O humankind unhappy!- when it ascribedUnto divinities such awesome deeds,And coupled thereto rigours of fierce wrath!What groans did men on that sad day begetEven for themselves, and O what wounds for us,What tears for our children's children! Nor, O man,Is thy true piety in this: with headUnder the veil, still to be seen to turnFronting a stone, and ever to approachUnto all altars; nor so prone on earthForward to fall, to spread upturned palmsBefore the shrines of gods, nor yet to dewAltars with profuse blood of four-foot beasts,Nor vows with vows to link. But rather this:To look on all things with a master eyeAnd mind at peace. For when we gaze aloftUpon the skiey vaults of yon great worldAnd ether, fixed high o'er twinkling stars,And into our thought there come the journeyingsOf sun and moon, O then into our breasts,O'erburdened already with their other ills,Begins forthwith to rear its sudden headOne more misgiving: lest o'er us, percase,It be the gods' immeasurable powerThat rolls, with varied motion, round and roundThe far white constellations. For the lackOf aught of reasons tries the puzzled mind:Whether was ever a birth-time of the world,And whether, likewise, any end shall beHow far the ramparts of the world can stillOutstand this strain of ever-roused motion,Or whether, divinely with eternal wealEndowed, they can through endless tracts of ageGlide on, defying the o'er-mighty powersOf the immeasurable ages. Lo,What man is there whose mind with dread of godsCringes not close, whose limbs with terror-spellCrouch not together, when the parched earthQuakes with the horrible thunderbolt amain,And across the mighty sky the rumblings run?Do not the peoples and the nations shake,And haughty kings do they not hug their limbs,Strook through with fear of the divinities,Lest for aught foully done or madly saidThe heavy time be now at hand to pay?When, too, fierce force of fury-winds at seaSweepeth a navy's admiral down the mainWith his stout legions and his elephants,Doth he not seek the peace of gods with vows,And beg in prayer, a-tremble, lulled windsAnd friendly gales?- in vain, since, often up-caughtIn fury-cyclones, is he borne along,For all his mouthings, to the shoals of doom.Ah, so irrevocably some hidden powerBetramples forevermore affairs of men,And visibly grindeth with its heel in mireThe lictors' glorious rods and axes dire,Having them in derision! Again, when earthFrom end to end is rocking under foot,And shaken cities ruin down, or threatenUpon the verge, what wonder is it thenThat mortal generations abase themselves,And unto gods in all affairs of earthAssign as last resort almighty powersAnd wondrous energies to govern all?
Now for the rest: copper and gold and ironDiscovered were, and with them silver's weightAnd power of lead, when with prodigious heatThe conflagrations burned the forest treesAmong the mighty mountains, by a boltOf lightning from the sky, or else becauseMen, warring in the woodlands, on their foesHad hurled fire to frighten and dismay,Or yet because, by goodness of the soilInvited, men desired to clear rich fieldsAnd turn the countryside to pasture-lands,Or slay the wild and thrive upon the spoils.(For hunting by pit-fall and by fire aroseBefore the art of hedging the covert roundWith net or stirring it with dogs of chase.)Howso the fact, and from what cause soeverThe flamy heat with awful crack and roarHad there devoured to their deepest rootsThe forest trees and baked the earth with fire,Then from the boiling veins began to oozeO rivulets of silver and of gold,Of lead and copper too, collecting soonInto the hollow places of the ground.And when men saw the cooled lumps anonTo shine with splendour-sheen upon the ground,Much taken with that lustrous smooth delight,They 'gan to pry them out, and saw how eachHad got a shape like to its earthy mould.Then would it enter their heads how these same lumps,If melted by heat, could into any formOr figure of things be run, and how, again,If hammered out, they could be nicely drawnTo sharpest points or finest edge, and thusYield to the forgers tools and give them powerTo chop the forest down, to hew the logs,To shave the beams and planks, besides to boreAnd punch and drill. And men began such workAt first as much with tools of silver and goldAs with the impetuous strength of the stout copper;But vainly- since their over-mastered powerWould soon give way, unable to endure,Like copper, such hard labour. In those daysCopper it was that was the thing of price;And gold lay useless, blunted with dull edge.Now lies the copper low, and gold hath comeUnto the loftiest honours. Thus it isThat rolling ages change the times of things:What erst was of a price, becomes at lastA discard of no honour; whilst anotherSucceeds to glory, issuing from contempt,And day by day is sought for more and more,And, when 'tis found, doth flower in men's praise,Objects of wondrous honour.
Now, Memmius,How nature of iron discovered was, thou maystOf thine own self divine. Man's ancient armsWere hands, and nails and teeth, stones too and boughs-Breakage of forest trees- and flame and fire,As soon as known. Thereafter force of ironAnd copper discovered was; and copper's useWas known ere iron's, since more tractableIts nature is and its abundance more.With copper men to work the soil began,With copper to rouse the hurly waves of war,To straw the monstrous wounds, and seize awayAnother's flocks and fields. For unto them,Thus armed, all things naked of defenceReadily yielded. Then by slow degreesThe sword of iron succeeded, and the shapeOf brazen sickle into scorn was turned:With iron to cleave the soil of earth they 'gan,And the contentions of uncertain warWere rendered equal. And, lo, man was wontArmed to mount upon the ribs of horseAnd guide him with the rein, and play aboutWith right hand free, oft times before he triedPerils of war in yoked chariot;And yoked pairs abreast came earlierThan yokes of four, or scythed chariotsWhereinto clomb the men-at-arms. And nextThe Punic folk did train the elephants-Those curst Lucanian oxen, hideous,The serpent-handed, with turrets on their bulks-To dure the wounds of war and panic-strikeThe mighty troops of Mars. Thus Discord sadBegat the one Thing after other, to beThe terror of the nations under arms,And day by day to horrors of old warShe added an increase. Bulls, too, they triedIn war's grim business; and essayed to sendOutrageous boars against the foes. And someSent on before their ranks puissant lionsWith armed trainers and with masters fierceTo guide and hold in chains- and yet in vain,Since fleshed with pell-mell slaughter, fierce they flew,And blindly through the squadrons havoc wrought,Shaking the frightful crests upon their heads,Now here, now there. Nor could the horsemen calmTheir horses, panic-breasted at the roar,And rein them round to front the foe. With springThe infuriate she-lions would up-leapNow here, now there; and whoso came apaceAgainst them, these they'd rend across the face;And others unwitting from behind they'd tearDown from their mounts, and twining round them, bringTumbling to earth, o'ermastered by the wound,And with those powerful fangs and hooked clawsFasten upon them. Bulls would toss their friends,And trample under foot, and from beneathRip flanks and bellies of horses with their horns,And with a threat'ning forehead jam the sod;And boars would gore with stout tusks their allies,Splashing in fury their own blood on spearsSplintered in their own bodies, and would fellIn rout and ruin infantry and horse.For there the beasts-of-saddle tried to scapeThe savage thrusts of tusk by shying off,Or rearing up with hoofs a-paw in air.In vain- since there thou mightest see them sink,Their sinews severed, and with heavy fallBestrew the ground. And such of these as menSupposed well-trained long ago at home,Were in the thick of action seen to foamIn fury, from the wounds, the shrieks, the flight,The panic, and the tumult; nor could menAught of their numbers rally. For each breedAnd various of the wild beasts fled apartHither or thither, as often in wars to-dayFlee those Lucanian oxen, by the steelGrievously mangled, after they have wroughtUpon their friends so many a dreadful doom.(If 'twas, indeed, that thus they did at all:But scarcely I'll believe that men could notWith mind foreknow and see, as sure to come,Such foul and general disaster.- ThisWe, then, may hold as true in the great All,In divers worlds on divers plan create,-Somewhere afar more likely than uponOne certain earth.) But men chose this to doLess in the hope of conquering than to giveTheir enemies a goodly cause of woe,Even though thereby they perished themselves,Since weak in numbers and since wanting arms.
Now, clothes of roughly inter-plaited strandsWere earlier than loom-wove coverings;The loom-wove later than man's iron is,Since iron is needful in the weaving art,Nor by no other means can there be wroughtSuch polished tools- the treadles, spindles, shuttles,And sounding yarn-beams. And nature forced the men,Before the woman kind, to work the wool:For all the male kind far excels in skill,And cleverer is by much- until at lastThe rugged farmer folk jeered at such tasks,And so were eager soon to give them o'erTo women's hands, and in more hardy toilTo harden arms and hands.
But nature herself,Mother of things, was the first seed-sowerAnd primal grafter; since the berries and acorns,Dropping from off the trees, would there beneathPut forth in season swarms of little shoots;Hence too men's fondness for ingrafting slipsUpon the boughs and setting out in holesThe young shrubs o'er the fields. Then would they tryEver new modes of tilling their loved crofts,And mark they would how earth improved the tasteOf the wild fruits by fond and fostering care.And day by day they'd force the woods to moveStill higher up the mountain, and to yieldThe place below for tilth, that there they might,On plains and uplands, have their meadow-plats,Cisterns and runnels, crops of standing grain,And happy vineyards, and that all alongO'er hillocks, intervales, and plains might runThe silvery-green belt of olive-trees,Marking the plotted landscape; even as nowThou seest so marked with varied lovelinessAll the terrain which men adorn and plantWith rows of goodly fruit-trees and hedge roundWith thriving shrubberies sown.
But by the mouthTo imitate the liquid notes of birdsWas earlier far 'mongst men than power to make,By measured song, melodious verse and giveDelight to ears. And whistlings of the windAthrough the hollows of the reeds first taughtThe peasantry to blow into the stalksOf hollow hemlock-herb. Then bit by bitThey learned sweet plainings, such as pipe out-pours,Beaten by finger-tips of singing men,When heard through unpathed groves and forest deepsAnd woodsy meadows, through the untrod hauntsOf shepherd folk and spots divinely still.Thus time draws forward each and everythingLittle by little unto the midst of men,And reason uplifts it to the shores of light.These tunes would soothe and glad the minds of mortalsWhen sated with food,- for songs are welcome then.And often, lounging with friends in the soft grassBeside a river of water, underneathA big tree's branches, merrily they'd refreshTheir frames, with no vast outlay- most of allIf the weather were smiling and the times of the yearWere painting the green of the grass around with flowers.Then jokes, then talk, then peals of jollityWould circle round; for then the rustic museWas in her glory; then would antic MirthPrompt them to garland head and shoulders aboutWith chaplets of intertwined flowers and leaves,And to dance onward, out of tune, with limbsClownishly swaying, and with clownish footTo beat our mother earth- from whence aroseLaughter and peals of jollity, for, lo,Such frolic acts were in their glory then,Being more new and strange. And wakeful menFound solaces for their unsleeping hoursIn drawing forth variety of notes,In modulating melodies, in runningWith puckered lips along the tuned reeds,Whence, even in our day do the watchmen guardThese old traditions, and have learned wellTo keep true measure. And yet they no whitDo get a larger fruit of gladsomenessThan got the woodland aboriginesIn olden times. For what we have at hand-If theretofore naught sweeter we have known-That chiefly pleases and seems best of all;But then some later, likely better, findDestroys its worth and changes our desiresRegarding good of yesterday.
And thusBegan the loathing of the acorn; thusAbandoned were those beds with grasses strewnAnd with the leaves beladen. Thus, again,Fell into new contempt the pelts of beasts-Erstwhile a robe of honour, which, I guess,Aroused in those days envy so malignThat the first wearer went to woeful deathBy ambuscades,- and yet that hairy prize,Rent into rags by greedy foemen thereAnd splashed by blood, was ruined utterlyBeyond all use or vantage. Thus of old'Twas pelts, and of to-day 'tis purple and goldThat cark men's lives with cares and weary with war.Wherefore, methinks, resides the greater blameWith us vain men to-day: for cold would rack,Without their pelts, the naked sons of earth;But us it nothing hurts to do withoutThe purple vestment, broidered with goldAnd with imposing figures, if we stillMake shift with some mean garment of the Plebs.So man in vain futilities toils onForever and wastes in idle cares his years-Because, of very truth, he hath not learntWhat the true end of getting is, nor yetAt all how far true pleasure may increase.And 'tis desire for better and for moreHath carried by degrees mortalityOut onward to the deep, and roused upFrom the far bottom mighty waves of war.
But sun and moon, those watchmen of the world,With their own lanterns traversing aroundThe mighty, the revolving vault, have taughtUnto mankind that seasons of the yearsReturn again, and that the Thing takes placeAfter a fixed plan and order fixed. Already would they pass their life, hedged roundBy the strong towers; and cultivate an earthAll portioned out and boundaried; alreadyWould the sea flower and sail-winged ships;Already men had, under treaty pacts,Confederates and allies, when poets beganTo hand heroic actions down in verse;Nor long ere this had letters been devised-Hence is our age unable to look backOn what has gone before, except where reasonShows us a footprint. Sailings on the seas,Tillings of fields, walls, laws, and arms, and roads,Dress and the like, all prizes, all delightsOf finer life, poems, pictures, chiselled shapesOf polished sculptures- all these arts were learnedBy practice and the mind's experience,As men walked forward step by eager step.Thus time draws forward each and everythingLittle by little into the midst of men,And reason uplifts it to the shores of light.For one thing after other did men seeGrow clear by intellect, till with their artsThey've now achieved the supreme pinnacle.
BOOK VI
PROEM'Twas Athens first, the glorious in name,That whilom gave to hapless sons of menThe sheaves of harvest, and re-ordered life,And decreed laws; and she the first that gaveLife its sweet solaces, when she begatA man of heart so wise, who whilom pouredAll wisdom forth from his truth-speaking mouth;The glory of whom, though dead, is yet to-day,Because of those discoveries divineRenowned of old, exalted to the sky.For when saw he that well-nigh everythingWhich needs of man most urgently requireWas ready to hand for mortals, and that life,As far as might be, was established safe,That men were lords in riches, honour, praise,And eminent in goodly fame of sons,And that they yet, O yet, within the home,Still had the anxious heart which vexed lifeUnpausingly with torments of the mind,And raved perforce with angry plaints, then he,Then he, the master, did perceive that 'twasThe vessel itself which worked the bane, and all,However wholesome, which from here or thereWas gathered into it, was by that baneSpoilt from within,- in part, because he sawThe vessel so cracked and leaky that nowise'T could ever be filled to brim; in part becauseHe marked how it polluted with foul tasteWhate'er it got within itself. So he,The master, then by his truth-speaking words,Purged the breasts of men, and set the boundsOf lust and terror, and exhibitedThe supreme good whither we all endeavour,And showed the path whereby we might arriveThereunto by a little cross-cut straight,And what of ills in all affairs of mortalsUpsprang and flitted deviously about(Whether by chance or force), since nature thusHad destined; and from out what gates a manShould sally to each combat. And he provedThat mostly vainly doth the human raceRoll in its bosom the grim waves of care.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 can disperse,But only nature's aspect and her law.Wherefore the more will I go on to weaveIn verses this my undertaken task.
And since I've taught thee that the world's great vaultsAre mortal and that sky is fashionedOf frame e'en born in time, and whatsoe'erTherein go on and must perforce go on . . . . . .The most I have unravelled; what remainsDo thou take in, besides; since once for allTo climb into that chariot' renowned . . . . . .Of winds arise; and they appeased areSo that all things again... . . . . . .Which were, are changed now, with fury stilled;All other movements through the earth and skyWhich mortals gaze upon (O anxious oftIn quaking thoughts!), and which abase their mindsWith dread of deities and press them crushedDown to the earth, because their ignoranceOf cosmic causes forces them to yieldAll things unto the empery of godsAnd to concede the kingly rule to them.For even those men who have learned full wellThat godheads lead a long life free of care,If yet meanwhile they wonder by what planThings can go on (and chiefly yon high thingsObserved o'erhead on the ethereal coasts),Again are hurried back unto the fearsOf old religion and adopt againHarsh masters, deemed almighty,- wretched men,Unwitting what can be and what cannot,And by what law to each its scope prescribed,Its boundary stone that clings so deep in Time.Wherefore the more are they borne wandering onBy blindfold reason. And, Memmius, unlessFrom out thy mind thou spuest all of thisAnd casteth far from thee all thoughts which beUnworthy gods and alien to their peace,Then often will the holy majestiesOf the high gods be harmful unto thee,As by thy thought degraded,- not, indeed,That essence supreme of gods could be by thisSo outraged as in wrath to thirst to seekRevenges keen; but even because thyselfThou plaguest with the notion that the gods,Even they, the Calm Ones in serene repose,Do roll the mighty waves of wrath on wrath;Nor wilt thou enter with a serene breastShrines of the gods; nor wilt thou able beIn tranquil peace of mind to take and knowThose images which from their holy bodiesAre carried into intellects of men,As the announcers of their form divine.What sort of life will follow after this'Tis thine to see. But that afar from usVeriest reason may drive such life away,Much yet remains to be embellished yetIn polished verses, albeit hath issued forthSo much from me already; lo, there isThe law and aspect of the sky to beBy reason grasped; there are the tempest timesAnd the bright lightnings to be hymned now-Even what they do and from what cause soe'erThey're borne along- that thou mayst tremble not,Marking off regions of prophetic skiesFor auguries, O foolishly distraughtEven as to whence the flying flame hath come,Or to which half of heaven it turns, or howThrough walled places it hath wound its way,Or, after proving its dominion there,How it hath speeded forth from thence amain-Whereof nowise the causes do men know,And think divinities are working there.Do thou, Calliope, ingenious Muse,Solace of mortals and delight of gods,Point out the course before me, as I raceOn to the white line of the utmost goal,That I may get with signal praise the crown,With thee my guide!
GREAT METEOROLOGICAL PHENOMENA, ETC. And so in first place, then,With thunder are shaken the blue deeps of heaven,Because the ethereal clouds, scudding aloft,Together clash, what time 'gainst one anotherThe winds are battling. For never a sound there comesFrom out the serene regions of the sky;But wheresoever in a host more denseThe clouds foregather, thence more often comesA crash with mighty rumbling. And, again,Clouds cannot be of so condensed a frameAs stones and timbers, nor again so fineAs mists and flying smoke; for then perforceThey'd either fall, borne down by their brute weight,Like stones, or, like the smoke, they'd powerless beTo keep their mass, or to retain withinFrore snows and storms of hail. And they give forthO'er skiey levels of the spreading worldA sound on high, as linen-awning, stretchedO'er mighty theatres, gives forth at timesA cracking roar, when much 'tis beaten aboutBetwixt the poles and cross-beams. Sometimes, too,Asunder rent by wanton gusts, it ravesAnd imitates the tearing sound of sheetsOf paper- even this kind of noise thou maystIn thunder hear- or sound as when winds whirlWith lashings and do buffet about in airA hanging cloth and flying paper-sheets.For sometimes, too, it chances that the cloudsCannot together crash head-on, but ratherMove side-wise and with motions contraryGraze each the other's body without speed,From whence that dry sound grateth on our ears,So long drawn-out, until the clouds have passedFrom out their close positions.
And, again,In following wise all things seem oft to quakeAt shock of heavy thunder, and mightiest wallsOf the wide reaches of the upper worldThere on the instant to have sprung apart,Riven asunder, what time a gathered blastOf the fierce hurricane hath all at onceTwisted its way into a mass of clouds,And, there enclosed, ever more and moreCompelleth by its spinning whirl the cloudTo grow all hollow with a thickened crustSurrounding; for thereafter, when the forceAnd the keen onset of the wind have weakenedThat crust, lo, then the cloud, to-split in twain,Gives forth a hideous crash with bang and boom.No marvel this; since oft a bladder small,Filled up with air, will, when of sudden burst,Give forth a like large sound. There's reason, too,Why clouds make sounds, as through them blow the winds:We see, borne down the sky, oft shapes of cloudsRough-edged or branched many forky ways;And 'tis the same, as when the sudden flawsOf north-west wind through the dense forest blow,Making the leaves to sough and limbs to crash.It happens too at times that roused forceOf the fierce hurricane to-rends the cloud,Breaking right through it by a front assault;For what a blast of wind may do up thereIs manifest from facts when here on earthA blast more gentle yet uptwists tall treesAnd sucks them madly from their deepest roots.Besides, among the clouds are waves, and theseGive, as they roughly break, a rumbling roar;As when along deep streams or the great seaBreaks the loud surf. It happens, too, wheneverOut from one cloud into another fallsThe fiery energy of thunderbolt,That straightaway the cloud, if full of wet,Extinguishes the fire with mighty noise;As iron, white from the hot furnaces,Sizzles, when speedily we've plunged its glowDown the cold water. Further, if a cloudMore dry receive the fire, 'twill suddenlyKindle to flame and burn with monstrous sound,As if a flame with whirl of winds should rangeAlong the laurel-tressed mountains far,Upburning with its vast assault those trees;Nor is there aught that in the crackling flameConsumes with sound more terrible to manThan Delphic laurel of Apollo lord.Oft, too, the multitudinous crash of iceAnd down-pour of swift hail gives forth a soundAmong the mighty clouds on high; for whenThe wind hath packed them close, each mountain massOf rain-cloud, there congealed utterlyAnd mixed with hail-stones, breaks and booms... . . . . . .
Likewise, it lightens, when the clouds have struck,By their collision, forth the seeds of fire:As if a stone should smite a stone or steel,For light then too leaps forth and fire then scattersThe shining sparks. But with our ears we getThe thunder after eyes behold the flash,Because forever things arrive the earsMore tardily than the eyes- as thou mayst seeFrom this example too: when markest thouSome man far yonder felling a great treeWith double-edged ax, it comes to passThine eye beholds the swinging stroke beforeThe blow gives forth a sound athrough thine ears:Thus also we behold the flashing ereWe hear the thunder, which discharged isAt same time with the fire and by same cause,Born of the same collision.
In following wiseThe clouds suffuse with leaping light the lands,And the storm flashes with tremulous elan:When the wind hath invaded a cloud, and, whirling there,Hath wrought (as I have shown above) the cloudInto a hollow with a thickened crust,It becomes hot of own velocity:Just as thou seest how motion will o'erheatAnd set ablaze all objects,- verilyA leaden ball, hurtling through length of space,Even melts. Therefore, when this same wind a-fireHath split black cloud, it scatters the fire-seeds,Which, so to say, have been pressed out by forceOf sudden from the cloud;- and these do makeThe pulsing flashes of flame; thence followethThe detonation which attacks our earsMore tardily than aught which comes alongUnto the sight of eyeballs. This takes place-As know thou mayst- at times when clouds are denseAnd one upon the other piled aloftWith wonderful upheavings- nor be thouDeceived because we see how broad their baseFrom underneath, and not how high they tower.For make thine observations at a timeWhen winds shall bear athwart the horizon's blueClouds like to mountain-ranges moving on,Or when about the sides of mighty peaksThou seest them one upon the other massedAnd burdening downward, anchored in high repose,With the winds sepulchred on all sides round:Then canst thou know their mighty masses, thenCanst view their caverns, as if builded thereOf beetling crags; which, when the hurricanesIn gathered storm have filled utterly,Then, prisoned in clouds, they rave aroundWith mighty roarings, and within those densBluster like savage beasts, and now from here,And now from there, send growlings through the clouds,And seeking an outlet, whirl themselves about,And roll from 'mid the clouds the seeds of fire,And heap them multitudinously there,And in the hollow furnaces withinWheel flame around, until from bursted cloudIn forky flashes they have gleamed forth.
Again, from following cause it comes to passThat yon swift golden hue of liquid fireDarts downward to the earth: because the cloudsThemselves must hold abundant seeds of fire;For, when they be without all moisture, thenThey be for most part of a flamy hueAnd a resplendent. And, indeed, they mustEven from the light of sun unto themselvesTake multitudinous seeds, and so perforceRedden and pour their bright fires all abroad.And therefore, when the wind hath driven and thrust,Hath forced and squeezed into one spot these clouds,They pour abroad the seeds of fire pressed out,Which make to flash these colours of the flame.Likewise, it lightens also when the cloudsGrow rare and thin along the sky; for, whenThe wind with gentle touch unravels themAnd breaketh asunder as they move, those seedsWhich make the lightnings must by nature fall;At such an hour the horizon lightens roundWithout the hideous terror of dread noiseAnd skiey uproar.
To proceed apace,What sort of nature thunderbolts possessIs by their strokes made manifest and byThe brand-marks of their searing heat on things,And by the scorched scars exhaling roundThe heavy fumes of sulphur. For all theseAre marks, O not of wind or rain, but fire.Again, they often enkindle even the roofsOf houses and inside the very roomsWith swift flame hold a fierce dominion.Know thou that nature fashioned this fireSubtler than fires all other, with minuteAnd dartling bodies,- a fire 'gainst which there's naughtCan in the least hold out: the thunderbolt,The mighty, passes through the hedging wallsOf houses, like to voices or a shout,-Through stones, through bronze it passes, and it meltsUpon the instant bronze and gold; and makes,Likewise, the wines sudden to vanish forth,The wine-jars intact,- because, ye see,Its heat arriving renders loose and porousReadily all the wine- jar's earthen sides,And winding its way within, it scatterethThe elements primordial of the wineWith speedy dissolution- process whichEven in an age the fiery steam of sunCould not accomplish, however puissant heWith his hot coruscations: so much moreAgile and overpowering is this force. . . . . . .Now in what manner engendered are these things,How fashioned of such impetuous strengthAs to cleave towers asunder, and houses allTo overtopple, and to wrench apartTimbers and beams, and heroes' monumentsTo pile in ruins and upheave amain,And to take breath forever out of men,And to o'erthrow the cattle everywhere,-Yes, by what force the lightnings do all this,All this and more, I will unfold to thee,Nor longer keep thee in mere promises.
The bolts of thunder, then, must be conceivedAs all begotten in those crasser cloudsUp-piled aloft; for, from the sky sereneAnd from the clouds of lighter density,None are sent forth forever. That 'tis soBeyond a doubt, fact plain to sense declares:To wit, at such a time the densed cloudsSo mass themselves through all the upper airThat we might think that round about all murkHad parted forth from Acheron and filledThe mighty vaults of sky- so grievously,As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome might,Do faces of black horror hang on high-When tempest begins its thunderbolts to forge.Besides, full often also out at seaA blackest thunderhead, like cataractOf pitch hurled down from heaven, and far awayBulging with murkiness, down on the wavesFalls with vast uproar, and draws on amainThe darkling tempests big with thunderboltsAnd hurricanes, itself the while so crammedTremendously with fires and winds, that evenBack on the lands the people shudder roundAnd seek for cover. Therefore, as I said,The storm must be conceived as o'er our headTowering most high; for never would the cloudsO'erwhelm the lands with such a massy dark,Unless up-builded heap on lofty heap,To shut the round sun off. Nor could the clouds,As on they come, engulf with rain so vastAs thus to make the rivers overflowAnd fields to float, if ether were not thusFurnished with lofty-piled clouds. Lo, then,Here be all things fulfilled with winds and fires-Hence the long lightnings and the thunders loud.For, verily, I've taught thee even nowHow cavernous clouds hold seeds innumerableOf fiery exhalations, and they mustFrom off the sunbeams and the heat of theseTake many still. And so, when that same wind(Which, haply, into one region of the skyCollects those clouds) hath pressed from out the sameThe many fiery seeds, and with that fireHath at the same time inter-mixed itself,O then and there that wind, a whirlwind now,Deep in the belly of the cloud spins roundIn narrow confines, and sharpens there insideIn glowing furnaces the thunderbolt.For in a two-fold manner is that windEnkindled all: it trembles into heatBoth by its own velocity and byRepeated touch of fire. Thereafter, whenThe energy of wind is heated throughAnd the fierce impulse of the fire hath spedDeeply within, O then the thunderbolt,Now ripened, so to say, doth suddenlySplinter the cloud, and the aroused flashLeaps onward, lumining with forky lightAll places round. And followeth anonA clap so heavy that the skiey vaults,As if asunder burst, seem from on highTo engulf the earth. Then fearfully a quakePervades the lands, and 'long the lofty skiesRun the far rumblings. For at such a timeNigh the whole tempest quakes, shook through and through,And roused are the roarings,- from which shockComes such resounding and abounding rain,That all the murky ether seems to turnNow into rain, and, as it tumbles down,To summon the fields back to primeval floods:So big the rains that be sent down on menBy burst of cloud and by the hurricane,What time the thunder-clap, from burning boltThat cracks the cloud, flies forth along. At timesThe force of wind, excited from without,Smiteth into a cloud already hotWith a ripe thunderbolt.
And when that windHath splintered that cloud, then down there cleaves forthwithYon fiery coil of flame which still we call,Even with our fathers' word, a thunderbolt.The same thing haps toward every other sideWhither that force hath swept. It happens, too,That sometimes force of wind, though hurtled forthWithout all fire, yet in its voyage through spaceIgniteth, whilst it comes along, along,-Losing some larger bodies which cannotPass, like the others, through the bulks of air,-And, scraping together out of air itselfSome smaller bodies, carries them along,And these, commingling, by their flight make fire:Much in the manner as oft a leaden ballGrows hot upon its aery course, the whileIt loseth many bodies of stark coldAnd taketh into itself along the airNew particles of fire. It happens, too,That force of blow itself arouses fire,When force of wind, a-cold and hurtled forthWithout all fire, hath strook somewhere amain-No marvel, because, when with terrific stroke'Thas smitten, the elements of fiery-stuffCan stream together from out the very windAnd, simultaneously, from out that thingWhich then and there receives the stroke: as fliesThe fire when with the steel we hack the stone;Nor yet, because the force of steel's a-cold,Rush the less speedily together thereUnder the stroke its seeds of radiance hot.And therefore, thuswise must an object tooBe kindled by a thunderbolt, if haply'Thas been adapt and suited to the flames.Yet force of wind must not be rashly deemedAs altogether and entirely cold-That force which is discharged from on highWith such stupendous power; but if 'tis notUpon its course already kindled with fire,It yet arriveth warmed and mixed with heat.
And, now, the speed and stroke of thunderboltIs so tremendous, and with glide so swiftThose thunderbolts rush on and down, becauseTheir roused force itself collects itselfFirst always in the clouds, and then preparesFor the huge effort of their going-forth;Next, when the cloud no longer can retainThe increment of their fierce impetus,Their force is pressed out, and therefore fliesWith impetus so wondrous, like to shotsHurled from the powerful Roman catapults.Note, too, this force consists of elementsBoth small and smooth, nor is there aught that canWith ease resist such nature. For it dartsBetween and enters through the pores of things;And so it never falters in delayDespite innumerable collisions, butFlies shooting onward with a swift elan.Next, since by nature always every weightBears downward, doubled is the swiftness thenAnd that elan is still more wild and dread,When, verily, to weight are added blows,So that more madly and more fiercely thenThe thunderbolt shakes into shivers allThat blocks its path, following on its way.Then, too, because it comes along, alongWith one continuing elan, it mustTake on velocity anew, anew,Which still increases as it goes, and everAugments the bolt's vast powers and to the blowGives larger vigour; for it forces all,All of the thunder's seeds of fire, to sweepIn a straight line unto one place, as 'twere,-Casting them one by other, as they roll,Into that onward course. Again, perchance,In coming along, it pulls from out the airSome certain bodies, which by their own blowsEnkindle its velocity. And, lo,It comes through objects leaving them unharmed,It goes through many things and leaves them whole,Because the liquid fire flieth alongAthrough their pores. And much it does transfix,When these primordial atoms of the boltHave fallen upon the atoms of these thingsPrecisely where the intertwined atomsAre held together. And, further, easilyBrass it unbinds and quickly fuseth gold,Because its force is so minutely madeOf tiny parts and elements so smoothThat easily they wind their way within,And, when once in, quickly unbind all knotsAnd loosen all the bonds of union there.