Origins and Savage Period of Mankind
But mortal manWas then far hardier in the old champaign,As well he should be, since a hardier earthHad him begotten; builded too was heOf bigger and more solid bones within,And knit with stalwart sinews through the flesh,Nor easily seized by either heat or cold,Or alien food or any ail or irk.And whilst so many lustrums of the sunRolled on across the sky, men led a lifeAfter the roving habit of wild beasts.Not then were sturdy guiders of curved ploughs,And none knew then to work the fields with iron,Or plant young shoots in holes of delved loam,Or lop with hooked knives from off high treesThe boughs of yester-year. What sun and rainsTo them had given, what earth of own accordCreated then, was boon enough to gladTheir simple hearts. Mid acorn-laden oaksWould they refresh their bodies for the nonce;And the wild berries of the arbute-tree,Which now thou seest to ripen purple-redIn winter time, the old telluric soilWould bear then more abundant and more big.And many coarse foods, too, in long agoThe blooming freshness of the rank young worldProduced, enough for those poor wretches there.And rivers and springs would summon them of oldTo slake the thirst, as now from the great hillsThe water’s down-rush calls aloud and farThe thirsty generations of the wild.So, too, they sought the grottos of the Nymphs—The woodland haunts discovered as they ranged—From forth of which they knew that gliding rillsWith gush and splash abounding laved the rocks,The dripping rocks, and trickled from aboveOver the verdant moss; and here and thereWelled up and burst across the open flats.As yet they knew not to enkindle fireAgainst the cold, nor hairy pelts to useAnd clothe their bodies with the spoils of beasts;But huddled in groves, and mountain-caves, and woods,And ‘mongst the thickets hid their squalid backs,When driven to flee the lashings of the windsAnd the big rains. Nor could they then regardThe general good, nor did they know to useIn common any customs, any laws:Whatever of booty fortune unto eachHad proffered, each alone would bear away,By instinct trained for self to thrive and live.And Venus in the forests then would linkThe lovers’ bodies; for the woman yieldedEither from mutual flame, or from the man’sImpetuous fury and insatiate lust,Or from a bribe—as acorn-nuts, choice pears,Or the wild berries of the arbute-tree.And trusting wondrous strength of hands and legs,They’d chase the forest-wanderers, the beasts;And many they’d conquer, but some few they fled,A-skulk into their hiding-places…
With the flung stones and with the ponderous heftOf gnarled branch. And by the time of nightO’ertaken, they would throw, like bristly boars,Their wildman’s limbs naked upon the earth,Rolling themselves in leaves and fronded boughs.Nor would they call with lamentations loudAround the fields for daylight and the sun,Quaking and wand’ring in shadows of the night;But, silent and buried in a sleep, they’d waitUntil the sun with rosy flambeau broughtThe glory to the sky. From childhood wontEver to see the dark and day begotIn times alternate, never might they beWildered by wild misgiving, lest a nightEternal should possess the lands, with lightOf sun withdrawn forever. But their careWas rather that the clans of savage beastsWould often make their sleep-time horribleFor those poor wretches; and, from home y-driven,They’d flee their rocky shelters at approachOf boar, the spumy-lipped, or lion strong,And in the midnight yield with terror upTo those fierce guests their beds of out-spread leaves.
And yet in those days not much more than nowWould generations of mortalityLeave the sweet light of fading life behind.Indeed, in those days here and there a man,More oftener snatched upon, and gulped by fangs,Afforded the beasts a food that roared alive,Echoing through groves and hills and forest-trees,Even as he viewed his living flesh entombedWithin a living grave; whilst those whom flightHad saved, with bone and body bitten, shrieked,Pressing their quivering palms to loathsome sores,With horrible voices for eternal death—Until, forlorn of help, and witless whatMight medicine their wounds, the writhing pangsTook them from life. But not in those far timesWould one lone day give over unto doomA soldiery in thousands marching onBeneath the battle-banners, nor would thenThe ramping breakers of the main seas dashWhole argosies and crews upon the rocks.But ocean uprisen would often rave in vain,Without all end or outcome, and give upIts empty menacings as lightly too;Nor soft seductions of a serene seaCould lure by laughing billows any manOut to disaster: for the science boldOf ship-sailing lay dark in those far times.Again, ’twas then that lack of food gave o’erMen’s fainting limbs to dissolution: now’Tis plenty overwhelms. Unwary, theyOft for themselves themselves would then outpourThe poison; now, with nicer art, themselvesThey give the drafts to others.