Book 6

'Twas Athens first, the glorious in name, That whilom gave to hapless sons of men The sheaves of harvest, and re-ordered life, And decreed laws; and she the first that gave Life its sweet solaces, when she begat A man of heart so wise, who whilom poured All wisdom forth from his truth-speaking mouth; The glory of whom, though dead, is yet to-day, Because of those discoveries divine Renowned of old, exalted to the sky. For when saw he that well-nigh everything Which needs of man most urgently require Was 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 life Unpausingly with torments of the mind, And raved perforce with angry plaints, then he, Then he, the master, did perceive that 'twas The vessel itself which worked the bane, and all, However wholesome, which from here or there Was gathered into it, was by that bane Spoilt from within,—in part, because he saw The vessel so cracked and leaky that nowise 'T could ever be filled to brim; in part because He marked how it polluted with foul taste Whate'er it got within itself. So he, The master, then by his truth-speaking words, Purged the breasts of men, and set the bounds Of lust and terror, and exhibited The supreme good whither we all endeavour, And showed the path whereby we might arrive Thereunto by a little cross-cut straight, And what of ills in all affairs of mortals Upsprang and flitted deviously about (Whether by chance or force), since nature thus Had destined; and from out what gates a man Should sally to each combat. And he proved That mostly vainly doth the human race Roll in its bosom the grim waves of care. For just as children tremble and fear all In the viewless dark, so even we at times Dread in the light so many things that be No whit more fearsome than what children feign, Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark. This terror then, this darkness of the mind, Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light, Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse, But only nature's aspect and her law. Wherefore the more will I go on to weave In verses this my undertaken task. And since I've taught thee that the world's great vaults Are mortal and that sky is fashioned Of frame e'en born in time, and whatsoe'er Therein go on and must perforce go on

Athens, glorious in name, was the first to give harvests to unfortunate humanity. She brought order to life, established laws, and first gave life its sweet comforts when she gave birth to a man of such wisdom, who once poured all wisdom from his truthful mouth. Though he is dead, his glory even now, because of those divine discoveries, famous since ancient times, rises to the sky. For he saw that almost everything human needs most urgently require was ready at hand, and that life was as secure as it could be. Men enjoyed riches, honor, and praise, and were famous for their fine sons. Yet even then, at home, their anxious hearts still troubled their lives with endless mental torment, and they could not help raging with angry complaints. Then he, the master, saw that the vessel itself was the source of the trouble. Everything, however wholesome, that was gathered from here or there into the vessel was spoiled within it. In part, he saw that the vessel was so cracked and leaky that it could never be filled to the brim. In part, he saw how it gave a foul taste to everything it received. So he, the master, with his truthful words, cleansed men's hearts and set limits to desire and fear. He revealed the highest good we all seek and showed the path by which we might reach it by a short, straight route. He showed what evils arise in human affairs and wander about in all directions, whether by chance or force, since nature has ordained it so. He showed through what gates a man should go out to meet each struggle. And he proved that, for the most part, the human race needlessly churns the grim waves of worry in its heart. For just as children tremble and fear everything in the darkness they cannot see through, so even we sometimes fear in the light many things that are no more frightening than what children imagine will come for them as they shudder in the dark. This terror, this darkness of the mind, cannot be scattered by the rising sun with its blazing rays, nor by the glittering arrows of morning, but only by the appearance and laws of nature. So I will be all the more eager to continue weaving my chosen task into verse. And since I have taught you that the world's great vaults are mortal, and that the sky has a structure that was itself born in time, and whatever happens and must necessarily happen within it

The most I have unravelled; what remains Do thou take in, besides; since once for all To climb into that chariot' renowned

I have explained most of it; what remains You must also take in, since once and for all To climb into that famous chariot

Of winds arise; and they appeased are So that all things again...

Of winds arise, and they grow calm So that all things again...

Which were, are changed now, with fury stilled; All other movements through the earth and sky Which mortals gaze upon (O anxious oft In quaking thoughts!), and which abase their minds With dread of deities and press them crushed Down to the earth, because their ignorance Of cosmic causes forces them to yield All things unto the empery of gods And to concede the kingly rule to them. 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. Wherefore the more are they borne wandering on By blindfold reason. And, Memmius, unless From out thy mind thou spuest all of this And casteth far from thee all thoughts which be Unworthy gods and alien to their peace, Then often will the holy majesties Of the high gods be harmful unto thee, As by thy thought degraded,—not, indeed, That essence supreme of gods could be by this So outraged as in wrath to thirst to seek Revenges keen; but even because thyself Thou 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 breast Shrines of the gods; nor wilt thou able be In tranquil peace of mind to take and know Those images which from their holy bodies Are 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 us Veriest reason may drive such life away, Much yet remains to be embellished yet In polished verses, albeit hath issued forth So much from me already; lo, there is The law and aspect of the sky to be By reason grasped; there are the tempest times And the bright lightnings to be hymned now— Even what they do and from what cause soe'er They're borne along—that thou mayst tremble not, Marking off regions of prophetic skies For auguries, O foolishly distraught Even as to whence the flying flame hath come, Or to which half of heaven it turns, or how Through 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 race On to the white line of the utmost goal, That I may get with signal praise the crown, With thee my guide!

What once existed has now changed, its fury stilled. All the other movements across the earth and sky, which mortals watch, often with anxious, trembling thoughts, humble their minds with fear of the gods and press them crushed to the ground. For their ignorance of nature's causes forces them to place everything under the power of the gods and accept their kingly rule. Even those who have learned well that the gods live long lives free from care may still wonder how things can go on, especially those things seen overhead in the distant sky. Then they are drawn back into the fears of old religion and once again accept harsh masters they believe are almighty. These wretched people do not know what can happen and what cannot, or the law that sets limits for each thing, the boundary stone fixed so deep in time. So they wander all the more, led by blind reason. And, Memmius, unless you spit all of this out of your mind and cast far away every thought unworthy of the gods and foreign to their peace, the holy majesty of the high gods will often harm you, because your thoughts have degraded it. Not, indeed, because the supreme nature of the gods could be so offended that they would angrily thirst for bitter revenge. Rather, you yourself will be tormented by the idea that the gods, those calm beings at rest in peace, stir up mighty waves of anger, one after another. You will not enter with a calm heart the shrines of the gods, nor will you be able to receive and understand in peace of mind those images from their holy bodies that reach the minds of people and reveal their divine form. You can see for yourself what kind of life will follow. But so that true reason may drive such a life far away from us, much remains to be set forth in polished verses, though I have already said so much. We must understand through reason the laws and nature of the sky. We must now sing of storms and bright lightning, of what they do and whatever causes set them in motion. Then you will not tremble as you divide the sky into regions to read omens. You will not be foolishly disturbed about where the flying flame came from, which part of heaven it turns toward, or how it has wound its way through walled places, or how, after showing its power there, it has rushed away again. People know nothing of these causes and think the gods are at work there. Calliope, ingenious Muse, comfort of mortals and delight of gods, show me the course as I race toward the white line at the finish, so that I may win the crown with great praise, with you as my guide!

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 another The winds are battling. For never a sound there comes From out the serene regions of the sky; But wheresoever in a host more dense The clouds foregather, thence more often comes A crash with mighty rumbling. And, again, Clouds cannot be of so condensed a frame As stones and timbers, nor again so fine As mists and flying smoke; for then perforce They'd either fall, borne down by their brute weight, Like stones, or, like the smoke, they'd powerless be To keep their mass, or to retain within Frore snows and storms of hail. And they give forth O'er skiey levels of the spreading world A sound on high, as linen-awning, stretched O'er mighty theatres, gives forth at times A cracking roar, when much 'tis beaten about Betwixt the poles and cross-beams. Sometimes, too, Asunder rent by wanton gusts, it raves And imitates the tearing sound of sheets Of paper—even this kind of noise thou mayst In thunder hear—or sound as when winds whirl With lashings and do buffet about in air A hanging cloth and flying paper-sheets. For sometimes, too, it chances that the clouds Cannot together crash head-on, but rather Move side-wise and with motions contrary Graze each the other's body without speed, From whence that dry sound grateth on our ears, So long drawn-out, until the clouds have passed From out their close positions. And, again, In following wise all things seem oft to quake At shock of heavy thunder, and mightiest walls Of the wide reaches of the upper world There on the instant to have sprung apart, Riven asunder, what time a gathered blast Of the fierce hurricane hath all at once Twisted its way into a mass of clouds, And, there enclosed, ever more and more Compelleth by its spinning whirl the cloud To grow all hollow with a thickened crust Surrounding; for thereafter, when the force And the keen onset of the wind have weakened That 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 clouds Rough-edged or branched many forky ways; And 'tis the same, as when the sudden flaws Of north-west wind through the dense forest blow, Making the leaves to sough and limbs to crash. It happens too at times that roused force Of the fierce hurricane to-rends the cloud, Breaking right through it by a front assault; For what a blast of wind may do up there Is manifest from facts when here on earth A blast more gentle yet uptwists tall trees And sucks them madly from their deepest roots. Besides, among the clouds are waves, and these Give, as they roughly break, a rumbling roar; As when along deep streams or the great sea Breaks the loud surf. It happens, too, whenever Out from one cloud into another falls The 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 glow Down the cold water. Further, if a cloud More dry receive the fire, 'twill suddenly Kindle to flame and burn with monstrous sound, As if a flame with whirl of winds should range Along the laurel-tressed mountains far, Upburning with its vast assault those trees; Nor is there aught that in the crackling flame Consumes with sound more terrible to man Than Delphic laurel of Apollo lord. Oft, too, the multitudinous crash of ice And down-pour of swift hail gives forth a sound Among the mighty clouds on high; for when The wind hath packed them close, each mountain mass Of rain-cloud, there congealed utterly And mixed with hail-stones, breaks and booms...

And so, first of all, thunder shakes the blue depths of heaven because the clouds rushing high above clash when the winds battle one another. For no sound ever comes from the clear regions of the sky. But wherever clouds gather in a denser mass, from there a crash with mighty rumbling comes more often. And again, clouds cannot be as dense as stones and timber, nor as fine as mists and drifting smoke. For then they would either fall under their own weight like stones, or, like smoke, they would be unable to hold together or retain within them freezing snow and hailstorms. And they make a sound high above the sky's expanse over the spreading world, like a linen awning stretched over a great theater. Sometimes it makes a cracking roar when it is battered between the poles and crossbeams. Sometimes, too, it is torn apart by wild gusts. Then it roars and sounds like sheets of paper tearing. You can hear this kind of noise in thunder too. Or it sounds as when winds whip and buffet about in the air a hanging cloth and flying sheets of paper. For sometimes the clouds do not crash head-on. Instead they move sideways in opposite directions and slowly graze against one another. This makes the dry sound that grates on our ears, drawing out for a long time, until the clouds have passed beyond one another. And again, everything often seems to shake under the shock of heavy thunder. The mightiest walls of the wide heavens seem to have split apart in an instant when a fierce hurricane gathers and twists its way into a mass of clouds all at once. Trapped inside, the spinning wind makes the cloud increasingly hollow, with a thick crust around it. Then, when the force and sharp attack of the wind have weakened that crust, the cloud splits in two and makes a dreadful crash, with a bang and a boom. This is no wonder. For even a small bladder, filled with air, will, when suddenly burst, make a similarly loud sound. There is also a reason clouds make sounds when winds blow through them. We often see shapes of clouds moving across the sky, with rough edges or many branching shapes. It is the same as when sudden gusts of northwest wind blow through a dense forest, making the leaves rustle and branches crash. Sometimes, too, the rising force of a fierce hurricane tears a cloud apart, breaking straight through it in a frontal assault. We can see what a blast of wind can do up there from what happens here on earth: an even gentler blast twists tall trees and tears them violently from their deepest roots. Besides, there are waves among the clouds, and these make a rumbling roar as they break violently, just as the loud surf breaks along deep rivers or the great sea. Also, whenever the fiery energy of a thunderbolt passes from one cloud into another, the second cloud, if full of moisture, immediately puts out the fire with a mighty noise. It is like iron, white-hot from a furnace, sizzling when we quickly plunge its glowing mass into cold water. Further, if a drier cloud receives the fire, it will suddenly burst into flame and burn with a tremendous sound. It is as if a flame, driven by whirling winds, swept far along mountains covered with laurels, burning those trees in its vast assault. Nothing burns in crackling flames with a sound more terrifying to people than the Delphic laurel of lord Apollo. Often, too, the crashing of masses of ice and the swift downpour of hail make a sound among the mighty clouds above. For when the wind has packed them close, each mountain mass of rain cloud, frozen throughout and mixed with hailstones, 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 scatters The shining sparks. But with our ears we get The thunder after eyes behold the flash, Because forever things arrive the ears More tardily than the eyes—as thou mayst see From this example too: when markest thou Some man far yonder felling a great tree With double-edged ax, it comes to pass Thine eye beholds the swinging stroke before The blow gives forth a sound athrough thine ears: Thus also we behold the flashing ere We hear the thunder, which discharged is At same time with the fire and by same cause, Born of the same collision. In following wise The 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 cloud Into a hollow with a thickened crust, It becomes hot of own velocity: Just as thou seest how motion will o'erheat And set ablaze all objects,—verily A leaden ball, hurtling through length of space, Even melts. Therefore, when this same wind a-fire Hath split black cloud, it scatters the fire-seeds, Which, so to say, have been pressed out by force Of sudden from the cloud;—and these do make The pulsing flashes of flame; thence followeth The detonation which attacks our ears More tardily than aught which comes along Unto the sight of eyeballs. This takes place— As know thou mayst—at times when clouds are dense And one upon the other piled aloft With wonderful upheavings—nor be thou Deceived because we see how broad their base From underneath, and not how high they tower. For make thine observations at a time When winds shall bear athwart the horizon's blue Clouds like to mountain-ranges moving on, Or when about the sides of mighty peaks Thou seest them one upon the other massed And burdening downward, anchored in high repose, With the winds sepulchred on all sides round: Then canst thou know their mighty masses, then Canst view their caverns, as if builded there Of beetling crags; which, when the hurricanes In gathered storm have filled utterly, Then, prisoned in clouds, they rave around With mighty roarings, and within those dens Bluster 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 within Wheel flame around, until from bursted cloud In forky flashes they have gleamed forth. Again, from following cause it comes to pass That yon swift golden hue of liquid fire Darts downward to the earth: because the clouds Themselves must hold abundant seeds of fire; For, when they be without all moisture, then They be for most part of a flamy hue And a resplendent. And, indeed, they must Even from the light of sun unto themselves Take multitudinous seeds, and so perforce Redden 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 clouds Grow rare and thin along the sky; for, when The wind with gentle touch unravels them And breaketh asunder as they move, those seeds Which make the lightnings must by nature fall; At such an hour the horizon lightens round Without the hideous terror of dread noise And skiey uproar. To proceed apace, What sort of nature thunderbolts possess Is by their strokes made manifest and by The brand-marks of their searing heat on things, And by the scorched scars exhaling round The heavy fumes of sulphur. For all these Are marks, O not of wind or rain, but fire. Again, they often enkindle even the roofs Of houses and inside the very rooms With swift flame hold a fierce dominion. Know thou that nature fashioned this fire Subtler than fires all other, with minute And dartling bodies,—a fire 'gainst which there's naught Can in the least hold out: the thunderbolt, The mighty, passes through the hedging walls Of houses, like to voices or a shout,— Through stones, through bronze it passes, and it melts Upon 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 porous Readily all the wine—jar's earthen sides, And winding its way within, it scattereth The elements primordial of the wine With speedy dissolution—process which Even in an age the fiery steam of sun Could not accomplish, however puissant he With his hot coruscations: so much more Agile and overpowering is this force.

Lightning also appears when clouds collide and strike seeds of fire from one another. It is like one stone striking another stone or steel. Then, too, light leaps out, and fire scatters bright sparks. But our ears receive the thunder after our eyes see the flash, because things always reach our ears more slowly than our eyes. You can see this from another example: suppose you watch a man far away cutting down a great tree with a double-edged ax. You see the swinging stroke before the sound of the blow reaches your ears. So, too, we see the flash before we hear the thunder. Yet the thunder comes at the same time as the fire and from the same cause. Both are born of the same collision. The clouds flood the land with leaping light in the following way, and the storm flashes with quivering force: When wind enters a cloud and whirls inside it, it hollows out the cloud and thickens its outer layer, as I have shown above. The wind grows hot through its own speed. You can see how motion can overheat and set fire to all objects. Indeed, a lead ball hurtling through space even melts. So when this burning wind splits the black cloud, it scatters the seeds of fire. These seeds have, so to speak, been suddenly pressed out of the cloud by force, and they make the pulsing flashes of flame. Then comes the thunder, which reaches our ears more slowly than anything reaches our eyes. You may know that this happens when clouds are dense and piled one upon another high in the sky, rising in vast masses. Do not be deceived because, from below, we see their broad base but not how high they tower. Observe them when winds carry clouds across the blue horizon, like mountain ranges moving along. Or look when you see them massed one upon another around mighty peaks, weighing down, fixed in stillness high above, with the winds buried on every side. Then you can know how vast those masses are. Then you can see their caverns, as if built of overhanging cliffs. When hurricanes in a gathering storm have filled those caverns, the winds, trapped in the clouds, rage around with mighty roars. Within those dens they bluster like savage beasts, sending growls through the clouds now from here, now from there. Seeking a way out, they whirl about, roll the seeds of fire out from among the clouds, and heap them there in great numbers. In the hollow furnaces within, they spin flame around until the cloud bursts and the flame shines out in forked flashes. Again, the swift golden color of liquid fire darts down to earth for the following reason: the clouds themselves must hold abundant seeds of fire. For when they are completely free of moisture, they are mostly flame-colored and bright. Indeed, they must also take countless seeds from the sunlight. So they must turn red and pour their bright fires everywhere. Therefore, when wind drives and pushes the clouds together, forcing and squeezing them into one place, they pour out the seeds of fire pressed from them. These seeds make the colors of flame flash. Lightning also appears when clouds grow scattered and thin across the sky. For when the wind gently unravels them and breaks them apart as they move, the seeds that make lightning must naturally fall. At such a time, the sky around the horizon lights up without the hideous terror of dreadful noise and uproar in the sky. To move on, the nature of thunderbolts is revealed by their strikes and by the burn marks their searing heat leaves on things, and by the scorched scars that give off heavy fumes of sulfur. For all these are marks of fire, not wind or rain. Thunderbolts also often set fire to the roofs of houses, and their swift flames rage even inside the rooms. Know that nature made this fire finer than all other fires, with tiny, swift-moving particles. Nothing can resist it in the least. The mighty thunderbolt passes through the enclosing walls of houses, like voices or a shout. It passes through stone and bronze, and melts bronze and gold instantly. It also makes wine suddenly vanish, while leaving the jars intact. For its heat readily loosens and opens pores in all the clay walls of the wine jar. Then, winding its way inside, it quickly scatters the first elements of the wine and breaks it apart. Even over an age, the sun's fiery heat could not do this, however powerful his hot rays. This force is so much more swift and overpowering.

Now in what manner engendered are these things, How fashioned of such impetuous strength As to cleave towers asunder, and houses all To overtopple, and to wrench apart Timbers and beams, and heroes' monuments To 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 conceived As all begotten in those crasser clouds Up-piled aloft; for, from the sky serene And from the clouds of lighter density, None are sent forth forever. That 'tis so Beyond a doubt, fact plain to sense declares: To wit, at such a time the densed clouds So mass themselves through all the upper air That we might think that round about all murk Had parted forth from Acheron and filled The 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 sea A blackest thunderhead, like cataract Of pitch hurled down from heaven, and far away Bulging with murkiness, down on the waves Falls with vast uproar, and draws on amain The darkling tempests big with thunderbolts And hurricanes, itself the while so crammed Tremendously with fires and winds, that even Back on the lands the people shudder round And seek for cover. Therefore, as I said, The storm must be conceived as o'er our head Towering most high; for never would the clouds O'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 vast As thus to make the rivers overflow And fields to float, if ether were not thus Furnished 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 now How cavernous clouds hold seeds innumerable Of fiery exhalations, and they must From off the sunbeams and the heat of these Take many still. And so, when that same wind (Which, haply, into one region of the sky Collects those clouds) hath pressed from out the same The many fiery seeds, and with that fire Hath at the same time inter-mixed itself, O then and there that wind, a whirlwind now, Deep in the belly of the cloud spins round In narrow confines, and sharpens there inside In glowing furnaces the thunderbolt. For in a two-fold manner is that wind Enkindled all: it trembles into heat Both by its own velocity and by Repeated touch of fire. Thereafter, when The energy of wind is heated through And the fierce impulse of the fire hath sped Deeply within, O then the thunderbolt, Now ripened, so to say, doth suddenly Splinter the cloud, and the aroused flash Leaps onward, lumining with forky light All places round. And followeth anon A clap so heavy that the skiey vaults, As if asunder burst, seem from on high To engulf the earth. Then fearfully a quake Pervades the lands, and 'long the lofty skies Run the far rumblings. For at such a time Nigh the whole tempest quakes, shook through and through, And roused are the roarings,—from which shock Comes such resounding and abounding rain, That all the murky ether seems to turn Now into rain, and, as it tumbles down, To summon the fields back to primeval floods: So big the rains that be sent down on men By burst of cloud and by the hurricane, What time the thunder-clap, from burning bolt That cracks the cloud, flies forth along. At times The force of wind, excited from without, Smiteth into a cloud already hot With a ripe thunderbolt. And when that wind Hath splintered that cloud, then down there cleaves forthwith Yon fiery coil of flame which still we call, Even with our fathers' word, a thunderbolt. The same thing haps toward every other side Whither that force hath swept. It happens, too, That sometimes force of wind, though hurtled forth Without all fire, yet in its voyage through space Igniteth, whilst it comes along, along,— Losing some larger bodies which cannot Pass, like the others, through the bulks of air,— And, scraping together out of air itself Some smaller bodies, carries them along, And these, commingling, by their flight make fire: Much in the manner as oft a leaden ball Grows hot upon its aery course, the while It loseth many bodies of stark cold And taketh into itself along the air New particles of fire. It happens, too, That force of blow itself arouses fire, When force of wind, a-cold and hurtled forth Without all fire, hath strook somewhere amain— No marvel, because, when with terrific stroke 'Thas smitten, the elements of fiery-stuff Can stream together from out the very wind And, simultaneously, from out that thing Which then and there receives the stroke: as flies The fire when with the steel we hack the stone; Nor yet, because the force of steel's a-cold, Rush the less speedily together there Under the stroke its seeds of radiance hot. And therefore, thuswise must an object too Be kindled by a thunderbolt, if haply 'Thas been adapt and suited to the flames. Yet force of wind must not be rashly deemed As altogether and entirely cold— That force which is discharged from on high With such stupendous power; but if 'tis not Upon its course already kindled with fire, It yet arriveth warmed and mixed with heat. And, now, the speed and stroke of thunderbolt Is so tremendous, and with glide so swift Those thunderbolts rush on and down, because Their roused force itself collects itself First always in the clouds, and then prepares For the huge effort of their going-forth; Next, when the cloud no longer can retain The increment of their fierce impetus, Their force is pressed out, and therefore flies With impetus so wondrous, like to shots Hurled from the powerful Roman catapults. Note, too, this force consists of elements Both small and smooth, nor is there aught that can With ease resist such nature. For it darts Between and enters through the pores of things; And so it never falters in delay Despite innumerable collisions, but Flies shooting onward with a swift elan. Next, since by nature always every weight Bears downward, doubled is the swiftness then And that elan is still more wild and dread, When, verily, to weight are added blows, So that more madly and more fiercely then The thunderbolt shakes into shivers all That blocks its path, following on its way. Then, too, because it comes along, along With one continuing elan, it must Take on velocity anew, anew, Which still increases as it goes, and ever Augments the bolt's vast powers and to the blow Gives larger vigour; for it forces all, All of the thunder's seeds of fire, to sweep In 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 air Some certain bodies, which by their own blows Enkindle 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 along Athrough their pores. And much it does transfix, When these primordial atoms of the bolt Have fallen upon the atoms of these things Precisely where the intertwined atoms Are held together. And, further, easily Brass it unbinds and quickly fuseth gold, Because its force is so minutely made Of tiny parts and elements so smooth That easily they wind their way within, And, when once in, quickly unbind all knots And loosen all the bonds of union there. And most in autumn is shaken the house of heaven, The house so studded with the glittering stars, And the whole earth around—most too in spring When flowery times unfold themselves: for, lo, In the cold season is there lack of fire, And winds are scanty in the hot, and clouds Have not so dense a bulk. But when, indeed, The seasons of heaven are betwixt these twain, The divers causes of the thunderbolt Then all concur; for then both cold and heat Are mixed in the cross-seas of the year, So that a discord rises among things And air in vast tumultuosity Billows, infuriate with the fires and winds— Of which the both are needed by the cloud For fabrication of the thunderbolt. For the first part of heat and last of cold Is the time of spring; wherefore must things unlike Do battle one with other, and, when mixed, Tumultuously rage. And when rolls round The latest heat mixed with the earliest chill— The time which bears the name of autumn—then Likewise fierce cold-spells wrestle with fierce heats. On this account these seasons of the year Are nominated "cross-seas."—And no marvel If in those times the thunderbolts prevail And storms are roused turbulent in heaven, Since then both sides in dubious warfare rage Tumultuously, the one with flames, the other With winds and with waters mixed with winds. This, this it is, O Memmius, to see through The very nature of fire-fraught thunderbolt; O this it is to mark by what blind force It maketh each effect, and not, O not To unwind Etrurian scrolls oracular, Inquiring tokens of occult will of gods, Even as to whence the flying flame hath come, Or to which half of heaven it turns, or how Through walled places it hath wound its way, Or, after proving its dominion there, How it hath speeded forth from thence amain, Or what the thunderstroke portends of ill From out high heaven. But if Jupiter And other gods shake those refulgent vaults With dread reverberations and hurl fire Whither it pleases each, why smite they not Mortals of reckless and revolting crimes, That such may pant from a transpierced breast Forth flames of the red levin—unto men A drastic lesson?—why is rather he— O he self-conscious of no foul offence— Involved in flames, though innocent, and clasped Up-caught in skiey whirlwind and in fire? Nay, why, then, aim they at eternal wastes, And spend themselves in vain?—perchance, even so To exercise their arms and strengthen shoulders? Why suffer they the Father's javelin To be so blunted on the earth? And why Doth he himself allow it, nor spare the same Even for his enemies? O why most oft Aims he at lofty places? Why behold we Marks of his lightnings most on mountain tops? Then for what reason shoots he at the sea?— What sacrilege have waves and bulk of brine And floating fields of foam been guilty of? Besides, if 'tis his will that we beware Against the lightning-stroke, why feareth he To grant us power for to behold the shot? And, contrariwise, if wills he to o'erwhelm us, Quite off our guard, with fire, why thunders he Off in yon quarter, so that we may shun? Why rouseth he beforehand darkling air And the far din and rumblings? And O how Canst thou believe he shoots at one same time Into diverse directions? Or darest thou Contend that never hath it come to pass That divers strokes have happened at one time? But oft and often hath it come to pass, And often still it must, that, even as showers And rains o'er many regions fall, so too Dart many thunderbolts at one same time. Again, why never hurtles Jupiter A bolt upon the lands nor pours abroad Clap upon clap, when skies are cloudless all? Or, say, doth he, so soon as ever the clouds Have come thereunder, then into the same Descend in person, that from thence he may Near-by decide upon the stroke of shaft? And, lastly, why, with devastating bolt Shakes he asunder holy shrines of gods And his own thrones of splendour, and to-breaks The well-wrought idols of divinities, And robs of glory his own images By wound of violence? But to return apace, Easy it is from these same facts to know In just what wise those things (which from their sort The Greeks have named "bellows") do come down, Discharged from on high, upon the seas. For it haps that sometimes from the sky descends Upon the seas a column, as if pushed, Round which the surges seethe, tremendously Aroused by puffing gusts; and whatso'er Of ships are caught within that tumult then Come into extreme peril, dashed along. This haps when sometimes wind's aroused force Can't burst the cloud it tries to, but down-weighs That cloud, until 'tis like a column from sky Upon the seas pushed downward—gradually, As if a Somewhat from on high were shoved By fist and nether thrust of arm, and lengthened Far to the waves. And when the force of wind Hath rived this cloud, from out the cloud it rushes Down on the seas, and starts among the waves A wondrous seething, for the eddying whirl Descends and downward draws along with it That cloud of ductile body. And soon as ever 'Thas shoved unto the levels of the main That laden cloud, the whirl suddenly then Plunges its whole self into the waters there And rouses all the sea with monstrous roar, Constraining it to seethe. It happens too That very vortex of the wind involves Itself in clouds, scraping from out the air The seeds of cloud, and counterfeits, as 'twere, The "bellows" pushed from heaven. And when this shape Hath dropped upon the lands and burst apart, It belches forth immeasurable might Of whirlwind and of blast. Yet since 'tis formed At most but rarely, and on land the hills Must block its way, 'tis seen more oft out there On the broad prospect of the level main Along the free horizons. Into being The clouds condense, when in this upper space Of the high heaven have gathered suddenly, As round they flew, unnumbered particles— World's rougher ones, which can, though interlinked With scanty couplings, yet be fastened firm, The one on other caught. These particles First cause small clouds to form; and, thereupon, These catch the one on other and swarm in a flock And grow by their conjoining, and by winds Are borne along, along, until collects The tempest fury. Happens, too, the nearer The mountain summits neighbour to the sky, The more unceasingly their far crags smoke With the thick darkness of swart cloud, because When first the mists do form, ere ever the eyes Can there behold them (tenuous as they be), The carrier-winds will drive them up and on Unto the topmost summits of the mountain; And then at last it happens, when they be In vaster throng upgathered, that they can By this very condensation lie revealed, And that at same time they are seen to surge From very vertex of the mountain up Into far ether. For very fact and feeling, As we up-climb high mountains, proveth clear That windy are those upward regions free. Besides, the clothes hung-out along the shore, When in they take the clinging moisture, prove That nature lifts from over all the sea Unnumbered particles. Whereby the more 'Tis manifest that many particles Even from the salt upheavings of the main Can rise together to augment the bulk Of massed clouds. For moistures in these twain Are near akin. Besides, from out all rivers, As well as from the land itself, we see Up-rising mists and steam, which like a breath Are forced out from them and borne aloft, To curtain heaven with their murk, and make, By slow foregathering, the skiey clouds. For, in addition, lo, the heat on high Of constellated ether burdens down Upon them, and by sort of condensation Weaveth beneath the azure firmament The reek of darkling cloud. It happens, too, That hither to the skies from the Beyond Do come those particles which make the clouds And flying thunderheads. For I have taught That this their number is innumerable And infinite the sum of the Abyss, And I have shown with what stupendous speed Those bodies fly and how they're wont to pass Amain through incommunicable space. Therefore, 'tis not exceeding strange, if oft In little time tempest and darkness cover With bulking thunderheads hanging on high The oceans and the lands, since everywhere Through all the narrow tubes of yonder ether, Yea, so to speak, through all the breathing-holes Of the great upper-world encompassing, There be for the primordial elements Exits and entrances. Now come, and how The rainy moisture thickens into being In the lofty clouds, and how upon the lands 'Tis then discharged in down-pour of large showers, I will unfold. And first triumphantly Will I persuade thee that up-rise together, With clouds themselves, full many seeds of water From out all things, and that they both increase— Both clouds and water which is in the clouds— In like proportion, as our frames increase In like proportion with our blood, as well As sweat or any moisture in our members. Besides, the clouds take in from time to time Much moisture risen from the broad marine,— Whilst the winds bear them o'er the mighty sea, Like hanging fleeces of white wool. Thuswise, Even from all rivers is there lifted up Moisture into the clouds. And when therein The seeds of water so many in many ways Have come together, augmented from all sides, The close-jammed clouds then struggle to discharge Their rain-storms for a two-fold reason: lo, The wind's force crowds them, and the very excess Of storm-clouds (massed in a vaster throng) Giveth an urge and pressure from above And makes the rains out-pour. Besides when, too, The clouds are winnowed by the winds, or scattered Smitten on top by heat of sun, they send Their rainy moisture, and distil their drops, Even as the wax, by fiery warmth on top, Wasteth and liquefies abundantly. But comes the violence of the bigger rains When violently the clouds are weighted down Both by their cumulated mass and by The onset of the wind. And rains are wont To endure awhile and to abide for long, When many seeds of waters are aroused, And clouds on clouds and racks on racks outstream In piled layers and are borne along From every quarter, and when all the earth Smoking exhales her moisture. At such a time When sun with beams amid the tempest-murk Hath shone against the showers of black rains, Then in the swart clouds there emerges bright The radiance of the bow. And as to things Not mentioned here which of themselves do grow Or of themselves are gendered, and all things Which in the clouds condense to being—all, Snow and the winds, hail and the hoar-frosts chill, And freezing, mighty force—of lakes and pools The mighty hardener, and mighty check Which in the winter curbeth everywhere The rivers as they go—'tis easy still, Soon to discover and with mind to see How they all happen, whereby gendered, When once thou well hast understood just what Functions have been vouchsafed from of old Unto the procreant atoms of the world. Now come, and what the law of earthquakes is Hearken, and first of all take care to know That the under-earth, like to the earth around us, Is full of windy caverns all about; And many a pool and many a grim abyss She bears within her bosom, ay, and cliffs And jagged scarps; and many a river, hid Beneath her chine, rolls rapidly along Its billows and plunging boulders. For clear fact Requires that earth must be in every part Alike in constitution. Therefore, earth, With these things underneath affixed and set, Trembleth above, jarred by big down-tumblings, When time hath undermined the huge caves, The subterranean. Yea, whole mountains fall, And instantly from spot of that big jar There quiver the tremors far and wide abroad. And with good reason: since houses on the street Begin to quake throughout, when jarred by a cart Of no large weight; and, too, the furniture Within the house up-bounds, when a paving-block Gives either iron rim of the wheels a jolt. It happens, too, when some prodigious bulk Of age-worn soil is rolled from mountain slopes Into tremendous pools of water dark, That the reeling land itself is rocked about By the water's undulations; as a basin Sometimes won't come to rest until the fluid Within it ceases to be rocked about In random undulations. And besides, When subterranean winds, up-gathered there In the hollow deeps, bulk forward from one spot, And press with the big urge of mighty powers Against the lofty grottos, then the earth Bulks to that quarter whither push amain The headlong winds. Then all the builded houses Above ground—and the more, the higher up-reared Unto the sky—lean ominously, careening Into the same direction; and the beams, Wrenched forward, over-hang, ready to go. Yet dread men to believe that there awaits The nature of the mighty world a time Of doom and cataclysm, albeit they see So great a bulk of lands to bulge and break! And lest the winds blew back again, no force Could rein things in nor hold from sure career On to disaster. But now because those winds Blow back and forth in alternation strong, And, so to say, rallying charge again, And then repulsed retreat, on this account Earth oftener threatens than she brings to pass Collapses dire. For to one side she leans, Then back she sways; and after tottering Forward, recovers then her seats of poise. Thus, this is why whole houses rock, the roofs More than the middle stories, middle more Than lowest, and the lowest least of all. Arises, too, this same great earth-quaking, When wind and some prodigious force of air, Collected from without or down within The old telluric deeps, have hurled themselves Amain into those caverns sub-terrene, And there at first tumultuously chafe Among the vasty grottos, borne about In mad rotations, till their lashed force Aroused out-bursts abroad, and then and there, Riving the deep earth, makes a mighty chasm— What once in Syrian Sidon did befall, And once in Peloponnesian Aegium, Twain cities which such out-break of wild air And earth's convulsion, following hard upon, O'erthrew of old. And many a walled town, Besides, hath fall'n by such omnipotent Convulsions on the land, and in the sea Engulfed hath sunken many a city down With all its populace. But if, indeed, They burst not forth, yet is the very rush Of the wild air and fury-force of wind Then dissipated, like an ague-fit, Through the innumerable pores of earth, To set her all a-shake—even as a chill, When it hath gone into our marrow-bones, Sets us convulsively, despite ourselves, A-shivering and a-shaking. Therefore, men With two-fold terror bustle in alarm Through cities to and fro: they fear the roofs Above the head; and underfoot they dread The caverns, lest the nature of the earth Suddenly rend them open, and she gape, Herself asunder, with tremendous maw, And, all confounded, seek to chock it full With her own ruins. Let men, then, go on Feigning at will that heaven and earth shall be Inviolable, entrusted evermore To an eternal weal: and yet at times The very force of danger here at hand Prods them on some side with this goad of fear— This among others—that the earth, withdrawn Abruptly from under their feet, be hurried down, Down into the abyss, and the Sum-of-Things Be following after, utterly fordone, Till be but wrack and wreckage of a world.

Now I will explain how these things are produced, and how they gain such furious strength that they can split towers apart and overturn houses, wrench apart timbers and beams, and pile the monuments of heroes in ruins, throwing them violently down. I will explain how they can take the breath from men forever and strike cattle down everywhere. Yes, I will explain the force by which lightning does all this and more. I will no longer leave you with promises alone. Thunderbolts, then, must be understood to arise in those denser clouds piled high above us. For neither a clear sky nor clouds of lighter density ever send them out. Plain observation shows beyond doubt that this is so: at such a time, dense clouds gather throughout the upper air until we might think that all the darkness around Acheron had broken loose and filled the vast vaults of the sky. So terribly, as the dreadful force of the storm clouds gathers, do faces of black horror hang above us, when the storm begins to forge its thunderbolts. Besides, often out at sea, a pitch-black thunderhead, like a waterfall of tar hurled down from heaven, bulges with darkness in the distance and falls on the waves with a vast roar. It brings on dark storms laden with thunderbolts and hurricanes. The cloud itself is so packed with fires and winds that even people back on land shudder and seek shelter. Therefore, as I said, we must understand that the storm towers high above our heads. For the clouds could never cover the land with such heavy darkness unless they were built up, heap upon lofty heap, to shut out the round sun. Nor could the clouds, as they approach, pour down such vast rain that rivers overflow and fields are flooded, unless the upper air were filled with clouds piled high. Look, then: everything there is full of winds and fires. From these come the long flashes and loud thunder. For I have just taught you how hollow clouds hold countless seeds of fiery vapor. They must also take in many more from the sun's rays and their heat. So when the wind that perhaps gathers those clouds into one part of the sky has pressed the many fiery seeds out of them and mixed itself with that fire, then the wind becomes a whirlwind. Deep in the belly of the cloud it spins in a narrow space, and there, inside glowing furnaces, it sharpens the thunderbolt. For the wind is set alight in two ways: it heats up through its own speed and through repeated contact with fire. Then, when the wind's force is heated through and the fierce impulse of the fire has penetrated deep within it, the thunderbolt, now ripe, so to speak, suddenly splits the cloud. The awakened flash leaps forward, lighting everything around it with forked light. Soon afterward comes a clap so heavy that the vaults of the sky seem to burst apart and plunge down to engulf the earth. Then a fearful tremor spreads through the land, and distant rumblings roll along the heights of heaven. For at such a time almost the whole storm shakes through and through, and its roars are stirred up. From that shock comes such a roaring, abundant rain that all the darkened sky seems to turn into rain. As the rain tumbles down, it seems to call the fields back to their primeval floods. So great are the rains sent down upon people by the bursting cloud and the hurricane, when the thunderclap flies out with the burning bolt that cracks the cloud. At times the force of a wind, stirred up outside, strikes a cloud already hot with a ripe thunderbolt. When that wind splits the cloud, a fiery coil of flame at once bursts downward. We still call it a thunderbolt, using our fathers' word. The same thing happens in every other direction in which the force has swept. Sometimes, too, a force of wind is hurled out without any fire, yet during its journey through space it catches fire as it travels. It loses some larger particles that cannot pass through masses of air as the others can. Scraping together some smaller particles from the air itself, it carries them along. These mingle and make fire through their flight. In much the same way, a lead ball often grows hot as it travels through the air. It loses many particles of intense cold and takes into itself from the air new particles of fire. Sometimes, too, the force of the blow itself produces fire. This happens when a cold force of wind, hurled out without any fire, strikes something violently. It is no wonder. When the wind has struck with a tremendous blow, particles of fiery matter can stream together from the wind itself and, at the same time, from the thing that receives the blow. So fire flies when we strike stone with steel. Though the force of the steel is cold, the seeds of hot radiance rush together no less quickly under the blow. And so an object must also be set alight by a thunderbolt, if it happens to be fitted and suited to the flames. Yet we must not hastily assume that the force of wind is altogether and entirely cold, when it is discharged from above with such tremendous power. Even if it has not already caught fire on its way, it arrives warmed and mixed with heat. Now the speed and impact of a thunderbolt are so tremendous, and the bolts rush down so swiftly, because their awakened force always gathers first in the clouds. There it prepares for the great effort of bursting out. Then, when the cloud can no longer contain the growing strength of that fierce impulse, the force is pressed out. It flies with astonishing power, like projectiles hurled from mighty Roman catapults. Notice, too, that this force consists of particles both small and smooth. Nothing can easily resist a force of that kind. For it darts between things and enters through their pores. So it never slows despite countless collisions. Instead, it shoots onward with swift momentum. Next, since every weight naturally tends downward, its speed is doubled and its momentum becomes even wilder and more terrible when blows are added to its weight. Then the thunderbolt more furiously and fiercely shatters everything that blocks its path as it travels onward. Also, because it travels onward with unbroken momentum, it must gain speed again and again. Its speed keeps increasing as it goes, adding to the bolt's vast power and giving greater force to the blow. For the momentum drives all, all the thunderbolt's seeds of fire, in a straight line toward one place, as it were. As they roll, it sends them one after another along that forward course. Again, perhaps, as it travels, the bolt draws from the air certain particles whose own blows increase its speed. And look: it passes through some objects without harming them. It goes through many things and leaves them whole because its fluid fire travels through their pores. But it pierces many others when the original atoms of the bolt strike the atoms of those things at the very points where their intertwined atoms are held together. Moreover, it easily breaks apart bronze and quickly melts gold. For its force is made of parts so tiny and particles so smooth that they can easily find their way inside. Once there, they quickly undo every knot and loosen all the bonds holding the metal together. Most often in autumn the house of heaven, the house studded with glittering stars, is shaken, along with the whole earth. The same is true in spring, when the flowering season unfolds. For in the cold season there is too little fire. In the hot season winds are scarce, and clouds are not so dense. But when the seasons of heaven lie between these two, the different causes of the thunderbolt all come together. Then cold and heat are mixed at the "cross-seas" of the year. So conflict arises among things, and the air billows in vast turmoil, enraged by fires and winds. The cloud needs both of these to make a thunderbolt. For spring is the beginning of heat and the end of cold. Therefore unlike things must battle one another. When mixed, they rage in turmoil. And when the last heat mingles with the first chill at the time called autumn, then fierce cold likewise struggles with fierce heat. For this reason these seasons are called "cross-seas." It is no wonder that thunderbolts prevail at those times and turbulent storms arise in heaven. For then both sides rage in uncertain warfare: one with flames, the other with winds and waters mixed with winds. This, Memmius, is what it means to see through the very nature of the fire-bearing thunderbolt. This is what it means to observe the blind force by which it produces each effect. It does not mean unrolling Etrurian books of prophecy to seek signs of the hidden will of the gods. Those books ask where the flying flame came from, toward which half of heaven it turns, and how it has made its way through walled places. They ask how, after showing its power there, it has swiftly departed, and what evil the thunderbolt foretells from high heaven. But if Jupiter and the other gods shake those shining vaults with terrible thunder and hurl fire wherever each pleases, why do they not strike mortals guilty of reckless and revolting crimes? Then flames of red lightning could pour from their pierced breasts as they gasp, giving people a sharp lesson. Why instead is someone who knows he has committed no foul offense caught in flames, though innocent, and swept up in a whirlwind of the sky and in fire? And why do the gods aim at empty wastes and waste their efforts? Perhaps they do so to exercise their arms and strengthen their shoulders? Why do they allow the Father's spear to be blunted so against the earth? And why does he himself allow it? Why does he not save it even for his enemies? Why does he most often aim at high places? Why do we see the marks of his lightning most often on mountaintops? And why does he shoot at the sea? What sacrilege have the waves, the mass of salt water, and the floating fields of foam committed? Besides, if he wants us to guard ourselves against lightning, why is he afraid to let us see the bolt coming? On the other hand, if he wants to overwhelm us with fire when we are completely unprepared, why does he thunder over there, so that we can avoid him? Why does he first stir up the darkened air and the distant noise and rumblings? And how can you believe that he shoots in different directions at the same time? Or do you dare claim that it has never happened that several bolts have struck at once? But it has happened often and often, and it must often happen again. Just as showers and rains fall over many regions, so too many thunderbolts strike at the same time. Again, why does Jupiter never hurl a bolt down on the land or send forth clap after clap when the sky is entirely clear? Or, as soon as the clouds have appeared beneath him, does he descend into them himself so that he can choose where to aim his shaft from nearby? And finally, why does he shake apart the sacred shrines of the gods and his own splendid temples with a devastating bolt? Why does he break the finely made statues of the gods and rob his own images of their glory by violently damaging them? But let us quickly return to the subject. From these same facts it is easy to see exactly how those things the Greeks have named "bellows," from their appearance, come down from above upon the seas. For sometimes a column descends from the sky upon the sea, as if pushed down. Around it the waves boil, violently stirred up by gusting winds. Any ships caught in that turmoil are driven along and face extreme danger. This happens when the awakened force of the wind cannot burst through a cloud, despite its efforts. Instead, it pushes the cloud down until it is like a column forced down from the sky onto the sea. The cloud descends gradually, as if something were pushed down from above by a fist and the thrust of an arm, stretching far down to the waves. When the force of the wind has torn the cloud apart, it rushes out onto the sea and sets the waves boiling violently. For the swirling vortex descends and drags along with it the pliable cloud. As soon as it has pushed that laden cloud to the surface of the sea, the vortex suddenly plunges completely into the water. With a monstrous roar, it stirs up the whole sea and forces it to boil. Sometimes, too, the vortex of wind itself wraps itself in clouds. It scrapes the seeds of clouds from the air and imitates, as it were, the "bellows" pushed down from heaven. When this shape has dropped onto land and burst apart, it belches out the immense force of a whirlwind and a blast. Yet it forms only rarely, and on land the hills must block its path. So it is seen more often out there over the broad expanse of the level sea, along its open horizons. Clouds come into being when countless particles suddenly gather in the upper reaches of heaven as they fly about. These are the rougher particles of the world. Though they link by only a few bonds, they can be held firmly together, each caught on another. These particles first form small clouds. Then the clouds catch on one another and gather in a mass. They grow as they join, and winds carry them onward until the fury of a storm gathers. Also, the nearer mountain peaks are to the sky, the more constantly their distant crags smoke with the thick darkness of black clouds. For when the mists first form, before our eyes can see them, since they are so thin, the winds that carry them drive them onward to the highest peaks of the mountain. At last, when the mists gather in greater masses, they become visible through that very gathering. At the same time, they seem to rise from the mountain's very summit into the distant upper air. For observation and sensation, as we climb high mountains, clearly prove that those open heights are windy. Besides, clothes hung out along the shore take in clinging moisture. They prove that nature lifts countless particles from all over the sea. This makes it even more apparent that many particles can rise together from the surging salt sea and add to the mass of gathered clouds. For the moisture in clothes and clouds is closely related. Besides, from all rivers, and from the land itself, we see mists and steam rising. Like breath, they are driven out and carried upward to cover heaven with their darkness and, by slowly gathering, make the clouds of the sky. For, in addition, the heat above in the starry upper air presses down upon them. By a kind of condensation, it weaves the haze of dark cloud beneath the blue sky. It also happens that particles which make clouds and moving thunderheads come here to the sky from the Beyond. For I have taught that their number is countless and that the whole Abyss is infinite. I have shown how tremendously fast those particles fly and how they are accustomed to pass swiftly through immeasurable space. Therefore, it is not very strange if, in a short time, storm and darkness often cover the oceans and the land with massed thunderheads hanging high above. For everywhere, through all the narrow channels of the upper air, yes, so to speak, through all the breathing holes of the great world above that surrounds us, there are exits and entrances for the original particles. Now come, and I will explain how rainy moisture gathers in the high clouds, and how it is then discharged upon the land in great downpours. First, I will convincingly show you that many seeds of water rise together with the clouds themselves from all things. Both clouds and the water in them increase in the same proportion, just as our bodies grow in proportion with our blood, sweat, and any other moisture in our limbs. Besides, from time to time the clouds take in much moisture rising from the broad sea. The winds carry them over the mighty sea like hanging fleeces of white wool. In the same way, moisture is lifted into the clouds from all rivers. When so many seeds of water have come together in the clouds in many ways, increasing from every side, the tightly packed clouds struggle to release their storms for two reasons: the force of the wind crowds them together, and the excess of storm clouds, gathered in a greater mass, presses down from above and makes the rains pour out. Also, when the clouds are sifted by the winds or scattered after the sun's heat strikes them from above, they release their rainy moisture and drip, just as wax wastes away and melts in abundance when heated by fire from above. But heavier rains fall with violence when the clouds are violently weighed down both by their accumulated mass and by the attack of the wind. Rains tend to last for a while and continue for a long time when many seeds of water are stirred up, when clouds and banks of clouds stream out in piled layers and are carried along from every direction, and when the whole earth steams and breathes out its moisture. At such a time, when the sun shines through the darkness of the storm upon the showers of black rain, the bright radiance of the bow appears in the dark clouds. As for things not mentioned here, which grow or arise of themselves, and all things that take shape in the clouds, all of them: snow and winds, hail and cold frosts, and freezing, that mighty force, the mighty hardener of lakes and pools, which in winter everywhere powerfully checks the flowing rivers, it is still easy to discover and understand how they all happen and what produces them. You can soon do so once you have understood what powers have been given from the beginning to the creative atoms of the world. Now come, and listen to the principles of earthquakes. First, take care to understand that the earth below, like the earth around us, is full of windy caverns everywhere. It holds many pools and many fearful abysses within its depths, and cliffs and jagged slopes. Many a river, hidden beneath its ridge, rolls swiftly along, carrying its waves and tumbling boulders. For plain fact requires that the earth must have the same structure in every part. Therefore, with these things fixed and set beneath it, the earth trembles above when great falls shake it. These occur when time has undermined the vast underground caves. Whole mountains fall, and at once, from the place of that great shock, tremors spread far and wide. And with good reason. Houses along a street begin to shake throughout when jolted by a cart of no great weight. Furniture inside a house also jumps when a paving stone jolts either iron rim of its wheels. Sometimes, too, a vast mass of soil worn away by age rolls down a mountainside into a great pool of dark water. Then the swaying land itself is rocked by the movement of the water, just as a basin sometimes will not come to rest until the liquid inside it stops rocking in irregular waves. Besides, when underground winds gather in the hollow depths and surge forward from one place, they press with the great force of their power against the towering caverns. Then the earth bulges in the direction the rushing winds are pushing. All the houses built above ground, especially those built higher toward the sky, lean ominously, tipping in the same direction. Their beams, wrenched forward, hang over, ready to fall. Yet people fear to believe that the nature of the mighty world faces a time of destruction and collapse, though they see such a great mass of earth bulge and break! If the winds did not blow back again, no force could restrain things or keep them from rushing to certain disaster. But as it is, the winds blow strongly back and forth by turns. They rally, so to speak, and charge again, then retreat when driven back. For this reason the earth threatens terrible collapses more often than it brings them about. It leans to one side, then sways back. After tottering forward, it recovers its balance. This is why whole houses rock, their roofs more than their middle stories, the middle more than the lowest, and the lowest least of all. The same great shaking of the earth also arises when wind and some vast force of air, gathered outside or deep within the ancient earth, rush into those underground caverns. At first they rage through the vast caves, driven around in wild circles. Then their force, whipped up, bursts outward and, splitting the deep earth, makes a great chasm. This once happened in Sidon in Syria and once in Aegium in the Peloponnese. Long ago, such an outbreak of wild air and the earth's convulsion that swiftly followed overthrew both cities. Many another walled town, too, has fallen through such immensely powerful convulsions on land. And in the sea many a city has sunk and been engulfed with all its people. But if the winds do not burst out, the rush of wild air and the furious force of wind spread like a fever through the countless pores of the earth and shake it all. So a chill, when it has entered the marrow of our bones, makes us convulse against our will, shivering and shaking. Therefore, people, alarmed by two kinds of fear, rush to and fro through cities. They fear the roofs above their heads, and beneath their feet they dread the caverns. They fear that the earth's nature may suddenly tear them open, and that the earth, split apart, may gape with a tremendous mouth and, thrown into confusion, try to fill it with its own ruins. Let people go on imagining as they please that heaven and earth are indestructible, entrusted forever to eternal safety. Yet at times the very force of danger close at hand pricks them with this fear among others: that the earth may suddenly be withdrawn from beneath their feet and plunge down, down into the abyss, with the Sum-of-Things following after, utterly destroyed, until nothing remains but the wreckage of a world.

EXTRAORDINARY AND PARADOXICAL TELLURIC PHENOMENA

EXTRAORDINARY AND PARADOXICAL EARTH PHENOMENA

In chief, men marvel nature renders not Bigger and bigger the bulk of ocean, since So vast the down-rush of the waters be, And every river out of every realm Cometh thereto; and add the random rains And flying tempests, which spatter every sea And every land bedew; add their own springs: Yet all of these unto the ocean's sum Shall be but as the increase of a drop. Wherefore 'tis less a marvel that the sea, The mighty ocean, increaseth not. Besides, Sun with his heat draws off a mighty part: Yea, we behold that sun with burning beams To dry our garments dripping all with wet; And many a sea, and far out-spread beneath, Do we behold. Therefore, however slight The portion of wet that sun on any spot Culls from the level main, he still will take From off the waves in such a wide expanse Abundantly. Then, further, also winds, Sweeping the level waters, can bear off A mighty part of wet, since we behold Oft in a single night the highways dried By winds, and soft mud crusted o'er at dawn. Again, I've taught thee that the clouds bear off Much moisture too, up-taken from the reaches Of the mighty main, and sprinkle it about O'er all the zones, when rain is on the lands And winds convey the aery racks of vapour. Lastly, since earth is porous through her frame, And neighbours on the seas, girdling their shores, The water's wet must seep into the lands From briny ocean, as from lands it comes Into the seas. For brine is filtered off, And then the liquid stuff seeps back again And all re-poureth at the river-heads, Whence in fresh-water currents it returns Over the lands, adown the channels which Were cleft erstwhile and erstwhile bore along The liquid-footed floods. And now the cause Whereby athrough the throat of Aetna's Mount Such vast tornado-fires out-breathe at times, I will unfold: for with no middling might Of devastation the flamy tempest rose And held dominion in Sicilian fields: Drawing upon itself the upturned faces Of neighbouring clans, what time they saw afar The skiey vaults a-fume and sparkling all, And filled their bosoms with dread anxiety Of what new thing nature were travailing at. In these affairs it much behooveth thee To look both wide and deep, and far abroad To peer to every quarter, that thou mayst Remember how boundless is the Sum-of-Things, And mark how infinitely small a part Of the whole Sum is this one sky of ours— O not so large a part as is one man Of the whole earth. And plainly if thou viewest This cosmic fact, placing it square in front, And plainly understandest, thou wilt leave Wondering at many things. For who of us Wondereth if some one gets into his joints A fever, gathering head with fiery heat, Or any other dolorous disease Along his members? For anon the foot Grows blue and bulbous; often the sharp twinge Seizes the teeth, attacks the very eyes; Out-breaks the sacred fire, and, crawling on Over the body, burneth every part It seizeth on, and works its hideous way Along the frame. No marvel this, since, lo, Of things innumerable be seeds enough, And this our earth and sky do bring to us Enough of bane from whence can grow the strength Of maladies uncounted. Thuswise, then, We must suppose to all the sky and earth Are ever supplied from out the infinite All things, O all in stores enough whereby The shaken earth can of a sudden move, And fierce typhoons can over sea and lands Go tearing on, and Aetna's fires o'erflow, And heaven become a flame-burst. For that, too, Happens at times, and the celestial vaults Glow into fire, and rainy tempests rise In heavier congregation, when, percase, The seeds of water have foregathered thus From out the infinite. "Aye, but passing huge The fiery turmoil of that conflagration!" So sayst thou; well, huge many a river seems To him that erstwhile ne'er a larger saw; Thus, huge seems tree or man; and everything Which mortal sees the biggest of each class, That he imagines to be "huge"; though yet All these, with sky and land and sea to boot, Are all as nothing to the sum entire Of the all-Sum. But now I will unfold At last how yonder suddenly angered flame Out-blows abroad from vasty furnaces Aetnaean. First, the mountain's nature is All under-hollow, propped about, about With caverns of basaltic piers. And, lo, In all its grottos be there wind and air— For wind is made when air hath been uproused By violent agitation. When this air Is heated through and through, and, raging round, Hath made the earth and all the rocks it touches Horribly hot, and hath struck off from them Fierce fire of swiftest flame, it lifts itself And hurtles thus straight upwards through its throat Into high heav'n, and thus bears on afar Its burning blasts and scattereth afar Its ashes, and rolls a smoke of pitchy murk And heaveth the while boulders of wondrous weight— Leaving no doubt in thee that 'tis the air's Tumultuous power. Besides, in mighty part, The sea there at the roots of that same mount Breaks its old billows and sucks back its surf. And grottos from the sea pass in below Even to the bottom of the mountain's throat. Herethrough thou must admit there go...

Above all, people wonder why nature does not make the ocean larger and larger, since such vast amounts of water rush into it, and every river from every land flows into it. Add the scattered rains and passing storms, which splash every sea and water every land. Add the ocean's own springs. Yet all these added to the ocean's total are like the addition of a single drop. So it is less surprising that the sea, the mighty ocean, does not grow. Besides, the sun draws off a great deal of water with its heat. We see the sun's burning rays dry our clothes when they are dripping wet. And we see many seas, spread out far beneath the sun. So, however little moisture the sun gathers from any one spot on the level sea, it still takes a great deal from the waves across such a wide expanse. Then, too, the winds, sweeping over the level waters, can carry off a great deal of moisture. We often see roads dried by the wind in a single night, and soft mud crusted over by dawn. Again, I have taught you that clouds carry off much moisture, drawn up from the expanse of the mighty sea. They scatter it over every region, when rain falls on the land and winds carry the clouds of vapor. Finally, the earth is porous throughout, and it borders the seas, surrounding their shores. So water must seep into the land from the salty ocean, just as it comes from the land into the seas. For the salt is filtered out, and the water then seeps back and pours out again at the sources of rivers. From there it returns in freshwater streams across the land, down channels that were cut long ago and long ago carried the flowing floods. And now I will explain why, through the throat of Mount Aetna, such vast whirlwinds of fire sometimes burst out. For the fiery storm rose with devastating force and took hold of the Sicilian fields. It drew the upturned faces of neighboring peoples, when they saw from afar the vaults of the sky smoking and sparkling, and filled their hearts with dread at what new thing nature was bringing forth. In these matters, you must look widely and deeply, and search far in every direction, so that you remember how boundless the Sum-of-Things is, and see what an infinitely small part of the whole Sum our one sky is. It is not even so large a part as one person is of the whole earth. If you see this fact about the universe clearly, keep it before you, and understand it clearly, you will stop wondering at many things. For who among us is surprised when someone develops in the joints a fever that grows fierce with burning heat, or any other painful disease in the limbs? Sometimes the foot turns blue and swells. Often a sharp pain seizes the teeth or attacks the eyes. Sacred fire breaks out and creeps over the body, burning every part it reaches, and makes its terrible way along the frame. This is no wonder, since there are enough seeds of countless things, and our earth and sky bring us enough harmful matter for the force of countless diseases to grow from it. In the same way, we must suppose that the whole sky and earth are always supplied from the infinite with all things, yes, all things in quantities great enough for the earth to shake and suddenly move, for fierce storms to tear across sea and land, for Aetna's fires to overflow, and for the sky to burst into flame. That, too, happens sometimes. The vaults of heaven glow with fire, and rainstorms gather in greater force, when, perhaps, the seeds of water have gathered from the infinite. "Yes, but how enormous the fiery turmoil of that blaze was!" So you say. Well, many a river seems enormous to someone who has never seen a larger one. A tree or a person seems enormous in the same way. Whatever is the biggest thing of its kind a mortal sees, that person imagines to be "enormous". Yet all these things, together with sky, land, and sea, are all as nothing compared with the entire Sum-of-Things. But now I will finally explain how that suddenly raging flame blasts out from Aetna's vast furnaces. First, the mountain is hollow underneath, supported all around by caverns with basalt pillars. And all its caverns contain wind and air. For wind is made when air is stirred up by violent motion. When this air is heated through and through, and, raging around, has made the earth and all the rocks it touches terribly hot, and has struck from them fierce fire and the swiftest flame, it rises and rushes straight upward through the mountain's throat into the high heavens. So it carries far its burning blasts and scatters far its ashes. It rolls out pitch-dark smoke and at the same time hurls enormously heavy boulders. These leave you no doubt that the air's violent power is at work. Besides, along much of the base of that same mountain, the sea breaks its waves and draws back its surf. And caverns lead inward from the sea to the bottom of the mountain's throat. Through these you must admit there pass...

And the conditions force [the water and air] Deeply to penetrate from the open sea, And to out-blow abroad, and to up-bear Thereby the flame, and to up-cast from deeps The boulders, and to rear the clouds of sand. For at the top be "bowls," as people there Are wont to name what we at Rome do call The throats and mouths. There be, besides, some thing Of which 'tis not enough one only cause To state—but rather several, whereof one Will be the true: lo, if thou shouldst espy Lying afar some fellow's lifeless corse, 'Twere meet to name all causes of a death, That cause of his death might thereby be named: For prove thou mayst he perished not by steel, By cold, nor even by poison nor disease, Yet somewhat of this sort hath come to him We know—And thus we have to say the same In divers cases. Toward the summer, Nile Waxeth and overfloweth the champaign, Unique in all the landscape, river sole Of the Aegyptians. In mid-season heats Often and oft he waters Aegypt o'er, Either because in summer against his mouths Come those northwinds which at that time of year Men name the Etesian blasts, and, blowing thus Upstream, retard, and, forcing back his waves, Fill him o'erfull and force his flow to stop. For out of doubt these blasts which driven be From icy constellations of the pole Are borne straight up the river. Comes that river From forth the sultry places down the south, Rising far up in midmost realm of day, Among black generations of strong men With sun-baked skins. 'Tis possible, besides, That a big bulk of piled sand may bar His mouths against his onward waves, when sea, Wild in the winds, tumbles the sand to inland; Whereby the river's outlet were less free, Likewise less headlong his descending floods. It may be, too, that in this season rains Are more abundant at its fountain head, Because the Etesian blasts of those northwinds Then urge all clouds into those inland parts. And, soothly, when they're thus foregathered there, Urged yonder into midmost realm of day, Then, crowded against the lofty mountain sides, They're massed and powerfully pressed. Again, Perchance, his waters wax, O far away, Among the Aethiopians' lofty mountains, When the all-beholding sun with thawing beams Drives the white snows to flow into the vales. Now come; and unto thee I will unfold, As to the Birdless spots and Birdless tarns, What sort of nature they are furnished with. First, as to name of "birdless,"—that derives From very fact, because they noxious be Unto all birds. For when above those spots In horizontal flight the birds have come, Forgetting to oar with wings, they furl their sails, And, with down-drooping of their delicate necks, Fall headlong into earth, if haply such The nature of the spots, or into water, If haply spreads thereunder Birdless tarn. Such spot's at Cumae, where the mountains smoke, Charged with the pungent sulphur, and increased With steaming springs. And such a spot there is Within the walls of Athens, even there On summit of Acropolis, beside Fane of Tritonian Pallas bountiful, Where never cawing crows can wing their course, Not even when smoke the altars with good gifts,— But evermore they flee—yet not from wrath Of Pallas, grieved at that espial old, As poets of the Greeks have sung the tale; But very nature of the place compels. In Syria also—as men say—a spot Is to be seen, where also four-foot kinds, As soon as ever they've set their steps within, Collapse, o'ercome by its essential power, As if there slaughtered to the under-gods. Lo, all these wonders work by natural law, And from what causes they are brought to pass The origin is manifest; so, haply, Let none believe that in these regions stands The gate of Orcus, nor us then suppose, Haply, that thence the under-gods draw down Souls to dark shores of Acheron—as stags, The wing-footed, are thought to draw to light, By sniffing nostrils, from their dusky lairs The wriggling generations of wild snakes. How far removed from true reason is this, Perceive thou straight; for now I'll try to say Somewhat about the very fact. And, first, This do I say, as oft I've said before: In earth are atoms of things of every sort; And know, these all thus rise from out the earth— Many life-giving which be good for food, And many which can generate disease And hasten death, O many primal seeds Of many things in many modes—since earth Contains them mingled and gives forth discrete. And we have shown before that certain things Be unto certain creatures suited more For ends of life, by virtue of a nature, A texture, and primordial shapes, unlike For kinds alike. Then too 'tis thine to see How many things oppressive be and foul To man, and to sensation most malign: Many meander miserably through ears; Many in-wind athrough the nostrils too, Malign and harsh when mortal draws a breath; Of not a few must one avoid the touch; Of not a few must one escape the sight; And some there be all loathsome to the taste; And many, besides, relax the languid limbs Along the frame, and undermine the soul In its abodes within. To certain trees There hath been given so dolorous a shade That often they gender achings of the head, If one but be beneath, outstretched on the sward. There is, again, on Helicon's high hills A tree that's wont to kill a man outright By fetid odour of its very flower. And when the pungent stench of the night-lamp, Extinguished but a moment since, assails The nostrils, then and there it puts to sleep A man afflicted with the falling sickness And foamings at the mouth. A woman, too, At the heavy castor drowses back in chair, And from her delicate fingers slips away Her gaudy handiwork, if haply she Hath got the whiff at menstruation-time. Once more, if thou delayest in hot baths, When thou art over-full, how readily From stool in middle of the steaming water Thou tumblest in a fit! How readily The heavy fumes of charcoal wind their way Into the brain, unless beforehand we Of water 've drunk. But when a burning fever, O'ermastering man, hath seized upon his limbs, Then odour of wine is like a hammer-blow. And seest thou not how in the very earth Sulphur is gendered and bitumen thickens With noisome stench?—What direful stenches, too, Scaptensula out-breathes from down below, When men pursue the veins of silver and gold, With pick-axe probing round the hidden realms Deep in the earth?—Or what of deadly bane The mines of gold exhale? O what a look, And what a ghastly hue they give to men! And seest thou not, or hearest, how they're wont In little time to perish, and how fail The life-stores in those folk whom mighty power Of grim necessity confineth there In such a task? Thus, this telluric earth Out-streams with all these dread effluvia And breathes them out into the open world And into the visible regions under heaven. Thus, too, those Birdless places must up-send An essence bearing death to winged things, Which from the earth rises into the breezes To poison part of skiey space, and when Thither the winged is on pennons borne, There, seized by the unseen poison, 'tis ensnared, And from the horizontal of its flight Drops to the spot whence sprang the effluvium. And when 'thas there collapsed, then the same power Of that effluvium takes from all its limbs The relics of its life. That power first strikes The creatures with a wildering dizziness, And then thereafter, when they're once down-fallen Into the poison's very fountains, then Life, too, they vomit out perforce, because So thick the stores of bane around them fume. Again, at times it happens that this power, This exhalation of the Birdless places, Dispels the air betwixt the ground and birds, Leaving well-nigh a void. And thither when In horizontal flight the birds have come, Forthwith their buoyancy of pennons limps, All useless, and each effort of both wings Falls out in vain. Here, when without all power To buoy themselves and on their wings to lean, Lo, nature constrains them by their weight to slip Down to the earth, and lying prostrate there Along the well-nigh empty void, they spend Their souls through all the openings of their frame.

And these conditions force [the water and air] To penetrate deep inland from the open sea, And to blow outward, and thereby lift The flame, and hurl boulders up from the depths, And raise clouds of sand. For at the top are "bowls," as the people there Usually call what we in Rome call The throats and mouths. There are, besides, some things For which it is not enough to state only one cause. Instead, we must give several, one of which Will be the true one. Suppose you saw A man's lifeless body lying at a distance. You should name all possible causes of death, So that his cause of death might be named among them. You may prove that he did not die by the sword, Or from cold, poison, or disease. Yet we know that something of this kind happened to him. And we must say the same In various cases. Toward summer, the Nile Grows and overflows the plain. It is unique in all the land, the Egyptians' only river. In the middle of the hot season, It often floods Egypt. This may be because, in summer, north winds blow against its mouths. At that time of year, People call them the Etesian winds. Blowing Upstream, they slow the river and drive its waters back. They fill it to overflowing and stop its flow. For these winds undoubtedly come From the icy constellations of the pole And blow straight up the river. The river comes From the hot southern regions, Rising far away in the heart of the sunlit world, Among black peoples of strong men With sun-baked skins. It is also possible That a great mass of piled-up sand blocks Its mouths against the advancing waters, when the sea, Wild with wind, throws the sand inland. Then the river has a narrower outlet, And its downward flow is less swift. It may also be that, in this season, rain Is heavier at the river's source, Because the Etesian north winds Drive all the clouds into those inland regions. And surely, when the clouds gather there, Driven into the heart of the sunlit world, They crowd against the high mountain slopes. There they collect and are pressed together. Or perhaps The Nile's waters rise far away, Among the high mountains of the Aethiopians, When the all-seeing sun, with its thawing rays, Makes the white snow flow down into the valleys. Now come, and I will explain to you The nature of the Birdless places and Birdless lakes. First, the name "birdless" comes From the very fact that these places are harmful To all birds. When birds in level flight Come above those places, They forget to row with their wings and fold their sails. Their delicate necks droop, And they fall headfirst onto the ground, if the place Happens to be land, or into water, If a Birdless lake happens to lie beneath them. There is such a place at Cumae, where the mountains smoke, Full of pungent sulphur and made greater By steaming springs. There is also such a place Within the walls of Athens, on The summit of the Acropolis, beside The temple of generous Tritonian Pallas. There, cawing crows can never fly, Not even when the altars smoke with fine offerings. They always flee, but not because Pallas is angry over that old act of spying, As the Greek poets have told the story. Rather, the nature of the place itself drives them away. In Syria, too, people say there is a place Where even four-footed animals, As soon as they set foot inside, Collapse, overcome by the place's own power, As if sacrificed there to the gods below. All these wonders work by natural law, And the causes that bring them about Are clear. So perhaps No one will believe that the gate of Orcus stands In these regions, or suppose That from there the gods below drag Souls down to the dark shores of Acheron. That would be like the belief that swift-footed stags Draw wriggling wild snakes out into the light From their dark dens by sniffing them out. See at once how far this is From true reason. For now I will try to say Something about the facts themselves. First, I say this, as I have often said before: The earth contains atoms of every kind. And know that all these rise from the earth. Many give life and are good for food, And many can cause disease And hasten death. There are many primary seeds Of many things, in many forms. The earth Contains them mixed together and releases them separately. And we have shown before that certain things Are better suited to sustain certain creatures, Because their nature, Structure, and original shapes differ From those of other kinds. You can also see How many things are oppressive and foul To humans, and deeply harmful to the senses. Many make their miserable way through the ears. Many also wind into the nostrils, Harmful and harsh when a person breathes them in. Some must not be touched. Some must not be seen. And some are all disgusting to the taste. Many others weaken the slack limbs Throughout the body and undermine the soul In its dwelling within. Certain trees Cast such painful shade That they often cause headaches If one merely lies beneath them on the grass. Again, on the high hills of Helicon There is a tree that can kill a man outright With the foul smell of its flower. And when the pungent stink of a night lamp, Just extinguished, reaches The nostrils, it immediately puts to sleep A man afflicted with epilepsy And foaming at the mouth. A woman, too, Sinks drowsily back in her chair at the strong smell of castor. Her brightly colored work slips From her delicate fingers, if she happens To smell it during menstruation. Again, if you stay in hot baths When you are too full, how easily You tumble in a faint from your stool Into the steaming water! How easily The heavy fumes of charcoal make their way Into the brain, unless we have first Drunk water. But when a burning fever Has overpowered a man and seized his limbs, The smell of wine strikes him like a hammer. And do you not see how, in the earth itself, Sulphur forms and bitumen thickens With a foul smell? What terrible stenches, too, Scaptensula breathes up from below When men follow veins of silver and gold, Probing with pickaxes into the hidden regions Deep in the earth! And what deadly poison The gold mines breathe out! What a look, What a ghastly color, they give men! And do you not see or hear how these men Usually perish in a short time? How their stores of life Fail, when the mighty power Of grim necessity confines them there To such work? Thus the earth Pours out all these dreadful fumes And breathes them into the open world, Into the visible regions under heaven. So, too, those Birdless places must send up A substance that brings death to winged creatures. It rises from the earth into the breezes And poisons part of the sky. When A bird flies on its wings into that space, The unseen poison seizes and traps it. From its level flight, It drops onto the place where the fumes arose. And when it has fallen there, the same power Of those fumes takes from all its limbs What remains of its life. That power first strikes The creatures with a bewildering dizziness. Then, once they have fallen Into the very source of the poison, They must vomit out their lives as well, because The poisonous fumes are so thick around them. Again, sometimes the power Of these fumes from the Birdless places Drives away the air between the ground and the birds, Leaving almost a void. And when Birds in level flight come there, At once their wings lose their lift. Their wings are useless, and every effort They make with both wings is in vain. Here, when they lack the power To keep themselves up and rest on their wings, Nature forces them to fall by their own weight To the earth. Lying there In the almost empty void, they let out Their souls through all the openings of their bodies.

Further, the water of wells is colder then At summer time, because the earth by heat Is rarefied, and sends abroad in air Whatever seeds it peradventure have Of its own fiery exhalations. The more, then, the telluric ground is drained Of heat, the colder grows the water hid Within the earth. Further, when all the earth Is by the cold compressed, and thus contracts And, so to say, concretes, it happens, lo, That by contracting it expresses then Into the wells what heat it bears itself. 'Tis said at Hammon's fane a fountain is, In daylight cold and hot in time of night. This fountain men be-wonder over-much, And think that suddenly it seethes in heat By intense sun, the subterranean, when Night with her terrible murk hath cloaked the lands— What's not true reasoning by a long remove: I' faith when sun o'erhead, touching with beams An open body of water, had no power To render it hot upon its upper side, Though his high light possess such burning glare, How, then, can he, when under the gross earth, Make water boil and glut with fiery heat?— And, specially, since scarcely potent he Through hedging walls of houses to inject His exhalations hot, with ardent rays. What, then's, the principle? Why, this, indeed: The earth about that spring is porous more Than elsewhere the telluric ground, and be Many the seeds of fire hard by the water; On this account, when night with dew-fraught shades Hath whelmed the earth, anon the earth deep down Grows chill, contracts; and thuswise squeezes out Into the spring what seeds she holds of fire (As one might squeeze with fist), which render hot The touch and steam of the fluid. Next, when sun, Up-risen, with his rays has split the soil And rarefied the earth with waxing heat, Again into their ancient abodes return The seeds of fire, and all the Hot of water Into the earth retires; and this is why The fountain in the daylight gets so cold. Besides, the water's wet is beat upon By rays of sun, and, with the dawn, becomes Rarer in texture under his pulsing blaze; And, therefore, whatso seeds it holds of fire It renders up, even as it renders oft The frost that it contains within itself And thaws its ice and looseneth the knots. There is, moreover, a fountain cold in kind That makes a bit of tow (above it held) Take fire forthwith and shoot a flame; so, too, A pitch-pine torch will kindle and flare round Along its waves, wherever 'tis impelled Afloat before the breeze. No marvel, this: Because full many seeds of heat there be Within the water; and, from earth itself Out of the deeps must particles of fire Athrough the entire fountain surge aloft, And speed in exhalations into air Forth and abroad (yet not in numbers enow As to make hot the fountain). And, moreo'er, Some force constrains them, scattered through the water, Forthwith to burst abroad, and to combine In flame above. Even as a fountain far There is at Aradus amid the sea, Which bubbles out sweet water and disparts From round itself the salt waves; and, behold, In many another region the broad main Yields to the thirsty mariners timely help, Belching sweet waters forth amid salt waves. Just so, then, can those seeds of fire burst forth Athrough that other fount, and bubble out Abroad against the bit of tow; and when They there collect or cleave unto the torch, Forthwith they readily flash aflame, because The tow and torches, also, in themselves Have many seeds of latent fire. Indeed, And seest thou not, when near the nightly lamps Thou bringest a flaxen wick, extinguished A moment since, it catches fire before 'Thas touched the flame, and in same wise a torch? And many another object flashes aflame When at a distance, touched by heat alone, Before 'tis steeped in veritable fire. This, then, we must suppose to come to pass In that spring also. Now to other things! And I'll begin to treat by what decree Of nature it came to pass that iron can be By that stone drawn which Greeks the magnet call After the country's name (its origin Being in country of Magnesian folk). This stone men marvel at; and sure it oft Maketh a chain of rings, depending, lo, From off itself! Nay, thou mayest see at times Five or yet more in order dangling down And swaying in the delicate winds, whilst one Depends from other, cleaving to under-side, And ilk one feels the stone's own power and bonds— So over-masteringly its power flows down. In things of this sort, much must be made sure Ere thou account of the thing itself canst give, And the approaches roundabout must be; Wherefore the more do I exact of thee A mind and ears attent. First, from all things We see soever, evermore must flow, Must be discharged and strewn about, about, Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight. From certain things flow odours evermore, As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls Along the coasts. Nor ever cease to seep The varied echoings athrough the air. Then, too, there comes into the mouth at times The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch The wormwood being mixed, its bitter stings. To such degree from all things is each thing Borne streamingly along, and sent about To every region round; and nature grants Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow, Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have, And all the time are suffered to descry And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound. Now will I seek again to bring to mind How porous a body all things have—a fact Made manifest in my first canto, too. For, truly, though to know this doth import For many things, yet for this very thing On which straightway I'm going to discourse, 'Tis needful most of all to make it sure That naught's at hand but body mixed with void. A first ensample: in grottos, rocks o'erhead Sweat moisture and distil the oozy drops; Likewise, from all our body seeps the sweat; There grows the beard, and along our members all And along our frame the hairs. Through all our veins Disseminates the foods, and gives increase And aliment down to the extreme parts, Even to the tiniest finger-nails. Likewise, Through solid bronze the cold and fiery heat We feel to pass; likewise, we feel them pass Through gold, through silver, when we clasp in hand The brimming goblets. And, again, there flit Voices through houses' hedging walls of stone; Odour seeps through, and cold, and heat of fire That's wont to penetrate even strength of iron. Again, where corselet of the sky girds round

Also, well water is colder in summer because heat loosens the earth and sends out into the air whatever seeds it may contain of its own fiery vapors. The more the ground is drained of heat, the colder the water hidden within it becomes. Also, when the whole earth is compressed by cold, it contracts and, so to speak, hardens. As it contracts, it squeezes the heat it holds into the wells. They say there is a spring at Hammon's temple that is cold by day and hot at night. People marvel too much at this spring and think it suddenly boils with heat from the intense sun beneath the earth, when night has covered the lands in terrible darkness. That reasoning is very far from true. Surely, when the sun is overhead and its rays touch an open body of water, it cannot heat even the surface, though its light has such a burning glare. How, then, can the sun, when it is beneath the thick earth, make water boil and fill it with fiery heat? And especially since it can barely send its hot vapors and burning rays through the walls surrounding houses. What, then, is the explanation? It is this: The earth around that spring is more porous than the ground elsewhere, and there are many seeds of fire close to the water. So when night has covered the earth with its dewy darkness, the earth deep down soon grows cold and contracts. In this way, it squeezes its seeds of fire into the spring, as a fist might squeeze them out. They make the water hot to the touch and steaming. Next, when the risen sun has split the soil with its rays and loosened the earth with its growing heat, the seeds of fire return to their old places, and all the heat of the water withdraws into the earth. This is why the spring becomes so cold in daylight. Besides, the sun's rays beat down on the water, and at dawn its texture becomes looser under their pulsing blaze. So it gives up whatever seeds of fire it holds, just as it often gives up the frost it contains, thawing its ice and loosening its bonds. There is also a naturally cold spring that instantly sets a piece of tow held above it on fire and makes it burst into flame. Likewise, a pitch-pine torch will catch fire and flare over its waters, wherever the breeze drives it along. This is no wonder, because there are many seeds of heat in the water. And from the depths of the earth itself, particles of fire must rise through the whole spring and stream out as vapors into the air all around, though not in enough numbers to make the spring hot. And some force compels them, scattered through the water, to burst out at once and join in flame above it. In the same way, far away, there is a spring at Aradus, in the middle of the sea, that bubbles up fresh water and pushes apart the salt waves around it. And look, in many another region the broad sea gives thirsty sailors help when they need it, belching fresh water among its salt waves. So those seeds of fire can burst through the other spring and bubble out against the piece of tow. When they gather there or cling to the torch, they readily burst into flame, because the tow and torches themselves also contain many seeds of hidden fire. Indeed, don't you see that when you bring a flax wick near a lamp at night, after putting it out just a moment before, it catches fire before it has touched the flame? A torch does the same. And many another thing bursts into flame at a distance, touched by heat alone, before it is enveloped in actual fire. So we must suppose that this happens in that spring too. Now to other things! I will begin to explain by what law of nature iron can be drawn by the stone the Greeks call a magnet, after the name of the country. It comes from the country of the Magnesian people. People marvel at this stone, and indeed it often makes a chain of rings hanging from it! Why, you may sometimes see five or more hanging in a row, swaying in the gentle breezes. Each hangs from the one above, clinging to its underside, and each feels the stone's power and pull. So strongly does its power flow down. In matters like this, much must be established before you can explain the thing itself, and the approach must go by a roundabout way. So I ask all the more for your attentive mind and ears. First, from all things we see, particles must constantly flow, be discharged and scattered all around, striking our eyes and awakening sight. From certain things odors constantly flow, as cold flows from rivers, heat from the sun, and spray from ocean waves, which wear away walls along the coasts. Nor do varied echoes ever stop passing through the air. At times, too, a salty taste comes into our mouths when we walk by the sea. And whenever we watch wormwood being mixed, its bitterness stings. So, from all things, each kind of particle streams out and is sent in every direction around it. Nature grants no rest or pause in this onward flow, since we constantly have sensations and can always see and smell everything nearby and hear its sounds. Now I will remind you how porous the bodies of all things are. I made this fact clear in my first canto too. For although knowing it matters for many things, yet for the very subject I am about to discuss, it is above all necessary to establish that nothing exists but body mixed with void. First, in caves, the rocks overhead sweat moisture and drip wet drops. Likewise, sweat seeps from our whole body. Our beards grow, and hair grows along all our limbs and over our frame. Food spreads through all our veins, giving growth and nourishment to our farthest parts, even to our smallest fingernails. Likewise, we feel cold and fiery heat pass through solid bronze. We feel them pass through gold and silver too, when we hold brimming cups in our hands. Again, voices pass through the stone walls of houses. Odor seeps through, and cold, and the heat of fire, which can penetrate even strong iron. Again, where the breastplate of the sky surrounds

And at same time, some Influence of bane, When from Beyond 'thas stolen into [our world]. And tempests, gathering from the earth and sky, Back to the sky and earth absorbed retire— With reason, since there's naught that's fashioned not With body porous. Furthermore, not all The particles which be from things thrown off Are furnished with same qualities for sense, Nor be for all things equally adapt. A first ensample: the sun doth bake and parch The earth; but ice he thaws, and with his beams Compels the lofty snows, up-reared white Upon the lofty hills, to waste away; Then, wax, if set beneath the heat of him, Melts to a liquid. And the fire, likewise, Will melt the copper and will fuse the gold, But hides and flesh it shrivels up and shrinks. The water hardens the iron just off the fire, But hides and flesh (made hard by heat) it softens. The oleaster-tree as much delights The bearded she-goats, verily as though 'Twere nectar-steeped and shed ambrosia; Than which is naught that burgeons into leaf More bitter food for man. A hog draws back For marjoram oil, and every unguent fears Fierce poison these unto the bristled hogs, Yet unto us from time to time they seem, As 'twere, to give new life. But, contrariwise, Though unto us the mire be filth most foul, To hogs that mire doth so delightsome seem That they with wallowing from belly to back Are never cloyed. A point remains, besides, Which best it seems to tell of, ere I go To telling of the fact at hand itself. Since to the varied things assigned be The many pores, those pores must be diverse In nature one from other, and each have Its very shape, its own direction fixed. And so, indeed, in breathing creatures be The several senses, of which each takes in Unto itself, in its own fashion ever, Its own peculiar object. For we mark How sounds do into one place penetrate, Into another flavours of all juice, And savour of smell into a third. Moreover, One sort through rocks we see to seep, and, lo, One sort to pass through wood, another still Through gold, and others to go out and off Through silver and through glass. For we do see Through some pores form-and-look of things to flow, Through others heat to go, and some things still To speedier pass than others through same pores. Of verity, the nature of these same paths, Varying in many modes (as aforesaid) Because of unlike nature and warp and woof Of cosmic things, constrains it so to be. Wherefore, since all these matters now have been Established and settled well for us As premises prepared, for what remains 'Twill not be hard to render clear account By means of these, and the whole cause reveal Whereby the magnet lures the strength of iron. First, stream there must from off the lode-stone seeds Innumerable, a very tide, which smites By blows that air asunder lying betwixt The stone and iron. And when is emptied out This space, and a large place between the two Is made a void, forthwith the primal germs Of iron, headlong slipping, fall conjoined Into the vacuum, and the ring itself By reason thereof doth follow after and go Thuswise with all its body. And naught there is That of its own primordial elements More thoroughly knit or tighter linked coheres Than nature and cold roughness of stout iron. Wherefore, 'tis less a marvel what I said, That from such elements no bodies can From out the iron collect in larger throng And be into the vacuum borne along, Without the ring itself do follow after. And this it does, and followeth on until 'Thath reached the stone itself and cleaved to it By links invisible. Moreover, likewise, The motion's assisted by a thing of aid (Whereby the process easier becomes),— Namely, by this: as soon as rarer grows That air in front of the ring, and space between Is emptied more and made a void, forthwith It happens all the air that lies behind Conveys it onward, pushing from the rear. For ever doth the circumambient air Drub things unmoved, but here it pushes forth The iron, because upon one side the space Lies void and thus receives the iron in. This air, whereof I am reminding thee, Winding athrough the iron's abundant pores So subtly into the tiny parts thereof, Shoves it and pushes, as wind the ship and sails. The same doth happen in all directions forth: From whatso side a space is made a void, Whether from crosswise or above, forthwith The neighbour particles are borne along Into the vacuum; for of verity, They're set a-going by poundings from elsewhere, Nor by themselves of own accord can they Rise upwards into the air. Again, all things Must in their framework hold some air, because They are of framework porous, and the air Encompasses and borders on all things. Thus, then, this air in iron so deeply stored Is tossed evermore in vexed motion, And therefore drubs upon the ring sans doubt And shakes it up inside....

And at the same time, some harmful influence, when it has stolen into [our world] from beyond it. And storms gather from the earth and sky, then return to be absorbed by the sky and earth. This makes sense, since nothing is made without a porous body. Furthermore, not all the particles thrown off by things have the same qualities for our senses, nor are they equally suited to all things. First, the sun bakes and dries the earth, but melts ice and, with its rays, makes the towering white snows on the high hills disappear. And wax, if placed under its heat, melts into liquid. Fire, likewise, melts copper and gold, but shrivels and shrinks hides and flesh. Water hardens iron fresh from the fire, but softens hides and flesh made hard by heat. The wild olive tree delights bearded female goats just as much as if it were soaked in nectar and gave off ambrosia. Yet no leafy plant is more bitter food for humans. A pig recoils from marjoram oil and fears every ointment. These are deadly poisons to bristly pigs, yet to us they sometimes seem to give new life. But, on the other hand, though mud is the foulest filth to us, it seems so delightful to pigs that they never tire of wallowing in it from belly to back. One point remains that I should explain before I turn to the matter itself. Since different things have many pores, those pores must differ from one another in nature, and each must have its own shape and fixed direction. So, too, living creatures have several senses. Each sense takes in, in its own way, its own particular object. For we see how sounds enter one place, flavors from every liquid enter another, and smells enter a third. Moreover, we see one kind of particle seep through rocks, another pass through wood, another through gold, and others pass through silver and glass. For we see the shape and appearance of things flow through some pores, and heat pass through others. And some things pass through the same pores faster than others. Indeed, the nature of these paths, which vary in many ways, as I have said, because the things in the universe differ in nature and structure, makes this happen. Therefore, since all these matters have now been well established and settled as premises, it will not be hard to use them to explain what remains and reveal the whole cause of the magnet's attraction to strong iron. First, countless particles must stream from the lodestone in a flood, striking and scattering the air between the stone and the iron. When this space is emptied and a large empty space is created between them, the primary particles of iron slip forward, rushing together into the vacuum. The ring itself, as a result, follows them with its whole body. And nothing has its own primary elements more closely joined or more tightly linked than the substance of cold, rough, strong iron. So it is less surprising, as I said, that so many of these particles cannot gather from the iron and be carried into the vacuum without the ring itself following. And it does follow until it reaches the stone itself and clings to it by invisible links. Moreover, another thing helps the motion, making the process easier. As soon as the air in front of the ring grows thinner and more of the space between them is emptied, all the air behind the ring moves it forward, pushing from the rear. For the surrounding air is always striking things at rest. Here, it pushes the iron forward because the space on one side is empty and so receives the iron. The air I am speaking of winds so subtly through the iron's many pores into its tiny parts that it pushes the iron, as wind pushes a ship and its sails. The same thing happens in every direction. On whichever side a space is emptied, whether to the side or above, the neighboring particles are at once carried along into the vacuum. For in truth, blows from elsewhere set them in motion. They cannot rise into the air of their own accord. Again, all things must contain some air in their structure, because their structure is porous, and air surrounds and touches all things. So this air, held deep inside the iron, is continually tossed about in restless motion. It therefore strikes the ring, without doubt, and shakes it from within....

In sooth, that ring is thither borne along To where 'thas once plunged headlong—thither, lo, Unto the void whereto it took its start. It happens, too, at times that nature of iron Shrinks from this stone away, accustomed By turns to flee and follow. Yea, I've seen Those Samothracian iron rings leap up, And iron filings in the brazen bowls Seethe furiously, when underneath was set The magnet stone. So strongly iron seems To crave to flee that rock. Such discord great Is gendered by the interposed brass, Because, forsooth, when first the tide of brass Hath seized upon and held possession of The iron's open passage-ways, thereafter Cometh the tide of the stone, and in that iron Findeth all spaces full, nor now hath holes To swim through, as before. 'Tis thus constrained With its own current 'gainst the iron's fabric To dash and beat; by means whereof it spues Forth from itself—and through the brass stirs up— The things which otherwise without the brass It sucks into itself. In these affairs Marvel thou not that from this stone the tide Prevails not likewise other things to move With its own blows: for some stand firm by weight, As gold; and some cannot be moved forever, Because so porous in their framework they That there the tide streams through without a break, Of which sort stuff of wood is seen to be. Therefore, when iron (which lies between the two) Hath taken in some atoms of the brass, Then do the streams of that Magnesian rock Move iron by their smitings. Yet these things Are not so alien from others, that I Of this same sort am ill prepared to name Ensamples still of things exclusively To one another adapt. Thou seest, first, How lime alone cementeth stones: how wood Only by glue-of-bull with wood is joined— So firmly too that oftener the boards Crack open along the weakness of the grain Ere ever those taurine bonds will lax their hold. The vine-born juices with the water-springs Are bold to mix, though not the heavy pitch With the light oil-of-olive. And purple dye Of shell-fish so uniteth with the wool's Body alone that it cannot be ta'en Away forever—nay, though thou gavest toil To restore the same with the Neptunian flood, Nay, though all ocean willed to wash it out With all its waves. Again, gold unto gold Doth not one substance bind, and only one? And is not brass by tin joined unto brass? And other ensamples how many might one find! What then? Nor is there unto thee a need Of such long ways and roundabout, nor boots it For me much toil on this to spend. More fit It is in few words briefly to embrace Things many: things whose textures fall together So mutually adapt, that cavities To solids correspond, these cavities Of this thing to the solid parts of that, And those of that to solid parts of this— Such joinings are the best. Again, some things Can be the one with other coupled and held, Linked by hooks and eyes, as 'twere; and this Seems more the fact with iron and this stone. Now, of diseases what the law, and whence The Influence of bane upgathering can Upon the race of man and herds of cattle Kindle a devastation fraught with death, I will unfold. And, first, I've taught above That seeds there be of many things to us Life-giving, and that, contrariwise, there must Fly many round bringing disease and death. When these have, haply, chanced to collect And to derange the atmosphere of earth, The air becometh baneful. And, lo, all That Influence of bane, that pestilence, Or from Beyond down through our atmosphere, Like clouds and mists, descends, or else collects From earth herself and rises, when, a-soak And beat by rains unseasonable and suns, Our earth hath then contracted stench and rot. Seest thou not, also, that whoso arrive In region far from fatherland and home Are by the strangeness of the clime and waters Distempered?—since conditions vary much. For in what else may we suppose the clime Among the Britons to differ from Aegypt's own (Where totters awry the axis of the world), Or in what else to differ Pontic clime From Gades' and from climes adown the south, On to black generations of strong men With sun-baked skins? Even as we thus do see Four climes diverse under the four main-winds And under the four main-regions of the sky, So, too, are seen the colour and face of men Vastly to disagree, and fixed diseases To seize the generations, kind by kind: There is the elephant-disease which down In midmost Aegypt, hard by streams of Nile, Engendered is—and never otherwhere. In Attica the feet are oft attacked, And in Achaean lands the eyes. And so The divers spots to divers parts and limbs Are noxious; 'tis a variable air That causes this. Thus when an atmosphere, Alien by chance to us, begins to heave, And noxious airs begin to crawl along, They creep and wind like unto mist and cloud, Slowly, and everything upon their way They disarrange and force to change its state. It happens, too, that when they've come at last Into this atmosphere of ours, they taint And make it like themselves and alien. Therefore, asudden this devastation strange, This pestilence, upon the waters falls, Or settles on the very crops of grain Or other meat of men and feed of flocks. Or it remains a subtle force, suspense In the atmosphere itself; and when therefrom We draw our inhalations of mixed air, Into our body equally its bane Also we must suck in. In manner like, Oft comes the pestilence upon the kine, And sickness, too, upon the sluggish sheep. Nor aught it matters whether journey we To regions adverse to ourselves and change The atmospheric cloak, or whether nature Herself import a tainted atmosphere To us or something strange to our own use Which can attack us soon as ever it come.

Indeed, the ring is carried To where it once plunged headlong, there Into the empty space where it began. Sometimes, too, iron Shrinks away from this stone, though it usually Flees and follows in turn. I have seen Those Samothracian iron rings leap up, And iron filings in bronze bowls Boil furiously when A magnet was placed beneath them. Iron seems To long so strongly to escape that stone. The bronze between them Creates this great conflict Because, when the stream from the bronze Has first entered and occupied The open passages in the iron, then The stream from the stone comes and Finds all the spaces in the iron filled. It has no holes To flow through, as it did before. So Its own current must dash and beat Against the iron's structure. In this way, the stone throws Away from itself, and stirs up through the bronze, The things that, without the bronze, It would otherwise draw toward itself. In these matters, Do not wonder that the stream from the stone Cannot likewise move other things By striking them. Some things stand firm because of their weight, Like gold. Others can never be moved Because their structure is so porous That the stream flows straight through them. Wood is seen to be such a material. Therefore, when iron, which lies between the two, Has taken in some atoms from the bronze, The streams from that Magnesian rock Move the iron by striking it. Yet these things Are not so different from others that I Am unable to name further examples Of things suited exclusively to one another. First, you see How lime alone binds stones together, and how wood Is joined to wood only by glue made from a bull. The bond is so firm that the boards more often Split along the weakness of their grain Before those bonds from the bull loosen their hold. Wine readily mixes with spring water, Though heavy pitch does not mix with light olive oil. And purple dye from shellfish joins With the substance of wool alone, so that it can never be Removed. Not even if you tried To restore the wool with Neptune's flood, Or if the whole ocean wanted to wash it out With all its waves. Again, is there not one substance, And only one, that binds gold to gold? And is not bronze joined to bronze with tin? How many other examples could one find! But what then? You have no need Of such a long and winding path, nor is it useful For me to spend much effort on this. It is better To cover many things briefly: when things have structures That fit together So that their hollows match their solid parts, The hollows of one matching the solid parts of the other, And the hollows of that one matching the solid parts of the first, Those are the best joints. Again, some things Can be joined and held together As if linked by hooks and eyes. This Seems more likely with iron and the stone. Now I will explain the laws of disease and where The deadly influence gathers from, which can Cause devastation and death among The human race and herds of cattle. First, I have already taught That there are seeds of many things that give us Life. Conversely, many must Fly around bringing disease and death. When these happen to gather And disturb the earth's atmosphere, The air becomes harmful. And all That deadly influence, that pestilence, Either descends from beyond through our atmosphere, Like clouds and mists, or gathers From the earth herself and rises, when she has been soaked And beaten by unseasonable rains and sunshine, And has taken on a stench and begun to rot. Do you not also see that people who arrive In a region far from their homeland and home Become sick because the climate and waters are unfamiliar? For conditions vary greatly. How else are we to suppose that the climate Among the Britons differs from that of Aegypt (Where the axis of the world tilts askew), Or that the Pontic climate differs From that of Gades and the climates farther south, As far as the black peoples of strong men With sun-baked skin? Just as we see Four different climates under the four main winds And the four main regions of the sky, So, too, we see that people's color and features Differ greatly, and that particular diseases Strike different peoples: There is elephant disease, which is produced In the heart of Aegypt, near the streams of the Nile, And nowhere else. In Attica, the feet are often attacked, And in Achaean lands, the eyes. Thus Different places harm different parts and limbs. Changes in the air cause this. So when an atmosphere That happens to be foreign to us begins to stir, And harmful airs begin to move, They creep and wind along like mist and cloud, Slowly, disrupting everything in their path And forcing it to change its state. It also happens that, when they finally reach Our atmosphere, they taint it And make it like themselves and foreign to us. Then this strange devastation, This pestilence, suddenly falls upon the waters, Or settles on the grain crops Or other food for people and feed for flocks. Or it remains a subtle force, suspended In the atmosphere itself. And when We breathe in the mixed air, We must also draw its harmful influence Into our bodies. In the same way, Pestilence often strikes cattle, And sickness strikes the sluggish sheep. It makes no difference whether we travel To regions harmful to us and change The air that surrounds us, or whether nature Herself brings tainted air To us, or something unfamiliar to us That can attack us as soon as it arrives.

'Twas such a manner of disease, 'twas such Mortal miasma in Cecropian lands Whilom reduced the plains to dead men's bones, Unpeopled the highways, drained of citizens The Athenian town. For coming from afar, Rising in lands of Aegypt, traversing Reaches of air and floating fields of foam, At last on all Pandion's folk it swooped; Whereat by troops unto disease and death Were they o'er-given. At first, they'd bear about A skull on fire with heat, and eyeballs twain Red with suffusion of blank glare. Their throats, Black on the inside, sweated oozy blood; And the walled pathway of the voice of man Was clogged with ulcers; and the very tongue, The mind's interpreter, would trickle gore, Weakened by torments, tardy, rough to touch. Next when that Influence of bane had chocked, Down through the throat, the breast, and streamed had E'en into sullen heart of those sick folk, Then, verily, all the fences of man's life Began to topple. From the mouth the breath Would roll a noisome stink, as stink to heaven Rotting cadavers flung unburied out. And, lo, thereafter, all the body's strength And every power of mind would languish, now In very doorway of destruction. And anxious anguish and ululation (mixed With many a groan) companioned alway The intolerable torments. Night and day, Recurrent spasms of vomiting would rack Alway their thews and members, breaking down With sheer exhaustion men already spent. And yet on no one's body couldst thou mark The skin with o'er-much heat to burn aglow, But rather the body unto touch of hands Would offer a warmish feeling, and thereby Show red all over, with ulcers, so to say, Inbranded, like the "sacred fires" o'erspread Along the members. The inward parts of men, In truth, would blaze unto the very bones; A flame, like flame in furnaces, would blaze Within the stomach. Nor couldst aught apply Unto their members light enough and thin For shift of aid—but coolness and a breeze Ever and ever. Some would plunge those limbs On fire with bane into the icy streams, Hurling the body naked into the waves; Many would headlong fling them deeply down The water-pits, tumbling with eager mouth Already agape. The insatiable thirst That whelmed their parched bodies, lo, would make A goodly shower seem like to scanty drops. Respite of torment was there none. Their frames Forspent lay prone. With silent lips of fear Would Medicine mumble low, the while she saw So many a time men roll their eyeballs round, Staring wide-open, unvisited of sleep, The heralds of old death. And in those months Was given many another sign of death: The intellect of mind by sorrow and dread Deranged, the sad brow, the countenance Fierce and delirious, the tormented ears Beset with ringings, the breath quick and short Or huge and intermittent, soaking sweat A-glisten on neck, the spittle in fine gouts Tainted with colour of crocus and so salt, The cough scarce wheezing through the rattling throat. Aye, and the sinews in the fingered hands Were sure to contract, and sure the jointed frame To shiver, and up from feet the cold to mount Inch after inch: and toward the supreme hour At last the pinched nostrils, nose's tip A very point, eyes sunken, temples hollow, Skin cold and hard, the shuddering grimace, The pulled and puffy flesh above the brows!— O not long after would their frames lie prone In rigid death. And by about the eighth Resplendent light of sun, or at the most On the ninth flaming of his flambeau, they Would render up the life. If any then Had 'scaped the doom of that destruction, yet Him there awaited in the after days A wasting and a death from ulcers vile And black discharges of the belly, or else Through the clogged nostrils would there ooze along Much fouled blood, oft with an aching head: Hither would stream a man's whole strength and flesh. And whoso had survived that virulent flow Of the vile blood, yet into thews of him And into his joints and very genitals Would pass the old disease. And some there were, Dreading the doorways of destruction So much, lived on, deprived by the knife Of the male member; not a few, though lopped Of hands and feet, would yet persist in life, And some there were who lost their eyeballs: O So fierce a fear of death had fallen on them! And some, besides, were by oblivion Of all things seized, that even themselves they knew No longer. And though corpse on corpse lay piled Unburied on ground, the race of birds and beasts Would or spring back, scurrying to escape The virulent stench, or, if they'd tasted there, Would languish in approaching death. But yet Hardly at all during those many suns Appeared a fowl, nor from the woods went forth The sullen generations of wild beasts— They languished with disease and died and died. In chief, the faithful dogs, in all the streets Outstretched, would yield their breath distressfully For so that Influence of bane would twist Life from their members. Nor was found one sure And universal principle of cure: For what to one had given the power to take The vital winds of air into his mouth, And to gaze upward at the vaults of sky, The same to others was their death and doom. In those affairs, O awfullest of all, O pitiable most was this, was this: Whoso once saw himself in that disease Entangled, ay, as damned unto death, Would lie in wanhope, with a sullen heart, Would, in fore-vision of his funeral, Give up the ghost, O then and there. For, lo, At no time did they cease one from another To catch contagion of the greedy plague,— As though but woolly flocks and horned herds; And this in chief would heap the dead on dead: For who forbore to look to their own sick, O these (too eager of life, of death afeard) Would then, soon after, slaughtering Neglect Visit with vengeance of evil death and base— Themselves deserted and forlorn of help. But who had stayed at hand would perish there By that contagion and the toil which then A sense of honour and the pleading voice Of weary watchers, mixed with voice of wail Of dying folk, forced them to undergo. This kind of death each nobler soul would meet. The funerals, uncompanioned, forsaken, Like rivals contended to be hurried through.

It was a disease like this, a deadly plague, that once in Cecropian lands reduced the plains to the bones of the dead, emptied the roads, and drained Athens of its citizens. Coming from far away, rising in the lands of Aegypt, crossing stretches of air and floating fields of foam, at last it swooped down on all Pandion's people. Then, in droves, they were given over to disease and death. At first, they carried heads burning with heat, and both eyes were red, glazed, and staring. Their throats, black inside, oozed blood. The passage of the human voice was clogged with ulcers, and the tongue itself, the interpreter of the mind, dripped blood. It was weakened by suffering, slow, and rough to the touch. Next, when that deadly influence had choked its way down through the throat and chest and flowed into the troubled hearts of the sick, then, truly, all the defenses of human life began to fall. From their mouths their breath rolled out with a foul stench, like the stench of unburied corpses rotting under the sky. And then all the body's strength and every power of the mind would fade, there at death's very door. Anxiety, anguish, and cries of distress, mixed with many a groan, always accompanied the unbearable suffering. Night and day, repeated fits of vomiting would always rack their muscles and limbs, breaking down people already worn out with sheer exhaustion. Yet on no one's body could you see the skin glowing with excessive heat. Rather, the body would feel warm to the touch, and at the same time look red all over, as if marked with ulcers, like the "sacred fires" spread over their limbs. Inside, people truly burned to their very bones. A fire, like a furnace fire, burned within the stomach. And you could put nothing on their bodies that was light or thin enough to help them. They wanted coolness and a breeze again and again. Some plunged their limbs, burning with disease, into icy streams, throwing their naked bodies into the waves. Many hurled themselves headfirst deep into wells, falling with eager mouths already open. The unquenchable thirst that overwhelmed their dried-out bodies made a generous shower seem like a few drops. There was no relief from the suffering. Their bodies lay stretched out, exhausted. With lips hushed by fear, Medicine would murmur faintly as she saw, again and again, people roll their eyes, staring wide open, untouched by sleep. These were the signs of approaching death. In those months, many other signs of death appeared: the mind disturbed by grief and fear, the troubled brow, the face wild and delirious, the suffering ears filled with ringing, the breath quick and short or deep and irregular, drenched sweat glistening on the neck, small drops of spit stained the color of saffron and so salty, and a cough barely wheezing through the rattling throat. Yes, and the tendons in their hands and fingers would surely contract, and their joints would surely shiver, while cold rose from their feet inch by inch. And toward the final hour came the pinched nostrils, the nose tip drawn to a point, sunken eyes, hollow temples, cold, hard skin, the shuddering grimace, and the stretched, swollen flesh above the brows! Oh, not long afterward, their bodies would lie stiff in death. By about the eighth bright light of the sun, or at most the ninth blaze of its torch, they would give up their lives. If anyone escaped the doom of that destruction, a wasting away still awaited them in the days that followed, and death from foul ulcers and black discharges from the bowels. Or else, from clogged nostrils, there would ooze much foul blood, often with an aching head. In this flow, a person's strength and flesh would drain away. And whoever survived that violent flow of foul blood would still find the old disease passing into their muscles, their joints, and even their genitals. Some, so afraid of the doorways of death, lived on after the knife had deprived them of their genitals. Quite a few, though deprived of hands and feet, still survived, and some lost their eyes. Oh, such a fierce fear of death had fallen on them! Others were seized by forgetfulness of everything, so that they no longer knew even themselves. And though corpse upon corpse lay piled unburied on the ground, birds and beasts would either recoil, hurrying to escape the deadly stench, or, if they had tasted the corpses, would weaken as death approached. Yet during those many days hardly a bird appeared, and the grim tribes of wild beasts did not come out of the woods. They weakened with disease and died and died. Above all, faithful dogs lay stretched out in every street, painfully breathing their last. For that deadly influence twisted life from their limbs. Nor was there one sure and universal method of cure. For what had given one person the power to draw the vital air into their mouth and look up at the vault of the sky brought death and doom to others. In all this, oh, the most terrible thing, the most pitiful thing was this: Anyone who saw themselves caught in the disease, as if condemned to death, would lie in despair, their heart heavy. Foreseeing their own funeral, they would give up their life there and then. For people never stopped catching the greedy plague from one another, like woolly flocks and horned herds. And above all this piled the dead upon the dead. Those who held back from tending their own sick, too eager for life and afraid of death, would soon afterward be visited by deadly Neglect, which took its revenge with an evil and shameful death. They themselves were abandoned and without help. But those who stayed beside the sick died there from the contagion and the hard work that a sense of honor and the pleading voices of exhausted caregivers, mixed with the cries of the dying, forced them to endure. This was the kind of death every nobler soul would meet. The funerals, unattended and forsaken, seemed to compete with one another to be hurried through.

And men contending to ensepulchre Pile upon pile the throng of their own dead: And weary with woe and weeping wandered home; And then the most would take to bed from grief. Nor could be found not one, whom nor disease Nor death, nor woe had not in those dread times Attacked. By now the shepherds and neatherds all, Yea, even the sturdy guiders of curved ploughs, Began to sicken, and their bodies would lie Huddled within back-corners of their huts, Delivered by squalor and disease to death. O often and often couldst thou then have seen On lifeless children lifeless parents prone, Or offspring on their fathers', mothers' corpse Yielding the life. And into the city poured O not in least part from the countryside That tribulation, which the peasantry Sick, sick, brought thither, thronging from every quarter, Plague-stricken mob. All places would they crowd, All buildings too; whereby the more would death Up-pile a-heap the folk so crammed in town. Ah, many a body thirst had dragged and rolled Along the highways there was lying strewn Besides Silenus-headed water-fountains,— The life-breath choked from that too dear desire Of pleasant waters. Ah, everywhere along The open places of the populace, And along the highways, O thou mightest see Of many a half-dead body the sagged limbs, Rough with squalor, wrapped around with rags, Perish from very nastiness, with naught But skin upon the bones, well-nigh already Buried—in ulcers vile and obscene filth. All holy temples, too, of deities Had Death becrammed with the carcasses; And stood each fane of the Celestial Ones Laden with stark cadavers everywhere— Places which warders of the shrines had crowded With many a guest. For now no longer men Did mightily esteem the old Divine, The worship of the gods: the woe at hand Did over-master. Nor in the city then Remained those rites of sepulture, with which That pious folk had evermore been wont To buried be. For it was wildered all In wild alarms, and each and every one With sullen sorrow would bury his own dead, As present shift allowed. And sudden stress And poverty to many an awful act Impelled; and with a monstrous screaming they Would, on the frames of alien funeral pyres, Place their own kin, and thrust the torch beneath Oft brawling with much bloodshed round about Rather than quit dead bodies loved in life.

And people struggled to bury pile upon pile of their own dead. Weary with grief and weeping, they wandered home. Then most took to their beds in grief. Not one person could be found whom disease, death, or grief had not struck in those terrible times. By now all the shepherds and cattle herders, even the sturdy men who guided curved plows, began to fall ill. Their bodies lay huddled in the back corners of their huts, where filth and disease brought them to death. Oh, again and again you could have seen dead parents lying over their dead children, or children lying on their fathers' and mothers' corpses, giving up their lives. And into the city poured no small part of the suffering from the countryside. The sick peasants brought it there, crowding in from every direction, a plague-stricken mass. They crowded every place and every building, so that death piled up even more of the people crammed into the city. Ah, many bodies lay scattered where thirst had driven them to drag and roll themselves along the roads beside fountains with heads of Silenus. Their breath had been choked off by their costly desire for the pleasant water. Ah, everywhere in the public squares and along the roads, you could have seen the limp limbs of many a half-dead person. Grimy and wrapped in rags, they were dying from sheer filth. They had nothing but skin on their bones and were almost buried already, in foul sores and horrible filth. Death had also filled all the sacred temples of the gods with corpses. Every shrine of the heavenly gods stood laden with dead bodies. The shrine keepers had crowded these places with many a guest. For people no longer greatly valued the ancient gods or their worship. The suffering before them overwhelmed them. Nor did the city still observe the burial rites by which those devout people had always buried their dead. For everything was thrown into confusion by wild fear, and every person buried their own dead in bitter sorrow, as best they could. Sudden need and poverty drove many to terrible acts. With dreadful screams, they placed their own relatives on funeral pyres built for others and put torches beneath them. They often fought and shed much blood around the pyres rather than abandon the bodies of those they had loved in life.