LUCRETIUS

Goddess! in whom our Rome is proud to trace Nursing Mother of an Imperial race; Who ’neath the constellations, as they range, Heav’n’s standard-bearers, in soft interchange Of night’s watches, rulest how, when, and where. In Ocean’s finny depths, in upper air, And teeming soil, Life, urgent to be born, Shall at thy smile burst forth to greet the morn, All without thee was gusty darkness; then A sudden rapture stirs in Gods and Men! Thou comest! Winds fall; the sky no more low’rs: Earth embroiders herself with fragrant flow’rs; Billows that had been rolling mountains high, Ripple laughter to greet a sapphire sky. Wherever thou art is spring; thine the key That sets the prisoned wanton west-wind free To beat time to thy approach; and note how Birds, thy heralds, by fits skim to and fro; While, more fiercely-smitten, herds that had been Content to graze their pastures rich and green, Toss hoofs and horns, breast headlong streams; and where It pleases Thee follow, whitherso’er! Venus, all provident, and kind, and wise, Nought in sea, torrent, hill escapes thy eyes; No green plain, no tree that invites a nest. With soothing touch in every breathing breast Thou layest seed of love, yet with such skill, A forethought so unerring, and a will So tenderly sure, that never a spark Strays from its order, but knows each its mark; Kind choosing kind, species species, race race, Till Being grows, age to age, in emulous grace! Alone thou steerest Nature on her course! Failing Thee, lost the aye marshalling force To wash blind atoms on the shores of Light, Where each shall take up Life in its due right, To use it at its best, and for the best, Joy for itself, harmony for the rest? A theme, which it might well have seemed in vain To attempt with powers of mortal brain; Then least, when Rome—how lately!—claimed of all Her children service at the trumpet’s call. Ev’n still she aches with pangs that she has borne, Glooming dumbly with fear they may return. But, Goddess, I trust! greatly dare to ask: “Shed thy eternal charm upon my task: Bid warfare cease; uplift thy sovereign hand; And blissful Peace will brood o’er sea and land. What can resist Thee? Mars with his alarms? Where lies the God but in thy lovely arms? Slender throat thrown back, see, his hungry eyes Feed upon thine with ever fresh surprise! Queen, he is thine; wound deeply as thou wilt; Sweeter smart than all the blood he has spilt! Cling round him; fold in thy divine embrace; Lift tow’rds his the appeal of thy bright face; Whisper love’s little nothings, till deep calm Steep his whole being in a honeyed balm; And he forget ’twas his murderous car Spread frenzy through our streets of civil War!” But the fever has abated; so long As it is stayed, I will resume my song;— The more gladly if it be heard by One Whom Venus willed long back a Paragon, Adorned with all the gifts that mortal man Has owed her since Humanity began. A Memmius is by that illustrious name Pledged not to stand aloof from Rome aflame; And thou didst thy part; but, the crisis past, Thou now, my Lord and Friend, art free at last. Yet weigh all well; I have toiled hard to learn, And with pains equal held it my concern, When I myself was satisfied, to find Means to pass truths into another mind. No less a duty, if thou undertake, Wilt thou betray, if thou should then forsake! Away with mean cares; give, if aught, thy whole— The sum of Reason—that which makes the Soul!

“Listen! the waves hiss, and loud the winds roar! See! a ship drifts on a lee shore! “Help!” No help; a whole crew on the beach dead. Alas poor souls! I sleep on a good bed. And lo! two hosts in line of battle drawn. Thousands will not wake at next dawn! To be killed, or kill—life or death for those— I wonder which; happy I cannot lose!” Count not men Molochs that with passive eyes, They witness neighbours’ agonies. Bodily ills all; how should bodies care For others’ ills? Each has its own to bear. Easily flow our tears when others weep; As easily we fall asleep; When Havoc stalks abroad, content we see Other flesh in pain from which ours is free! Let flesh be flesh; we by rough ways and bleak Will climb up to the mountain peak; And entering through guarded ramparts there Find peace from flesh in temples stately, fair; Work of wise builders, where a welcome waits, With keys to life, within the gates. That riddle many have tried, and not guessed; They wander, spirit in flesh; nowhere rest. Spirit trumpets down from tower, spire and hall; They cannot hearken to the call. Smothered in that they worship—wealth, power, birth— Dream they are growing wings, and rot on earth! Self-courted woes, suicide of the brain, Dark chos’n for light, tortures in vain Endured; this particle of life we have— A spark at best—o’erdriven to the grave! All but to pamper bodies, that, so long As they are painless, hale, and strong, Are warranted by Nature, watch-dog kind, To press no further wants upon the Mind. This commonwealth of limbs, together brought To be a tenement for Thought, Asks but to be exempt from fell disease, Joy in mere breath, and feel itself at ease. When the lamps’ flame from golden statues gleams, Do the lights vie with the sun’s beams? Must music to stir hearts to leap and bound, From frescoed walls and fretted roofs resound? Or if some time hot fever racks the head, Are you, tossing on a sick bed, Easier at all that you chance to lie On cedarn couch purple with Tyrian dye? Know you not, wastrels, that what Mind you give To flesh you steal from power to live? The spirit is the root of life; thereby We live; and if we starve it, then we die. When spirit-comrades by cool brook recline, Beneath the shade of beech or pine, They reck not which the rich, and which the poor. Nor envious, nor jealous of neighbours’ store. Enough to feel the warm blood answering The joyousness of the sweet Spring: While the soft turf, to offer greetings due, Dresses itself in flow’rs of ev’ry hue. Sense feels the charm, and Nature all approves; While spirit talks with spirit, as it loves. Ah! know how nought to flesh itself the whole You sell life for; how hateful to the soul!

I know a dell the Muses haunt; lone scene, Where ne’er ere now had mortal footstep been. Curious they what wand’rer should invade The tuneful solitude, and pray their aid. Ungrateful office his who tries to set Men free from the close meshes of the net In which religions of whatever kind Presume to hold humanity confined. Repulsed by those for whose sakes I pursued A thankless work, I trod ways rough and rude, Until, the track by good chance missed, I came Solitary, out of heart, footsore, lame, To this strange spot where the Nine Sisters camp Out in the wilderness, and light their lamp To guide lost wayfarers thither. I asked, And received; the Goddesses even tasked Themselves for my scorned mission, which they dressed In new melodies as an honoured guest; For it unsealing in the sands fresh springs, Inspiring it to lift itself on wings, While they bade flow’rs strange to poesy blow, That they might wreathe a garland for my brow. If I, to emancipate Mind, make use Of verse, does the enlistment need excuse? Ignorance is the babe who drinks all up When doctors sweeten at its brim the cup. No sickness equals spectres of the brain, They enslave till the bondsman hugs his chain. Whose soul should not burn, as like mine, it sees Hale men being treated, as for disease, With drugs that force a nightmare-ridden sleep, When they might bask in sun, and shout, and leap! But the remedy? Reason wears a face Austere, abstracted, void of outward grace. The problems it would solve are deep and high; And the informing light they shed is dry. The crowd, long since besotted, in affright Shrinks to its lazy phantoms from the sight Of Wisdom, grim and grimy, in the mire Calling it to drudge and moil without hire. Whatever means Souls’ doctors can command Should not they use to make men understand That they are free—the more for the consent Of Heav’n’s music to be their instrument? Music interprets Mind; by it I strive— Like physicians by honey from the hive— To clothe bare truths Philosophy has taught In garb that points—not hides—the charms of Thought. All praise be to the Muses that I find Power in their sweet mystery to bind A friend in toils so happy that his soul Will refuse deliverance ere the whole Reveals itself to him of Nature’s plan, Even in our verse, and how good for Man!

Men’s Words and Thoughts on Death! One will deny His and his dead body’s identity; Yet resent, as if slight to his own worth, Its rotting when deposited in earth; Flame’s outrage, devouring it with his goods; Beasts’, tearing it to pieces in the woods. His proud profession that he does not care For his body’s plight—He will not be there— Rings false; he keeps, secreted in his heart, A nerve which aches, though flesh and feeling part. Not will self be root and branch so wrenched out As that some still shall not be left about; For why contemplate else at all the lot Of the dead flesh he says concerns him not, Unless Self pities Self, and it hurts the Soul That it and flesh make an ill-smelling whole? But, if strange that the sufferer thus made To stand by, share the cruel insult paid The carcase, being flesh and spirit, one, Though feigned to feel, by now is past and gone, And as Nothingness cannot feel it ill For brutes to maul it, is not stranger still The impulse rather to exult than mourn When men foresee they shall hereafter burn Upon a grand funeral pyre, or lie Mummies, stifled, frozen, alternately, On polished slabs of marble, or be hid, Crushed beneath a mountainous pyramid! You grieve: “No more will echoes of your feet Reach home; no wife and children run to greet Your glad return, and vie for the first kiss, Flooding a heart, too full for speech, with bliss; No more for dear ones will you watch and store; Be their armour, and citadel no more;— Oh! that one day, cruel, accursed, should spoil, The harvesting of a whole lifetime’s toil!” But in these sighs, what cause will you have shown For real tribulation of your own? Rather will not the death that you bewail Be happy ending of a fairy tale? Reduce your cries to words; and they will clear Away a grievance, and assuage a fear. To fall asleep at a fair life’s fair close, And thence till Time shall cease enjoy repose— Where hardship? If it be to leave behind Boundless sorrow to kindred, ease your mind; The ash-pale face on the funeral pile, Far from forbidding kindly souls to smile, Stands for rest rewarding labour, release From accidents of fortune’s blind caprice! Folly again, when banqueters recline, Brows roses-wreathed, cups in their hands, the wine At their hearts, and—“brief harvest this of joy For us poor things”, they cry; “the hour employ! What is is ours; for use; not to recall!” As if of death’s ills, if any, of all Chief were to think of feasting in the past, Feel in the hand the wine cup, and not taste! Mere slumber will the night from day divide, And brush life’s merriment and cares aside. Death has infinite force to put asleep Body and Mind, and how can men then keep From craving the fuller, they being one? Is not Death Sleep, but a sleep going on, On eternally—more complete again, While it lasts, than the sleep of living men? Sleep in its own true nature does not quit Its hold so far of sense as to unfit A wakened subject to collect his powers For the due service of his working hours. Much less—if nought with something may compare— Than busy life’s in slumber, is Death’s care For Self! Death owes no duty unto life, Its joys and griefs, its harmony and strife; Dissolves as if intent to negative The utmost art of builder to revive. Did ever man re-tread his native land On whom Death once has laid his icy hand? Yet living men will counterfeit a woe For loss that in their graves they cannot know! Well Nature losing patience might express Herself in plain reproof of fussiness: “What ails the man? Why all this waste of breath In fond anger at the approach of Death? Did all thy days in unmixed misery pass? No drop of pleasure moisten the cracked glass? If satiety the fault, better, Guest, Fly a feast too hospitable, and rest. Since the offence a glut of life, the waste Is the worse the longer the life shall last. Why live, when, as each hour is born, and dies, You read its curses in lack-lustre eyes? Off with yourself; nought fresh can I invent; You’ve sampled my whole stock; my wits are spent!” You object: “Your years few; body not chill Or withered with age; your joints supple still?” True, I dare say: yet though you should defy Whole centuries to kill—nay, never die— Nature endures; all would be stale to you!— Plead guilty; for you know the charge is true. Call next appellant—one advanced in years, Who meets Death’s advent with protesting tears. Would not Nature have reason on her side, If high She raised her voice to scold and chide: “Begone! bad jester, peak and pule elsewhere! I will not stand your sickly groanings here. What if, when, as your head you laid just now On the pillow, thinking nought else than how Empty you were, hungering for rich fare, Death entered, bidding you forthwith prepare To follow! You may call it hard, unkind Of the many years which left you behind, Drift-weed, ashore cast by the downward flow, Unsatisfied, forlorn, —But wherefore so? Did I not range careers for you to choose— This, that—a crowd—while you, from fear to lose A better, let all go? At last be sage; And cut ambition short to suit your age; Accept complacently the golden rule— What must be must be— kick; and die a fool!” Nature is right to rate a worthless son, Though She may find use for him later on. A battered thing like that, long past its prime, Rusted and cankered with unlovely grime, Out of shape and fashion, is good enough To feed Creation’s furnace with the stuff It is ever craving, supply of fresh Material of mortal mind and flesh. You need not be afraid that you, poor Clown, Will—deserve as you may—be shovelled down Into a bottomless pit, or consigned To Hell, as sport for devils there confined. How unless from old clay could new be born? Dust we were, and must, dust to dust, return; Millions before have fallen to it; thus Will numberless worse, better, fall like us! New pots from old— just that is Nature’s view; Still the old stuff, although the style be new. —And Man the stuff; no scrap of Self his own; Nothing fee simple; all on lease, or loan! So complain not, as if to strike away From life ere extreme age, if then, a day Were robbery. We have, all grant, no right O’er the past; Nature, keeping this in sight, Inquires what better title then have we To stake out a claim in futurity. Past—no beginning—future—no end—are one; Neither heeds when Man comes; when he is gone; And you—when time casts you out, why lament, More than its neglect in the old descent? For grievances a fairer you might choose In the undue postponement of repose. Sleep is prized as a respite from Earth’s strife, Yet is checkered by dreams that mimic life; And death loathed as carrion bird of air, Though sleep’s original, with no nightmare! But, perhaps, not delights of life so much You grieve to lose as that to quit your touch Upon life, is to leave you face to face With Hell’s Powers, and at their cruel grace. Dread not; whatever penalties you owe You will pay to the full, but not Below. Hell’s horrors are mere bugbears; and, as they, Shadows from the realities of day; Warnings as well. In no drear realm beneath Wanders Tantalus, with fear-frozen breath Lest the huge rock shall snap the slender thread, And thunder down upon his helpless head. It is a parable. The weight of cares, The uncertainties in human affairs— These men attribute to the wrath of God; Charging Heaven with strokes from Fortune’s rod. Never huge Tityos lay chained upon Torturing bank of pitchy Acheron. Had such monster lived, and his writhing bulk Paved, no mere nine acres, a guilt-logged hulk, But the whole Earth’s circle, neither he could Supply vultures groping his breast for food, Nor his nerves endure ages of the strain Of waiting, with the everlasting pain. The crazed lover in whose heart desire delves, And lust gnaws, is Tityos for ourselves. Look; spy you not passions everywhere Mounting red-billed from entrails to the air? Not in Hell is the stone pushed up, that will Foil Sisyphus by rolling down the hill. ’Tis our Office-badges we see each year Candidates praying, buying leave to wear— Ungrateful burden—and worse, after all, Not be licensed to be the people’s thrall! The Danaids again; who could in truth Believe that in despite of bridal ruth Fifty girls, save one, would shed forth a flood, At their father’s dictate, of kindred blood, Or, if so, have paid for the deed in Hell By drawing, in cracked pitchers, from a well? Myth ill planned; but ponder it he who feeds Cross-grained diseases of the soul, ill weeds, That usurp life’s field, and divert the gaze From joys that might be his for many days, To outbursts as self-mocking as the freak Of pouring water into jars that leak. Cerberus too, the Furies, and the gloom Steaming from black Cocytus, and the boom Of Tartarus, flames and shrieks, horrors seen By none but bards. They never could have been; Yet such were, are, will be, at our own hearth, So long as wrong is rampant on the Earth. Thriving guilt is haunted. As if to mock Its rise, is hurled from the Tarpeian rock, Shivers in dungeons, is scourged, branded, all To stamp sin’s end, and emphasize pride’s fall. If Justice often lags, alas, to find Fit chastisement for crime, and may seem blind, Conscience is keener-sighted; and its goad And whip spare not; no mercy for the load. How cheered would be the sinner could he think Dying cleared accounts; he had but to sink In death, and the weight dropped? Part of his curse Is that fancy paints future torments worse. The Wise assure him Hell is not; in vain; Life, his, is Hell; Eternity of pain. To wrongdoers and wronged too brief a space Human life has seemed to avenge a race On heinous crimes against it; hence rose Dis, Balanced by Elysian fields of bliss. But you, the Multitude, why are you sad That life is short, you, neither good, nor bad? Is it not for an ordinary man Audacious to complain how short his span, When, Ancus, with his royal work to do, Closed his eyes on light, younger than are you? Other kings, and lords many, in the pride Of life, who ruled great nations since have died. By a sudden treason He breathed his last Who paved a road by which his legions passed O’er the sea’s salt pools, scornful of the roar As foot and horsemen crossed from shore to shore. Scipio, thunderbolt of war, at whom Carthage shuddered, messenger of her doom, Gave his bones without protest to the grave As much of course as if a scullion slave. Did they who trained the energies of mind To serve, and exalt, or please, humankind, Pioneered in the Sciences to arm Against gross Dulness, and by Arts to charm, Repine when the summons came to leave off, And not echo it with a glad “Enough”! Ministers of the Muses, with the rest, Peerless Homer, by all their king confessed, Raised not a single murmur, did not plead For one song more before they joined the dead. Democritus, not stooping to complain, When he missed the old readiness of brain, Stayed for no rougher monitors of age; Spared death the toil of posting the last stage, When the sun arises the stars that shone In high Heaven, leave it to flame alone. Epicurus was the sun; in his light Wisdom of other men became as night, His page tracks life to its source; there the whole Is moulded by this father of the soul. Mortal being is a medley; but as bees, Ranging up and down, among flow’rs and trees, In a woodland glade, sip everywhere, Scorning nothing suckled by sunny air, And turn all to honey, so his wise pen Transmutes words into golden sweets for men. As his thought wells up from a mind divine, Terrors bred of animal blood resign Their hold, world’s walls crumble in dust away, I see in light clearer than that of day Earth—above it, through it; but nought to tell Of an Under-world, torture-jail of Hell. Heaven stands revealed; the Gods’ quiet home, Where nor clouds, nor rain and snow-storms dare come, And in large air they breathe immortally, Unknowing sin or grief, content to Be. Ah! the debt that I owe, joy mixed with awe, For all I learned through him of Nature’s law! If lives stretched for goodness, well might his vie For an exemption from the rule to die; Nothing more certain, as his light grew dim, Than his waiver of it, if pressed on him. And You make a fuss at death, fret and fume, When how does your life differ from a tomb? You rid yourself of half of it in sleep; For the other half, when you think you keep Awake, bemused you yawn and snore, a prey To sick nightmares although it is broad day, Chief of your evils being that you fail To extort from them what it is you ail. Cruel the weight, you cry, upon your breast; It wears you out, and robs you of your rest. Seek whence it came, and by what right it took You for pack-horse, and why it is you brook The burden; put it, put your brain and heart To the question. When you and Reason part, The nightmare will be gone, and you will find You have regained possession of your mind. Ignorance of Causes;—that is the main Virus in the pest of which you complain. You rush about with it, are discontent To return no sounder than when you went. Ho! to the villa from the house in Town— As driving a fire engine—headlong down. Doze; with the fury that you galloped down, Gallop up, just to sup alone in Town! Why! to escape yourself—from whom, be sure, You cannot flee out of whatever door. Yourself you loathe for sickness! And its Cause? None else than being blind to Nature’s laws. Life-in-death—it fleets! Moments its concern; Yet in them what may not a mortal learn! Study those laws, I say; they keep the key Of the Universe and Eternity; The clue to what hereafter shall be made Of this stuff in which, men, we masquerade. Take to heart my counsel; do not from fear For life, shun ills your duty is to bear. The end’s stamped on each mortal lot by Fate; No human force avails to change the date. And why crave to live on? You’ll find nought new; Nothing but the old objects to pursue; No fresh joys from life to be hammered; just Battered failures, and savouring of dust. We covet years, in the hope that they will Be generous beyond the past, and still, Although they be, hope, covet, as at first; So wide-mouthed faith; so unquenchable thirst! Never does it occur to you to glance At Fortune’s caprices, the whims of Chance, To reflect that, if added, years will not, Whatever the number, affect one jot The accounts between life and death. No strife Can be, infinite Death with finite Life. What that called “Death”? A sea beyond, before; Boundless, everlasting; no port, no shore. And “Life”? An accident. Whether at birth it fall, Or in a thousand years, concerns not Death at all!

Ah! the good times, when Earth was young and new, And, day by day, in strength and beauty grew; When out of her bountiful bosom sprang Each instant, some fresh wonder into view. Instead, the mournful change! now, day by day, The rule for the old Mother is decay. Ill is the continual drain supplied, As used particles rarefy away. It is not as in the primeval age. Nought mattered it to her that at this stage, In the gay effervescence of her youth, Blind forces beat on her; she mocked their rage. Her garrison lacks food for its support. Pounded by batteries of ev’ry sort, The walls already are a pile of dust. No hope to hold longer the great World-fort. Futurity has ceased to be for Earth As in her prime of jollity and mirth. She is worn out, and weak with motherhood; No more, as once, has vigour to give birth To all kinds of being, race after race, Creatures monstrous in size, perfect in grace; All her own make; by no gold cord let down With glory on them from a higher place, Or cast up by the lashing, wailing tide.— She bears not, as when laughed on ev’ry side Cattle, corn, pastures, vines, to make hearts glad, Earth’s gifts to Man, her glory, and her pride. A changed scene ours; no longer Nature heaps The barns with sheaves; well, if the farmer keeps, After cost of labour and grain he sowed, A balance from the harvest that he reaps. His land in ancient days required no toil, Except to clear the corn from off the soil; Much less, an armoury of tools, with beeves, And a train of hirelings to drudge and moil. Some aged ploughman will be heard complain, That “labour as he may, how small the gain! Harder times these than those his father knew; A grateful task to be God-fearing then! True, that, man for man, a husbandman’s plot Might seem, in measurement, a smaller plot Than is now allowed; but reckon by yield, And how unequal is the present lot!” Not without cause the impulse to repine That we live in times of weakness—decline Throughout—in wisdom, honest cheer, and worth— Ev’n in fruitfulness of a shrivelled vine. But look at home ere you begin to ring Changes on offence from without; to bring Indictments against Fortune and the Gods; While none’s in fault but Earth herself—poor thing!

In the beginning Earth at her own will Spread a verdant glitter on plain and hill. Flowery meadows shone, gay, birthday sheen, Many-coloured embroidery of green. Meanwhile fresh germs were nursing strength beyond The modest grass that carpeted the ground. In them all a strange, a wild yearning woke To taste upper air; from the soil trees broke. Ah the sense of liberty, the keen zest Of a roaming instinct that stirred Earth’s breast! Thus she by herself in bush and tall grove Probed the mystery of the realm above; Foliage anticipating in space The down and feathers of a wingéd race. Next, in many, manifold modes, not come From salt pools, or sky-dropped, but from the womb— Bewildering variety of birth— Of the one universal Mother, Earth, Life, under impulses of rain, heat, light, Found organs of movement, even of flight. Nor yet is her inventiveness outworn; Still, through the same forces, are fresh forms born. But well it may have been that in old days, When Earth was quicker, livelier, in ways, Air larger, the diversity in kind Was more, the size greater, than now we find, Vitality faster in ev’rything. Thus, eggs would be hatched by the sun in Spring, As the cicala strips its body bare Of its fine coat, and needs no mother’s care. And now Earth’s motherliness that had first Found its scope in herbage, in due course nursed Human life itself. Wombs from moist heat grew Soil-fixed by roots that nutriment thence drew. This children, when they broke forth, sucked, and then, Issuing to air, walked erect as Men. Owing thus to one source—Earth’s breast—their milk, For clothes her breath, for couch turf soft as silk. Fit season for creative pow’rs to wake, When cold did not numb, gusts confusion make, And unlike natures could in peace assume Their just traits, and find, without jostling, room. With fair intervals since the birth of Man, Almost each beast and bird we know began To range mountains and air, although at length Earth, like to mortal mothers, waned in strength. Change is Nature’s prime law; stage follows stage; And the engine by which she works is age. A plant from flower droops into decay; Another from dust blossoms for its day. Earth is in endless flux; she cannot bear Qualities once loved; kinds are not which were. Legend is thus encouraged to relate Tales of wonders in Earth’s creative state. We hear of bodies twofold, each a kind, Bound in one frame, but with a single mind. Inconceivable Centaurs! At three years A horse is full-grown and all burdens bears; At that age a boy can but play, and rest; Yearns aloud in sleep for his mother’s breast. Hardly is life for the young man begun When the wind-galled steed’s course long since was run. And Scylla? She might have chos’n to be fish, Or to bark as dogs, and have had her wish; But as a pair! And Chimæra again? Well for the Three to work as each is fain; But, however it is with dragons, goat And lion boast not of a flame-proof coat. So, of the new Earth and Heaven—dreams told Of rivers running sudden floods of gold; Trees with gems for flowers; giants of height To wade deep-rushing waters, and a might That could make Olympus a ruined heap; As if, because young Earth was used to keep Elements and seeds dormant, when they came At length to life, they need not be the same! Fancy “improved” them from real freaks, born, Living, if lives scarce human, and forlorn. From instinct creative, but cross-grained, Earth Brought monsters—aspect and limbs strange—to birth; Abnormal the whole—some with parts too few, Some with more, though all human, than were due. Horse-men, mermaids, dragons, gold-streams, gemmed trees. For Nature are impossibilities. Had they once existed, there is no cause Why the race should have ceased through Nature’s laws. The freaks of Earth were actual, and led Earthly men’s lives; horror, if they had bred, As they might have but for good Nature’s grace! She, guardian of the purity of race, Rejecting them from the kind, by her ban Of Childlessness, saved the descent of Man! Nature works marvels; many are combined, When she plants, and bars trespass on, a kind. First, long experiments will have been tried Before candidates find their way inside. Even with claim allowed, how many have Left, to prove they lived, nothing but a grave! Food may have failed, elbow-room, or good will In new-come neighbours strong to do them ill. Among survivors a part owe their life To native power to outlast long strife. A habit may have been acquired to keep Vigils while the enemies were asleep; Or consciously they set wit against wit, And, with life for stakes, enjoy playing it. That is reynard’s way; lions’, less, resource, Than valiant rage has been the ruling force; And a third quality has saved a race, Agility—deers’ pow’r to devour space. Again, Man is grand destroyer; so breeds, Many, owe survival to his large needs. Dogs might have been classed with wolves; but we prize Them as loyal light sleepers, best allies. Some kinds, beasts of burden, willing or not, Exchange protection, meals, for freedom’s lot. To flocks and herds attack by beasts of prey Was a nightly scare; it has passed away. They are secured from that, or lack of food, Since their extinction would lose Man a good. But kinds that neither can resist a raid, Nor have the right to call Man to their aid, What for them but death, if worth while as spoil, Or sharp riddance, cumberers of the soil? Such final dooms as these may well have struck A multitude of kinds out of life’s book; And Earth, as women, fills not gaps; her stage Of maternity obeys laws of age. Not Man, first-born of Earth, of those that fail; Child of a lusty mother, hard and hale; Built on a frame-work of big, solid bone, With tough sinews to weld the flesh in one; Not made with heat to faint, or cold to freeze, To sicken with strange meat, or by disease. Men led wandering wild beasts’ lives; the sun Had revolutions numberless to run Ere they harrowed fields, guided the curved ploughs, Planted young orchards, or lopped rotting boughs. Meanwhile they gathered Earth’s alms, well content With the chance harvests sunshine, showers sent; Though food on which our ancestors relied Was that the boundless woods of oak supplied. Acorns were their mainstay, with, in large store, Berries that young Earth’s teeming fallows bore. They felt not how miserable they were; For Nature pitied, and gave ample fare. To slake thirst they but had to track the sound Of torrents tumbling from great hills around— A call their fellows, the wild beasts, knew well. And oft a man would linger in some cell Of Wood-Nymph invited by the cool air, Since thence broke springs unfailing. Here and there They bubbled round rocks, loitering to play With each; then would awhile sleep on their way In soft green moss, before all joined, to flow, One easy gliding stream, to the smooth plain below. As yet men had not learned to tan a skin Robbed from some beast, and dress themselves therein. Forest, or mountain cave, was the sole home— If that,—they knew. When, as they chanced to roam, A storm burst, rain, or whirlwind, they would lie, Grimy, in the thick scrub, till it passed by. Each one was for himself; none of them could Rise to an idea of common good; “Custom”, “Morals”, things unknown; and what use In laws, when no act required an excuse? Aught a man saw, and liked, he took; so long As none other saw, liked, and was as strong. The only need, a standard how to test Animal worth—live as fitted that best. Savage love, although not without its storms, Was simpler than ours, direct, free from forms. If two agreed in those natural days, They wedded, as were weddings; went their ways. Were he willing, not she, he won consent With a stick: and she had to be content. When rich the wooer, quick the bargain made, And the price in acorns, or berries paid. In our times, though passion may burn, its flame We call discreetly by some other name; Is it force to warn daughters that to wed Poverty means just a mother’s death bed? And as for a sale of hearts, dare compare A lawyer’s settlements with a swine’s fare! Still, in essence a likeness we may find In our modes to those of the new-world kind. Hunters all, by virtue of speed of foot, Patience no less, they ran down any brute; Hands as dexterous hurled a storm of stones, And wielded clubs that crashed through flesh and bones. Rarely were they baulked, or had to lie low, Hunted, the hunters, by a stronger foe! Sometimes night surprised them, led by the chase Far from their customary haunts. Small case They made of that; strewed leaves, and on the heap Threw themselves, like wild beasts, and were asleep. Pity not that beneath no roof they lay, As darkness followed on the close of day. They wailed not, doubting its return, for light, Till with rosy torch the Sun banished night. The two had from their childhood come and gone; Why fear the Dark, unwatched, might rule alone? To them who never knew of locks and bars, A roof seemed a worse guardian than the stars. Rather it was when they had sought repose In caves they met most danger from their foes. It might occur to some wandering beast, Making the night hideous, to infest A recess it passed: and, however glad The tenant to buy life with all he had, His fate would be to glut a lion’s maw. Plunged live in a live tomb by tooth and claw; Though worse their doom, who, with huge gobbets jagged From the bleeding flesh, about the woods dragged Noisome centres of horror and pest—palms Trembling o’er sores for which they knew no balms; Calling with agonizing cries on death To sink their remains to the world beneath. Alas! Though measure age with age; nor let Us in compassion for a few forget How hosts that, eagles gleaming, marched to war, Return, less thousands weltering in gore; A navy that rode yesterday the waves, To-day is matchwood, corpses robbed of graves. Ocean in Earth’s infancy swelled with pride, And lightly laid its empty threats aside; Laughing tides might mean treachery, or not; Mortals could plead no wreck to prove a plot; Famine slew a good few in the Age of Flint; Surfeit’s as homicidal as is stint; For themselves poisoned meats rude nomads dressed; With polished art we serve them to a guest! A stage on; huts, plaited boughs; men therein Who stripped for clothes their prey of fur and skin. Chief of all discoveries theirs to learn How the thing we call “Fire” will flame and burn. First, lightning brought it, darting from above; Though men might watch its birth in any grove, For when gales blow, the old trees sway about, And from the boughs in friction sparks flash out. The sun taught many uses; how the heat— Repeated rays—will gradually beat Hardness mellow, and, with fire’s aid, prepare The soil’s crude fruits and grain for human fare. Thus, from a hearth and rough shed, rose a home, With revolutions many thence to come; And when stop? With comfort, unknown of old, Men grew impatient of rude toil and cold. Plenty and leisure stirred the torpid heart; And love and tenderness required their part. Marriage fought free-love; couples plighted troth; And offspring were the property of both. Pledges of love, they had power to warm Beyond the circle where they were life’s charm. How could a father keep a heart of stone, When he felt a child’s throbbing on his own? Tenderness breeds tenderness; men at length Recognized binding duties owed by strength To weakness—assuming what it has willed Must be done—in the stammer of a child Dictating to its father. From the hearth Sympathy with helplessness spread through Earth. Right of the weak was the keystone whereon Neighbours that would not do or see wrong done, Founded their leagues; and though some base War-Lord Would here and there be false to his sworn word, The best, the main part, stood by theirs, pure, chaste:— Else, mankind had perished, Earth been a waste! Throughout it all, Mankind was being taught To voice the rising requirements of Thought. Gradual process! Gesture was first stage; The fingers point a want in infant age. Each creature feels what force the best to spend To indicate a need, and gain an end. An angry calf soon after it is born, Butts with forehead not armed as yet with horn; Whelps of panthers, and cubs of lions treat As weapons teeth to be, and clawless feet. Chickens ruffle spread-wings, as at a foe, Threatening trespassers things they might do. What emotion will not all beasts succeed In expressing, though without speech, at need? Your Molossian draws back his large, soft lips, And shews his hard teeth! Strangers, ware, he grips! Then comes an old friend of the Master’s—hark! With frolic round and round, the joyous bark! So with the whole tribe; whether in a glow Of love they lick their pups; or to and fro Roll them—mimic rage—and bare, as to glut Cannibal hunger, teeth in jaws half shut. All who know but a little of the kind, And listen to the scolding match, will find Worlds of difference from the doleful bay Of hound deserted, whipt, cow’ring away. Horses, again; does not the rule apply? You tell by a steed’s neigh that mares are nigh; Straightway he feels the spur of wingéd love; They interpret his challenge to the drove. But—nostrils spread, the neigh become a snort; War steeds, jangling armour, pass—he would join the sport! Nor are birds, ospreys, gulls, without their choice Of vents for feeling; all unlike the voice, In wooing, to the hunger-scream of strife, Or victor’s, grappling sea fish for its life. Even, it is believed, some kinds that ride The air have means by varied cries to guide Men’s acts. Rough throated rooks and crows are said By secular sign-reading to have bred An instinct when winds, floods, rain they would have, To warn of weather coming that they crave. Thus, ears attest the ways that have been found By lower races to converse by sound, Strange if Man, Nature’s first-born, built not speech On sounds for meanings diverse, one for each! Fond fable that one knew all names, and then Distributed them to dumb fellow men! Before common use, by what means learned he Articulate speech had utility? How urge men as good as deaf—so, the rule, Sulky—for no clear gain, to go to school, When Nature had already, by design For them, through combining powers, to reign, Giv’n versatility of voice and tongue To plan, to act, and drive the world along! Strength in union; this the great, first law, From which, and its self-sacrifice, men draw Sovereignty in Nature; thence learned to bow To chiefs in mind and heart, who taught them how To change forms of living and life for new. From acceptance of son after sire grew Kingship and kings; with cities in due course, And citadels as centres of armed force, Or royal refuges in civil strife; For complex soon became national life. Wealth counted first by cattle, and by land; And the State’s part was at the King’s command. By his own standard he apportioned it, For strength or beauty; sometimes mother-wit. Laws of inheritance grew fixed; and great Landowners vied with kings to rule a State. Gold came; race, steel, charm, acres ceased to reign; All gave gold way, and followed in its train. An owner used it to earn rule and fame; Less for themselves—not e’en so high his aim— Than that he sought to hide some stain of earth. None blushed to rank by accidents of birth; But rank through money! Rich men would disguise That flaw by vouching aught else for their rise, They wished wealth for enjoyment, yet to shun Odium for it behind honours won. Vain! each peak climbed breeds on its own account Envy with traps to trip you as you mount; The more, and loftier, surer the flash Of a bolt, and for you, amid the crash, To find yourself contemptuously hurled Into the foul pit of the Underworld. Flee gold and power, both; neither is one With happiness; or sheds bliss on a throne. Few who have touched the goal aver the good Equals the price they paid in sweat of blood. Better it satisfies to be of those That obey than to sway realms, and crush foes. Hear Reason, and know wealth, absolute, whole, Is so to live that means disturb not soul. You wish to forbid Penury your door? Then adjust your house-keeping to your store. Ambition exalts to abase; your eyes, If they see, will teach you its lures are lies. Earth’s masters despised these truths; they who had Supremacy and wealth went drunk and mad With licence; worms could bear no more; and crown, And lordship—heads with them—came tumbling down. Majesty was a ball for mobs to spurn; Awe’s excess was matched by excess of scorn. It was the dregs’ orgy; rule of brute force; And each man’s fury followed its full course. Guilt will, whatever an offence, appear Less heinous to third persons than seen near. Trial now was before a Court of one;— Judge, suitor, he to whom the hurt was done. Vengeance extreme would rouse convict, or kin, To redress disproportioned to the sin, And, unindulged, leave on the other side A balance owing, and unsatisfied; Enmeshing in either case a wide swarm Of households pledged to work each other harm. A blood-feud chokes enterprise;—earn reward For deeds, when hangs over the door a sword! Then, in all ages, let him who shall dare Set rolling stones of civil feud, beware! Whatever lives earlier it may spoil, It will not miss him out; it must recoil, No peace at home for one who has, the first, Poisoned man’s faith in man; he is accurst. Skulk as he may, himself does not believe He shall for aye be able to deceive; In sleep, fever-raging, he will proclaim His sin, and roam clad in the sheet of shame! Drear this “mid passage”, when, as themselves thought, Emancipated, men were sold and bought; Bondsmen to cunning demagogues, who saw Their gain in putting off the reign of Law. But ev’n the Multitude will not endure Chaos, save as interlude. Hence the cure. Mankind wearies of frauds; of vengeful deeds, Infinitely renewing, like ill weeds. From lassitude it lets the wise and good Enlist strong arms to stem the turbid flood. In time some sage arises to extract Ideas of right, that laws condense to act. Youth long since was past; Nature stood aside, Leaving Man to face problems, and replies provide.

Think not I, and in Reason’s name, blaspheme Holy truths. Nay, for this would ill beseem My purpose. To bring home impious deeds Done as for Religion—that is my theme. Who knows not of Aulis—the Chiefs arrayed About the Altar of the Trivian Maid— Lords, chosen of Achæa, kings of men, Reluctant murderers, ashamed, afraid. And lo! though startled, with no fear at all— For how suspect ill in her loved sire’s call!— A girl, young; yet ripe for marriage; perhaps, Summoned to adorn that high festival! What if some tremor? In her flow’r of days, Brought hither for the host of Greeks to gaze, And admire the Fair, a young hero’s bride. Hark! is not that the wedding chant they raise? Courage! Faint not; here are brave friends will bear Thee to the Altar; all await thee there! “Who, and for what?” She knows not, but a steam, A blood offering, scents she in the air. In a trance she moves; round her a void space. Awed as if at Death’s halo on Youth’s grace, Warriors shrink as on the Princess comes, Abashed to look their victim in the face. A priest’s touch—the tresses in which maids bind Their waving hair have found themselves confined By a sacrificial fillet, the ends Circling each cheek, and flowing down behind. She wakes. Flash on her soul—the Fleet’s delay— Her Mother’s despair as she went her way— The wrath of Artemis, Her gory rites— Basilisk glance as Calchas passed that day! And her sire—not once to have turned and smiled Upon his best beloved, his first-born child— The gleam from a ray on a Thing ill veiled— And a swell of sobs that could not be stilled! Her knees fail her; and how not? how sustain The horror! her father to will to stain His dagger with her blood! to breathe beneath A load of inextinguishable pain! So, shed Iphianassa her pure life, Borne in shuddering arms to a Sire’s knife: Printing with chaste blood incestuous stains, Re-dyed later by a foul, vengeful wife! The whole to verify a priest’s surmise, Prove privity with Heav’n in vulgar eyes! No matter how Gods’ credit was abused, Or sweet innocence sacrificed to lies.

Admire how Nature, with her jealous care For purity in kind, still schemes to pair Mother and child by features that forbid Confusion in the common home all share. Members of a kind insomuch agree; Yet each is itself; whence diversity. Mutual recognition rests on that; Family ties without it could not be. No human convention; dumb cattle can Be sure where love is due, no less than Man. An universal instinct—and, for guide, A sense of differences—Nature’s plan. A calf may its innocent life resign On the altar before some stately shrine, Shedding a flood of warm blood ’mid the steam Of incense, and libations of red wine. And the Mother! in many a green glade She tracks the lost by prints his feet have made. Each spot she studies, in the fond belief The faith of love can never be gainsaid. Then, from the woods that her moans overflow, An impulse drives her to renew her woe At the stall, where a passionate regret, Piercing her heart, tosses her to and fro. Not willow saplings, dewy grass, nor sight Of brimming rivers, with, in warm noon light, Cool pools to stand in, banish pain and ache, Much less, yield an interval of delight. A calf at play impose on her belief! Be accepted as hers, and bring relief! Numberless signs attest it not her own; Both like and unlike aggravate her grief. ’Tis given not to flocks alone and herds To mark diversities, but wild beasts, birds, Joying in lonely groves, and streams, and lakes, Even fish that understand without words, As they swim the deep, paint in shells the shore,— Nay, grains of corn themselves, an endless store, Remain distinguishable, one and all; Are known apart by learnéd in such lore. Art works after one pattern, and by rule; Nature as the mood inspires, not a school. She is certain in idea; diverse In embodiment; never same and dull.

Sound, voice are bodies. Though not for the hand To grasp, sense feels them, acts at their command. They wind into the ear, and strike the drum; Hark! response, as to a conductor’s wand. The voice even can hurt, as fist, or saw. In full volume, hoarse, grating on the jaw, Jostling its way in haste to worry through, It leaves the path it travels rough and raw. And no less bodily a spoken word; When moulded, and dressed, to be rightly heard, And winged by that arch modeller, the tongue, It slips through the lips, and careers, a bird. If the length to be traversed is unfair, Symmetry is marred; speakers must prepare For dazed confusion in their audience, And only a blurred rumbling in the air. Then set a Herald in a market place. For him thousands of eyes gaze from one face; And he flings at the whole a single word, That each will drink-in as his special grace. It multiplies, and with the hearers; all Receive stamped facsimiles, to recall Both form and sound, distinct, as that went forth; Each can claim his own for original. Human ears are the goal; and when no ear Is reached, after roaming everywhere In vain for shelter, the poor thing expires, To flit a ghostly leaf, dead, shrunk and sere. Or chance may be that it collides with rock; When—as with pebble that recoils—the shock Returns the voice thither whence it had come, And so unchanged that it appears to mock. Natural the cause, effect; the surprise, When in lone spots a company’s loud cries After stragglers on dark hills, bring back nought But old words in old order as replies. Where a height faced height, I have known a shout To gambol between in a joyous rout, And six or seven times reverberate; Like ball thrown to and fro in play about. Nothing is out of Nature’s course, the mode In which She acts; but Fancy loves to load Being with mysteries; not learn the laws Within our ken that rule Earth, our abode. Thus, a charmed husbandman will vigils keep, Imagining far echoes breaking sleep, ’Mid silences that seem to hold their breath, To be Pan come, half God, half Beast, with leap, And rustle of his bristly, pine-wreathed head— Drawn lip running o’er shrilling pipe—to lead His troop, goat-footed Satyrs, Nymphs, and Fauns, Till cliffs and caves reply to chords and reed. He deems that shy Powers, as falls the Dark, In solitudes—no prying crowds to mark— Fill woods and hills with music, wind and stringed, That he hears till the day-star wakes the lark. For ears hear as they list. The world is wide, With wildernesses wherein few abide. Remote from busy marts these joy to dream Some Gods do not disdain to dwell beside!

The pageant of the Seasons! Venus comes; She brings with her, As leader of the revel, winged Zephyr, Spring’s harbinger. And Flora has spread a carpet, finer was never wove, All hues and fragrances, to be trod by the Queen of Love. Next enters red-hot Summer; but its droughts are lightly borne By good Goddess Ceres; for they ripen the standing corn Nought ashamed is She of the dusty sweat upon her brow. Foreseeing her sheaves, how more and heavier they shall grow; Nor even scolds the North-wind; it steels the straw to sustain, By its rough embraces, the weight of the hardening grain. Autumn steps close after; and it too with a God for guide; Hark! shout the vineyards, “Bacchus! Hail to Bacchus!” far and wide. And now Earth’s “No-man’s land!” Spring, Autumn, Summer here and there; While up and down dance the Winds in the Kingdom of the Air. South-easters roar through woods where green leaves whispered yesterday; And thunders the South on meadows that wear the bloom of May. But the Year is waning; in the long chilly Dark it sits; No more, though by mere spasms, it breaks out into merry fits. Sulky and dull it mumbles its tempers in fog and sleet; Its joints are stiff with age; it totters on frost-bitten feet. ’Tis Winter, with a train pinched like itself, and short of breath, That shivers, and, as it moves, rattles its remains of teeth.