On the Nature of the Universe (Oxford World’s Classics) Read online

  None of these things is found in wood or clods,

  Yet these, when rotted as it were by rain,

  Produce small worms, because the bodies of matter,

  Moved by a new thing from their ancient order,

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  Combine in a way that must make living creatures.

  Further, those who maintain that sentient things

  Can be created from things sentient,

  Themselves from other sentient things created,

  Make the foundations of our senses perishable,

  Because they make them soft; for all sensation

  Is linked with flesh, veins, sinews, all of which

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  Being soft consist of substance which is mortal.

  However, let us assume, for the sake of argument,

  That these things last for ever. Then they must

  Either have the sensation of a part

  Or else instead be like whole animals.

  But parts can have no feeling by themselves:

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  Sensation in our limbs involves the whole body.

  A hand or any part severed from the body

  Cannot retain sensation on its own.

  It follows that they are like whole animals.

  So they must have the same feelings as ourselves

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  So as to share in all our vital senses.

  How then can they be called first elements

  And escape the paths of death? They are animate,

  And animate and mortal are the same.

  Even if they could, their unions and combinations

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  Would make nothing more than a crowd of living things,

  Any more than men and cattle and wild beasts

  By combination could make anything.

  But if they were to give up from their bodies

  Their own power of feeling, and acquire another one,

  What was the point of giving them in the first place

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  What is taken away? Besides, as we saw before,

  Since we see eggs of birds produce live chicks

  And worms swarm out when by untimely rains

  Earth has been rotted, then we may be sure

  That sense can be produced from the insentient.

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  Suppose, however, someone should maintain

  That sense can indeed arise from the insentient,

  But is produced by some process of change

  Or by some kind of birth that gives it being,

  It will suffice to prove quite clearly to him

  That birth does not occur without previous union,

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  And nothing changes except by combination.

  There can be no sensation in any body

  Until the living thing itself is born;

  Because of course its matter is held dispersed

  In air and rivers and earth and earth-born things,

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  And has not yet assembled, nor combined

  Within itself the vitalizing motions

  By which the all-perceiving senses kindled

  See to the safety of all living things.

  Consider this also: some living creature

  Is suddenly prostrated by a blow

  More powerful than its nature can withstand,

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  And all the senses then of mind and body

  Are stunned, and thrown at once into confusion.

  For all the arrangements of the primal atoms

  Are broken up, the vital motions checked

  Deep down inside, until the substance fails,

  Battered through every limb, and loosens all

  The vital knots that bind the soul to body

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  And scatters it, forced out through every pore.

  What else are we to think a blow can do

  Than shatter what it strikes and break it up?

  And often, when a blow strikes with less force,

  The vital motions that remain will win,

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  Yes, win, and calm its vast disturbances,

  Recalling every part to its own course

  And shattering the impetus of death

  Now all but lord and master of the body,

  Kindling once more sensations almost lost.

  How else could creatures at the door of death

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  Return to life, their minds restored again,

  Rather than make their exit by a route

  They have travelled almost to the end, and pass away?

  Pain occurs when particles of matter

  Attacked by some force in the limbs and flesh

  Quiver and tremble in their deep abodes;

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  And when they settle back into their places

  That is a soothing joy. So you may know

  That atoms cannot suffer any pain

  Nor in themselves experience any pleasure,

  Since they possess no primal particles

  From whose new movements they might feel distress

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  Or reap some fruit of life-giving delight.

  Therefore they cannot be endowed with senses.

  And if, to enable animals to feel,

  We must attribute senses to their atoms,

  What are we then to say about those atoms

  Which give the human race its character?

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  Doubtless they shake their sides and rock with laughter

  And weeping oft bedew their cheeks with tears,

  Engage in long and brilliant disputation

  About the mix of things that makes the world,

  And then proceed to enquire about themselves

  To find what atoms they themselves are made of.

  For if they resemble complete mortal men,

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  They must also consist of other particles

  And those in turn of others, and then others;

  There’s nowhere you could dare to call a halt.

  Indeed, I will follow you in your argument

  And say that whatever speaks and laughs and thinks

  Must be composed of parts that do the same.

  But if we see that this is raving madness,

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  That a man can laugh who has no laughing atoms,

  And think and proffer learned arguments

  Though sprung from seeds not wise or eloquent,

  Why should not things we see possessing feeling

  Be made of seeds entirely without senses?

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  Lastly, we are all sprung from heavenly seed,

  All from the same one father, him from whom

  Life-giving mother, kindly earth, receives

  Sweet showers of moisture, by which fertilized

  She brings forth shining crops and joyful trees,

  Brings forth mankind and all the breed of beasts,

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  And yields the food on which all feed their bodies,

  To lead sweet lives and propagate their kind.

  Wherefore she rightly has earned the name of mother.

  And what before was made from earth returns

  To earth, and what came down from ether’s shores

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  Borne back again the halls of heaven receive.

  And death does not destroy things when they die

  So as to bring destruction to their atoms,

  But breaks their combination everywhere,

  And then makes new conjunctions, making all things

  To change their shapes and colours and receive feeling,

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  And in an instant yield it up again.

  So you may recognize how much it matters

  How these same atoms combine, in what positions,

  What motions mutually they give and take.

  Then you will not suppose that what we see

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  Floating upon the surface of things, sometimes

  Being brought to life, then dying suddenly,

  Are qualities of everlasting atoms.

  Moreover in my verse it matters much

  How letters are arranged and linked with others.

  The same denote sky, sea, land, rivers, sun,

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  The same denote crops, trees, and animals,

  And, if not all, by far the greater part

  Are alike; but the position decides the meaning.

  So with real things, when the combination of their atoms,

  Their motions, order, forms, shapes, and positions

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  Are changed, the thing itself must change.

  Now give your mind, please, to true reasoning.

  A new thing now is struggling urgently

  To reach your ears, a new aspect of creation

  Is striving to reveal itself.

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  But nothing is so simple that at first

  It is not more difficult to believe it than to doubt it,

  And nothing so mighty and so marvellous

  That men do not in time abate their wonder.

  Take first the bright pure azure of the sky

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  And all the sky contains—the wandering stars,

  The moon, and glorious radiance of the sun—

  If all these suddenly, unexpectedly,

  For the first time appeared to mortal men,

  What would they name more wonderful, what less likely

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  That men before they saw it should believe it?

  Nothing, I think—so marvellous the sight.

  But now, long sated with this glorious vision,

  Men do not care, and no one lifts his head

  To look up to the shining realms of heaven.

  Therefore forbear, dismayed by novelty,

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  To thrust out reason from your mind. No. Weigh it

  With judgement keen, and then if it seems true

  Give in, or if false, gird yourself to fight.

  For since the sum of space is infinite

  Spreading beyond the ramparts of the world,

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  The mind desires by reasoning to find

  What may exist there far away, the bourne

  To which the exploring intellect aspires,

  To which the mind’s thrust flies forever free.

  This is my first point. Everywhere around us

  On either side, above, below, throughout the universe,

  There is no end. I have proved this, and the facts themselves

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  Shout it aloud. Deep space shines clear to see.

  Now since space lies in all directions infinite

  And seeds in number numberless for ever

  Fly all around in countless different ways

  Through an unfathomable universe

  Perpetually driven by everlasting motion,

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  It must be deemed in high degree unlikely

  That this earth, this sky, alone have been created,

  And all those bodies of matter outside do nothing.

  And added proof of this lies in the fact

  That nature made this world. The seeds of things

  In random and spontaneous collision

  In countless ways clashed, heedless, purposeless, in vain

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  Until at last such particles combined

  As suddenly united could become

  The origins always of mighty things,

  Of earth, sky, sea, and breeds of living creatures.

  Wherefore again and again I say you must admit

  That in other places other combinations

  Of matter exist such as this world of ours

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  Which ether holds in ardent fond embrace.

  And note this too—when matter is abundant

  And space is there, and nothing checks and hinders,

  Then action and creation must take place.

  And if there exists so great a store of atoms

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  As all the years of life on earth could never number,

  And if the same great force of nature stands

  Ready to throw the seeds of things together

  In the same way as they have here combined,

  Then of necessity you must accept

  That other earths exist, in other places,

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  With varied tribes of men and breeds of beasts.

  Add to this that nothing in the universe

  Is born unique and grows unique, alone,

  But all belong to a species, very many

  Of the same kind. Consider animals:

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  You’ll find this rule applies to the wild beasts

  That roam the mountains, to the human race,

  To the dumb shoals of fish, to all things that fly.

  Therefore likewise one must accept that sky

  And earth and sun, moon, sea, and all else that exists

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  Are not unique, but in number numberless.

  No less a deep-set boundary stone of life

  Awaits them, no less from a birth their bodies sprang,

  Than those that here on earth of every kind

  Abound, and multiply their generations.

  If you know these things well, you’ll see at once

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  That nature is free, no slave to masters proud;

  That nature by herself all things performs

  By her own will without the aid of gods.

  For—by the gods who in their tranquil peace

  Live ever quiet in a life serene—

  Who has the strength to rule the sum of things

  Immeasurable, to hold beneath his hands

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  Bridled and reined the unfathomable deep,

  To turn the firmaments of all the heavens,

  Warm all the fertile worlds with heavenly fires,

  At all times present and in every place,

  That can make darkness with his clouds, and shake

  The sky serene with thunder, and with lightning

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  Oft shatter his own temples and then departing

  Let fly at deserts, raging with that bolt

  That often spares the guilty, but brings death

  To men whose lives are innocent and blameless?

  Since the first natal hour of the world,

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  The day when earth and sea were born, and sun

  Had first its rising, atoms have been added

  In multitudes from outside, many seeds

  Added from out the mighty universe,

  Thrown all together by its ceaseless motion;

  That increase might be given to land and sea,

  The realms of sky extend their bounds, and lift

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  Their lofty buildings far above the earth;

  That air might rise. For blows from every side

  Supply to each thing its own special atoms.

  All join their own kind; water goes to water,

  Earth is increased by elements of earth,

  And fires are forged by fire, and ether by ether,

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  Until to the utmost limit of their growth

  Nature at last has brought them, great perfectress,

  Great mother and creatress of the world.

  And this is reached when into the veins of life

  No more is given than passes out away.

  Here for all things the advance of life must halt,

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  Here nature checks the increase of her powers.

  For all things that you see in cheerful growth

  Scale step by step the ladder of ripe years,

  Take into themselves more things than they discharge,

  While food flows smoothly into all the veins<
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  And they themselves are not so loosely knit

  As to shed matter freely and to squander

  More than their life absorbs in nourishment.

  For though we must accept that many bodies

  Flow off from things and pass away, more must be added,

  Until they have touched the topmost peak of growth.

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  Then the strong vigour of maturity

  Age slowly breaks and melts into decay.

  And when growth stops, the larger a thing is

  And wider, the more particles it throws off

  And scatters them on all sides everywhere.

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  Food does not easily penetrate the veins,

  Nor in proportion to the flow outpoured

  Is there enough to bring to birth again

  All that is needed, and make good the loss.

  So death comes rightly, when by constant flow

  All things are thinned, and all things, struck from without

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  By an increasing hail of blows, succumb;

  Since at the end great age finds food to fail,

  And without ceasing bodies from outside

  Beating on things subdue them and destroy them.

  So shall the ramparts of the mighty world

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  Themselves be stormed and into crumbling ruin

  Collapse. Even now the world’s great age is broken

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  And earth worn out scarce bears small animals,

  She who created all the generations

  And brought to birth huge bodies of wild beasts.

  No golden chain, I think, from heaven on high

  Let down the breeds of mortals to the fields;

  Nor sea nor waves that break upon the rocks

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  Created them. From the same earth they sprang

  That now supplies their nurture from her body.

  Herself the shining crops and joyful vineyards

  By her own will first made for mortal men;

  Herself gave forth sweet fruits and joyful pastures,

  Which now our toil scarce brings to growth and increase.

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  We wear out oxen, wear out the strength of farmers,

  Wear down the ploughshare in fields that scarce can feed us,

  So do they grudge their fruits and multiply our toil.

  And now the aged ploughman shakes his head

  With many a sigh that all the weary labour

  Of his strong arms has fallen away in vain,

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  And when he compares times present with times past

  Oft praises then the fortunes of his father.

  And looking on his old and worn-out vines,

  The husbandman bewails the march of time

  And rails at heaven, and grieves that men of yore

  In old god-fearing days could easily

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  Within the confines of a narrow plot,

  Far smaller then than now, support their lives.