Infinite Worlds
Once more, we all from seed celestial spring,To all is that same father, from whom earth,The fostering mother, as she takes the dropsOf liquid moisture, pregnant bears her broods—The shining grains, and gladsome shrubs and trees,And bears the human race and of the wildThe generations all, the while she yieldsThe foods wherewith all feed their frames and leadThe genial life and propagate their kind;Wherefore she owneth that maternal name,By old desert. What was before from earth,The same in earth sinks back, and what was sentFrom shores of ether, that, returning home,The vaults of sky receive. Nor thus doth deathSo far annihilate things that she destroysThe bodies of matter; but she dissipatesTheir combinations, and conjoins anewOne element with others; and contrivesThat all things vary forms and change their coloursAnd get sensations and straight give them o’er.And thus may’st know it matters with what othersAnd in what structure the primordial germsAre held together, and what motions theyAmong themselves do give and get; nor thinkThat aught we see hither and thither afloatUpon the crest of things, and now a birthAnd straightway now a ruin, inheres at restDeep in the eternal atoms of the world.
Why, even in these our very verses hereIt matters much with what and in what orderEach element is set: the same denoteSky, and the ocean, lands, and streams, and sun;The same, the grains, and trees, and living things.And if not all alike, at least the most—But what distinctions by positions wrought!And thus no less in things themselves, when onceAround are changed the intervals between,The paths of matter, its connections, weights,Blows, clashings, motions, order, structure, shapes,The things themselves must likewise changed be.
Now to true reason give thy mind for us.Since here strange truth is putting forth its mightTo hit thee in thine ears, a new aspectOf things to show its front. Yet naught there isSo easy that it standeth not at firstMore hard to credit than it after is;And naught soe’er that’s great to such degree,Nor wonderful so far, but all mankindLittle by little abandon their surprise.Look upward yonder at the bright clear skyAnd what it holds—the stars that wander o’er,The moon, the radiance of the splendour-sun:Yet all, if now they first for mortals were,If unforeseen now first asudden shown,What might there be more wonderful to tell,What that the nations would before have daredLess to believe might be?—I fancy, naught—So strange had been the marvel of that sight.The which o’erwearied to behold, to-dayNone deigns look upward to those lucent realms.Then, spew not reason from thy mind away,Beside thyself because the matter’s new,But rather with keen judgment nicely weigh;And if to thee it then appeareth true,Render thy hands, or, if ’tis false at last,Gird thee to combat. For my mind-of-manNow seeks the nature of the vast BeyondThere on the other side, that boundless sumWhich lies without the ramparts of the world,Toward which the spirit longs to peer afar,Toward which indeed the swift elan of thoughtFlies unencumbered forth.
Firstly, we find,Off to all regions round, on either side,Above, beneath, throughout the universeEnd is there none—as I have taught, as tooThe very thing of itself declares aloud,And as from nature of the unbottomed deepShines clearly forth. Nor can we once supposeIn any way ’tis likely, (seeing that spaceTo all sides stretches infinite and free,And seeds, innumerable in number, in sumBottomless, there in many a manner fly,Bestirred in everlasting motion there),That only this one earth and sky of oursHath been create and that those bodies of stuff,So many, perform no work outside the same;Seeing, moreover, this world too hath beenBy nature fashioned, even as seeds of thingsBy innate motion chanced to clash and cling—After they’d been in many a manner drivenTogether at random, without design, in vain—And as at last those seeds together dwelt,Which, when together of a sudden thrown,Should alway furnish the commencements fitOf mighty things—the earth, the sea, the sky,And race of living creatures. Thus, I say,Again, again, ‘tmust be confessed there areSuch congregations of matter otherwhere,Like this our world which vasty ether holdsIn huge embrace.
Besides, when matter abundantIs ready there, when space on hand, nor objectNor any cause retards, no marvel ’tisThat things are carried on and made complete,Perforce. And now, if store of seeds there isSo great that not whole life-times of the livingCan count the tale…And if their force and nature abide the same,Able to throw the seeds of things togetherInto their places, even as here are thrownThe seeds together in this world of ours,‘Tmust be confessed in other realms there areStill other worlds, still other breeds of men,And other generations of the wild.
Hence too it happens in the sum there isNo one thing single of its kind in birth,And single and sole in growth, but rather it isOne member of some generated race,Among full many others of like kind.First, cast thy mind abroad upon the living:Thou’lt find the race of mountain-ranging wildEven thus to be, and thus the scions of menTo be begot, and lastly the mute flocksOf scaled fish, and winged frames of birds.Wherefore confess we must on grounds the sameThat earth, sun, moon, and ocean, and all else,Exist not sole and single—rather in numberExceeding number. Since that deeply setOld boundary stone of life remains for themNo less, and theirs a body of mortal birthNo less, than every kind which here on earthIs so abundant in its members found.
Which well perceived if thou hold in mind,Then Nature, delivered from every haughty lord,And forthwith free, is seen to do all thingsHerself and through herself of own accord,Rid of all gods. For—by their holy heartsWhich pass in long tranquillity of peaceUntroubled ages and a serene life!—Who hath the power (I ask), who hath the powerTo rule the sum of the immeasurable,To hold with steady hand the giant reinsOf the unfathomed deep? Who hath the powerAt once to roll a multitude of skies,At once to heat with fires ethereal allThe fruitful lands of multitudes of worlds,To be at all times in all places near,To stablish darkness by his clouds, to shakeThe serene spaces of the sky with sound,And hurl his lightnings,—ha, and whelm how oftIn ruins his own temples, and to rave,Retiring to the wildernesses, thereAt practice with that thunderbolt of his,Which yet how often shoots the guilty by,And slays the honourable blameless ones!
Ere since the birth-time of the world, ere sinceThe risen first-born day of sea, earth, sun,Have many germs been added from outside,Have many seeds been added round about,Which the great All, the while it flung them on,Brought hither, that from them the sea and landsCould grow more big, and that the house of heavenMight get more room and raise its lofty roofsFar over earth, and air arise around.For bodies all, from out all regions, areDivided by blows, each to its proper thing,And all retire to their own proper kinds:The moist to moist retires; earth gets increaseFrom earthy body; and fires, as on a forge,Beat out new fire; and ether forges ether;Till nature, author and ender of the world,Hath led all things to extreme bound of growth:As haps when that which hath been poured insideThe vital veins of life is now no moreThan that which ebbs within them and runs off.This is the point where life for each thing ends;This is the point where nature with her powersCurbs all increase. For whatsoe’er thou seestGrow big with glad increase, and step by stepClimb upward to ripe age, these to themselvesTake in more bodies than they send from selves,Whilst still the food is easily infusedThrough all the veins, and whilst the things are notSo far expanded that they cast awaySuch numerous atoms as to cause a wasteGreater than nutriment whereby they wax.For ‘tmust be granted, truly, that from thingsMany a body ebbeth and runs off;But yet still more must come, until the thingsHave touched development’s top pinnacle;Then old age breaks their powers and ripe strengthAnd falls away into a worser part.For ever the ampler and more wide a thing,As soon as ever its augmentation ends,It scatters abroad forthwith to all sides roundMore bodies, sending them from out itself.Nor easily now is food disseminateThrough all its veins; nor is that food enoughTo equal with a new supply on handThose plenteous exhalations it gives off.Thus, fairly, all things perish, when with ebbingThey’re made less dense and when from blows withoutThey are laid low; since food at last will failExtremest eld, and bodies from outsideCease not with thumping to undo a thingAnd overmaster by infesting blows.
Thus, too, the ramparts of the mighty worldOn all sides round shall taken be by storm,And tumble to wrack and shivered fragments down.For food it is must keep things whole, renewing;’Tis food must prop and give support to all,—But to no purpose, since nor veins sufficeTo hold enough, nor nature ministersAs much as needful. And even now ’tis thus:Its age is broken and the earth, outwornWith many parturitions, scarce createsThe little lives—she who created erstAll generations and gave forth at birthEnormous bodies of wild beasts of old.For never, I fancy, did a golden cordFrom off the firmament above let downThe mortal generations to the fields;Nor sea, nor breakers pounding on the rocksCreated them; but earth it was who bore—The same to-day who feeds them from herself.Besides, herself of own accord, she firstThe shining grains and vineyards of all joyCreated for mortality; herselfGave the sweet fruitage and the pastures glad,Which now to-day yet scarcely wax in size,Even when aided by our toiling arms.We break the ox, and wear away the strengthOf sturdy farm-hands; iron tools to-dayBarely avail for tilling of the fields,So niggardly they grudge our harvestings,So much increase our labour. Now to-dayThe aged ploughman, shaking of his head,Sighs o’er and o’er that labours of his handsHave fallen out in vain, and, as he thinksHow present times are not as times of old,Often he praises the fortunes of his sire,And crackles, prating, how the ancient race,Fulfilled with piety, supported lifeWith simple comfort in a narrow plot,Since, man for man, the measure of each fieldWas smaller far i’ the old days. And, again,The gloomy planter of the withered vineRails at the season’s change and wearies heaven,Nor grasps that all of things by sure degreesAre wasting away and going to the tomb,Outworn by venerable length of life.