden sayings all-Golden, and ever worthiest endless life.For soon as ever thy planning thought that sprangFrom god-like mind begins its loud proclaimOf nature's courses, terrors of the brainAsunder flee, the ramparts of the worldDispart away, and through the void entireI see the movements of the universe.Rises to vision the majesty of gods,And their abodes of everlasting calmWhich neither wind may shake nor rain-cloud splash,Nor snow, congealed by sharp frosts, may harmWith its white downfall: ever, unclouded skyO'er roofs, and laughs with far-diffused light.And nature gives to them their all, nor aughtMay ever pluck their peace of mind away.But nowhere to my vision rise no moreThe vaults of Acheron, though the broad earthBars me no more from gazing down o'er allWhich under our feet is going on belowAlong the void. O, here in these affairsSome new divine delight and trembling aweTakes hold through me, that thus by power of thineNature, so plain and manifest at last,Hath been on every side laid bare to man! And since I've taught already of what sortThe seeds of all things are, and how, distinctIn divers forms, they flit of own accord,Stirred with a motion everlasting on,And in what mode things be from them create,Now, after such matters, should my verse, meseems,Make clear the nature of the mind and soul,And drive that dread of Acheron without,Headlong, which so confounds our human lifeUnto its deeps, pouring o'er all that isThe black of death, nor leaves not anythingTo prosper- a liquid and unsullied joy.For as to what men sometimes will affirm:That more than Tartarus (the realm of death)They fear diseases and a life of shame,And know the substance of the soul is blood,Or rather wind (if haply thus their whim),And so need naught of this our science, thenThou well may'st note from what's to follow nowThat more for glory do they braggart forthThan for belief. For mark these very same:Exiles from country, fugitives afarFrom sight of men, with charges foul attaint,Abased with every wretchedness, they yetLive, and where'er the wretches come, they yetMake the ancestral sacrifices there,Butcher the black sheep, and to gods belowOffer the honours, and in bitter caseTurn much more keenly to religion.Wherefore, it's surer testing of a manIn doubtful perils- mark him as he isAmid adversities; for then aloneAre the true voices conjured from his breast,The mask off-stripped, reality behind.And greed, again, and the blind lust of honoursWhich force poor wretches past the bounds of law,And, oft allies and ministers of crime,To push through nights and days with hugest toilTo rise untrammelled to the peaks of power-These wounds of life in no mean part are keptFestering and open by this fright of death.For ever we see fierce Want and foul DisgraceDislodged afar from secure life and sweet,Like huddling Shapes before the doors of death.And whilst, from these, men wish to scape afar,Driven by false terror, and afar remove,With civic blood a fortune they amass,They double their riches, greedy, heapers-upOf corpse on corpse they have a cruel laughFor the sad burial of a brother-born,And hatred and fear of tables of their kin.Likewise, through this same terror, envy oftMakes them to peak because before their eyesThat man is lordly, that man gazed uponWho walks begirt with honour glorious,Whilst they in filth and darkness roll around;Some perish away for statues and a name,And oft to that degree, from fright of death,Will hate of living and beholding lightTake hold on humankind that they inflictTheir own destruction with a gloomy heart-Forgetful that this fear is font of cares,This fear the plague upon their sense of shame,And this that breaks the ties of comradryAnd oversets all reverence and faith,Mid direst slaughter. For long ere to-dayOften were traitors to country and dear parentsThrough quest to shun the realms of Acheron.For just as children tremble and fear allIn the viewless dark, so even we at timesDread in the light so many things that beNo whit more fearsome than what children feign,Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark.This terror, then, this darkness of the mind,Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light,Nor glittering arrows of morning sun disperse,But only nature's aspect and her law. NATURE AND COMPOSITION OF THE MIND First, then, I say, the mind which oft we callThe intellect, wherein is seated life'sCounsel and regimen, is part no lessOf man than hand and foot and eyes are partsOf one whole breathing creature. [But some hold]That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated,But is of body some one vital state,-Named "harmony" by Greeks, because therebyWe live with sense, though intellect be notIn any part: as oft the body is saidTo have good health (when health, however, 's notOne part of him who has it), so they placeThe sense of mind in no fixed part of man.Mightily, diversly, meseems they err.Often the body palpable and seenSickens, while yet in some invisible partWe feel a pleasure; oft the other way,A miserable in mind feels pleasure stillThroughout his body- quite the same as whenA foot may pain without a pain in head.Besides, when these our limbs are given o'erTo gentle sleep and lies the burdened frameAt random void of sense, a something elseIs yet within us, which upon that timeBestirs itself in many a wise, receivingAll motions of joy and phantom cares of heart.Now, for to see that in man's members dwellsAlso the soul, and body ne'er is wontTo feel sensation by a "harmony"Take this in chief: the fact that life remainsOft in our limbs, when much of body's gone;Yet that same life, when particles of heat,Though few, have scattered been, and through the mouthAir has been given forth abroad, forthwithForever deserts the veins, and leaves the bones.Thus mayst thou know that not all particlesPerform like parts, nor in like manner allAre props of weal and safety: rather those-The seeds of wind and exhalations warm-Take care that in our members life remains.Therefore a vital heat and wind there isWithin the very body, which at deathDeserts our frames. And so, since nature of mindAnd even of soul is found to be, as 'twere,A part of man, give over "harmony"-Name to musicians brought from Helicon,-Unless themselves they filched it otherwise,To serve for what was lacking name till then.Whate'er it be, they're welcome to it- thou,Hearken my other maxims.
Mind and soul,I say, are held conjoined one with other,And form one single nature of themselves;But chief and regnant through the frame entireIs still that counsel which we call the mind,And that cleaves seated in the midmost breast.Here leap dismay and terror; round these hauntsBe blandishments of joys; and therefore hereThe intellect, the mind. The rest of soul,Throughout the body scattered, but obeys-Moved by the nod and motion of the mind.This, for itself, sole through itself, hath thought;This for itself hath mirth, even when the thingThat moves it, moves nor soul nor body at all.And as, when head or eye in us is smitBy assailing pain, we are not tortured thenThrough all the body, so the mind aloneIs sometimes smitten, or livens with a joy,Whilst yet the soul's remainder through the limbsAnd through the frame is stirred by nothing new.But when the mind is moved by shock more fierce,We mark the whole soul suffering all at onceAlong man's members: sweats and pallors spreadOver the body, and the tongue is broken,And fails the voice away, and ring the ears,Mists blind the eyeballs, and the joints collapse,-Aye, men drop dead from terror of the mind.Hence, whoso will can readily remarkThat soul conjoined is with mind, and, when'Tis strook by influence of the mind, forthwithIn turn it hits and drives the body too. And this same argument establishethThat nature of mind and soul corporeal is:For when 'tis seen to drive the members on,To snatch from sleep the body, and to changeThe countenance, and the whole state of manTo rule and turn,- what yet could never beSans contact, and sans body contact fails-Must we not grant that mind and soul consistOf a corporeal nature?- And besidesThou markst that likewise with this body of oursSuffers the mind and with our body feels.If the dire speed of spear that cleaves the bonesAnd bares the inner thews hits not the life,Yet follows a fainting and a foul collapse,And, on the ground, dazed tumult in the mind,And whiles a wavering will to rise afoot.So nature of mind must be corporeal, sinceFrom stroke and spear corporeal 'tis in throes. Now, of what body, what components formedIs this same mind I will go on to tell.First, I aver, 'tis superfine, composedOf tiniest particles- that such the factThou canst perceive, if thou attend, from this:
Nothing is seen to happen with such speedAs what the mind proposes and begins;Therefore the same bestirs itself more swiftlyThan aught whose nature's palpable to eyes.But what's so agile must of seeds consistMost round, most tiny, that they may be moved,When hit by impulse slight. So water moves,In waves along, at impulse just the least-Being create of little shapes that roll;But, contrariwise, the quality of honeyMore stable is, its liquids more inert,More tardy its flow; for all its stock of matterCleaves more together, since, indeed, 'tis madeOf atoms not so smooth, so fine, and round.For the light breeze that hovers yet can blowHigh heaps of poppy-seed away for theeDownward from off the top; but, contrariwise,A pile of stones or spiny ears of wheatIt can't at all. Thus, in so far as bodiesAre small and smooth, is their mobility;But, contrariwise, the heavier and more rough,The more immovable they prove. Now, then,Since nature of mind is movable so much,Consist it must of seeds exceeding smallAnd smooth and round. Which fact once known to thee,Good friend, will serve thee opportune in else.This also shows the nature of the same,How nice its texture, in how small a space'Twould go, if once compacted as a pellet:When death's unvexed repose gets hold on manAnd mind and soul retire, thou markest thereFrom the whole body nothing ta'en in form,Nothing in weight. Death grants ye everything,But vital sense and exhalation hot.Thus soul entire must be of smallmost seeds,Twined through the veins, the vitals, and the thews,Seeing that, when 'tis from whole body gone,The outward figuration of the limbsIs unimpaired and weight fails not a whit.Just so, when vanished the bouquet of wine,Or when an unguent's perfume delicateInto the winds away departs, or whenFrom any body savour's gone, yet stillThe thing itself seems minished naught to eyes,Thereby, nor aught abstracted from its weight-No marvel, because seeds many and minuteProduce the savours and the redolenceIn the whole body of the things.
And so,Again, again, nature of mind and soul'Tis thine to know created is of seedsThe tiniest ever, since at flying-forthIt beareth nothing of the weight away. Yet fancy not its nature simple so.For an impalpable aura, mixed with heat,Deserts the dying, and heat draws off the air;And heat there's none, unless commixed with air:For, since the nature of all heat is rare,Athrough it many seeds of air must move.Thus nature of mind is triple; yet those allSuffice not for creating sense- since mindAccepteth not that aught of these can causeSense-bearing motions, and much less the thoughtsA man revolves in mind. So unto theseMust added be a somewhat, and a fourth;That somewhat's altogether void of name;Than which existeth naught more mobile, naughtMore an impalpable, of elementsMore small and smooth and round. That first transmitsSense-bearing motions through the frame, for thatIs roused the first, composed of little shapes;Thence heat and viewless force of wind take upThe motions, and thence air, and thence all thingsAre put in motion; the blood is strook, and thenThe vitals all begin to feel, and lastTo bones and marrow the sensation comes-Pleasure or torment. Nor will pain for naughtEnter so far, nor a sharp ill seep through,But all things be perturbed to that degreeThat room for life will fail, and parts of soulWill scatter through the body's every pore.Yet as a rule, almost upon the skinThese motion aIl are stopped, and this is whyWe have the power to retain our life. Now in my eagerness to tell thee howThey are commixed, through what unions fitThey function so, my country's pauper-speechConstrains me sadly. As I can, however,I'll touch some points and pass.
In such a wiseCourse these primordials 'mongst one anotherWith inter-motions that no one can beFrom other sundered, nor its agencyPerform, if once divided by a space;Like many powers in one body they work.As in the flesh of any creature stillIs odour and savour and a certain warmth,And yet from all of these one bulk of bodyIs made complete, so, viewless force of windAnd warmth and air, commingled, do createOne nature, by that mobile energyAssisted which from out itself to themImparts initial motion, whereby firstSense-bearing motion along the vitals springs.For lurks this essence far and deep and under,Nor in our body is aught more shut from view,And 'tis the very soul of all the soul.And as within our members and whole frameThe energy of mind and power of soulIs mixed and latent, since create it isOf bodies small and few, so lurks this fourth,This essence void of name, composed of small,And seems the very soul of all the soul,And holds dominion o'er the body all.And by like reason wind and air and heatMust function so, commingled through the frame,And now the one subside and now anotherIn interchange of dominance, that thusFrom all of them one nature be produced,Lest heat and wind apart, and air apart,Make sense to perish, by disseverment.
There is indeed in mind that heat it getsWhen seething in rage, and flashes from the eyesMore swiftly fire; there is, again, that wind,Much, and so cold, companion of all dread,Which rouses the shudder in the shaken frame;There is no less that state of air composed,Making the tranquil breast, the serene face.But more of hot have they whose restive hearts,Whose minds of passion quickly seethe in rage-Of which kind chief are fierce abounding lions,Who often with roaring burst the breast o'erwrought,Unable to hold the surging wrath within;But the cold mind of stags has more of wind,And speedier through their inwards rouses upThe icy currents which make their members quake.But more the oxen live by tranquil air,Nor e'er doth smoky torch of wrath applied,O'erspreading with shadows of a darkling murk,Rouse them too far; nor will they stiffen stark,Pierced through by icy javelins of fear;But have their place half-way between the two-Stags and fierce lions. Thus the race of men:Though training make them equally refined,It leaves those pristine vestiges behindOf each mind's nature. Nor may we supposeEvil can e'er be rooted up so farThat one man's not more given to fits of wrath,Another's not more quickly touched by fear,A third not more long-suffering than he should.And needs must differ in many things besidesThe varied natures and resulting habitsOf humankind- of which not now can IExpound the hidden causes, nor find namesEnough for all the divers shapes of thosePrimordials whence this variation springs.But this meseems I'm able to declare:Those vestiges of natures left behindWhich reason cannot quite expel from usAre still so slight that naught prevents a manFrom living a life even worthy of the gods. So then this soul is kept by all the body,Itself the body's guard, and source of weal:For they with common roots cleave each to each,Nor can be torn asunder without death.Not easy 'tis from lumps of frankincenseTo tear their fragrance forth, without its naturePerishing likewise: so, not easy 'tisFrom all the body nature of mind and soulTo draw away, without the whole dissolved.With seeds so intertwined even from birth,They're dowered conjointly with a partner-life;No energy of body or mind, apart,Each of itself without the other's power,Can have sensation; but our sense, enkindledAlong the vitals, to flame is blown by bothWith mutual motions. Besides the body aloneIs nor begot nor grows, nor after deathSeen to endure. For not as water at timesGives off the alien heat, nor is therebyItself destroyed, but unimpaired remains-Not thus, I say, can the deserted frameBear the dissevering of its joined soul,But, rent and ruined, moulders all away.Thus the joint contact of the body and soulLearns from their earliest age the vital motions,Even when still buried in the mother's womb;So no dissevering can hap to them,Without their bane and ill. And thence mayst seeThat, as conjoined is their source of weal,Conjoined also must their nature be.
If one, moreover, denies that body feel,And holds that soul, through all the body mixed,Takes on this motion which we title "sense,"He battles in vain indubitable facts:For who'll explain what body's feeling is,Except by what the public fact itselfHas given and taught us? "But when soul is parted,Body's without all sense." True!- loses whatWas even in its life-time not its own;And much beside it loses, when soul's drivenForth from that life-time. Or, to say that eyesThemselves can see no thing, but through the sameThe mind looks forth, as out of opened doors,Is- a hard saying; since the feel in eyesSays the reverse. For this itself draws onAnd forces into the pupils of our eyesOur consciousness. And note the case when oftenWe lack the power to see refulgent things,Because our eyes are hampered by their light-With a mere doorway this would happen not;For, since it is our very selves that see,No open portals undertake the toil.Besides, if eyes of ours but act as doors,Methinks that, were our sight removed, the mindOught then still better to behold a thing-When even the door-posts have been cleared away. Herein in these affairs nowise take upWhat honoured sage, Democritus, lays down-That proposition, that primordialsOf body and mind, each super-posed on each,Vary alternately and interweaveThe fabric of our members. For not onlyAre the soul-elements smaller far than thoseWhich this our body and inward parts compose,But also are they in their number less,And scattered sparsely through our frame. And thusThis canst thou guarantee: soul's primal germsMaintain between them intervals as largeAt least as are the smallest bodies, which,When thrown against us, in our body rouseSense-bearing motions.