Proem
’Tis sweet, when, down the mighty main, the windsRoll up its waste of waters, from the landTo watch another’s labouring anguish far,Not that we joyously delight that manShould thus be smitten, but because ’tis sweetTo mark what evils we ourselves be spared;’Tis sweet, again, to view the mighty strifeOf armies embattled yonder o’er the plains,Ourselves no sharers in the peril; but naughtThere is more goodly than to hold the highSerene plateaus, well fortressed by the wise,Whence thou may’st look below on other menAnd see them ev’rywhere wand’ring, all dispersedIn their lone seeking for the road of life;Rivals in genius, or emulous in rank,Pressing through days and nights with hugest toilFor summits of power and mastery of the world.O wretched minds of men! O blinded hearts!In how great perils, in what darks of lifeAre spent the human years, however brief!—O not to see that nature for herselfBarks after nothing, save that pain keep off,Disjoined from the body, and that mind enjoyDelightsome feeling, far from care and fear!Therefore we see that our corporeal lifeNeeds little, altogether, and only suchAs takes the pain away, and can besidesStrew underneath some number of delights.More grateful ’tis at times (for nature cravesNo artifice nor luxury), if forsoothThere be no golden images of boysAlong the halls, with right hands holding outThe lamps ablaze, the lights for evening feasts,And if the house doth glitter not with goldNor gleam with silver, and to the lyre resoundNo fretted and gilded ceilings overhead,Yet still to lounge with friends in the soft grassBeside a river of water, underneathA big tree’s boughs, and merrily to refreshOur frames, with no vast outlay—most of allIf the weather is laughing and the times of the yearBesprinkle the green of the grass around with flowers.Nor yet the quicker will hot fevers go,If on a pictured tapestry thou toss,Or purple robe, than if ’tis thine to lieUpon the poor man’s bedding. Wherefore, sinceTreasure, nor rank, nor glory of a reignAvail us naught for this our body, thusReckon them likewise nothing for the mind:Save then perchance, when thou beholdest forthThy legions swarming round the Field of Mars,Rousing a mimic warfare—either sideStrengthened with large auxiliaries and horse,Alike equipped with arms, alike inspired;Or save when also thou beholdest forthThy fleets to swarm, deploying down the sea:For then, by such bright circumstance abashed,Religion pales and flees thy mind; O thenThe fears of death leave heart so free of care.But if we note how all this pomp at lastIs but a drollery and a mocking sport,And of a truth man’s dread, with cares at heels,Dreads not these sounds of arms, these savage swordsBut among kings and lords of all the worldMingles undaunted, nor is overawedBy gleam of gold nor by the splendour brightOf purple robe, canst thou then doubt that thisIs aught, but power of thinking?—when, besidesThe whole of life but labours in the dark.For just as children tremble and fear allIn the viewless dark, so even we at timesDread in the light so many things that beNo whit more fearsome than what children feign,Shuddering, will be upon them in the dark.This terror then, this darkness of the mind,Not sunrise with its flaring spokes of light,Nor glittering arrows of morning can disperse,But only nature’s aspect and her law.