LIFE
Retinens vestigia Lucretii
(Keeping track of the profit)

O bounteous Venus, mother of the race,
Each living creature hails you with delight;
With life you fill the oceans as they roll,
From Pole to Pole beneath the firmament;
The fruit producing Earth, at your command
Puts forth a carpet of the fairest flowers;
The vernal face of day is scarce unveiled
Before the birds of air succumb to love;
Then o’er the joyous pastures the wild herds
Bound merrily or swim the rapid streams;
O cause the fierce pursuits of war to cease;
Lull all to rest throughout the sea and land.
You, only, can compel a tranquil peace,
Since Mars controls the cruel tasks of war.
But even Mars, reclining in your lap,
Is vanquished by the eternal wound of love;
And, looking up, his graceful neck thrown back,
He feasts his eager eyes, intent on you.
So, Goddess, bending with a fond embrace,
Entrance his ear with your sweet Melodie’s,
And lull the God to slumber in your arms.
Not only Mars, but fierce Religion tame
To lead by love, instead of threatening
Poor, groveling man with terrors terrible
Of thunderbolts by Jupiter despatched.
Let vivid force of intellect prevail
Beyond the flaming bounds of space and time.
The altar of the virgin Trivia
Was stained with blood of Iphigenia
By her own father, with attending priests,
While she, all dumb with fear, sank to her knees;
Her countrymen all weeping at the sight.
And it availed her naught at such a time
That she had been the first to bless her sire;
And by religion was the evil done.
Men do not know the nature of the soul,
So cease to wonder whither it will go,
When your poor body is dissolved by death.
Behold the rose put forth her flowers in Spring;
The corn mature beneath the Summer heat,
The grape grow purple in the Autumn sun,
And bide your time as patiently as they.
Besides, if time shall utterly destroy
The things by it removed with length of age,
Then, whence does Venus to each race restore
The light of life according to their kinds?
Whence do the rivers, flowing from afar,
Supply the Sea, or Aether feed the stars?
But, if those elements of which this sum
Consists and is renewed, immortal are,
And have existed from eternity,
They nevermore to nothing can return.
The showers of rain are turned to smiling fruits.
The wind is substance through invisible.
Each wave that beats upon the rocky cliff
Some minute portion of the rock subtracts;
For Nature seldom hurries in her work.
We fear old age may creep upon our limbs,
And break the gates of life. Why should we fear?
Time, likewise, of itself does not exist,
But is our understanding of the things
That have been done in ages that are past;
And of the things that still are present now;
And what moreover afterwards may follow.
Untasted fountains are a sweet delight.
The temples of the muses still unveiled
Have fascinations for the daring mind.
‘This sweet to occupy the heights serene
Of lofty wisdom, from whose battlements
The pigmy battles of the common herd
For fleeting honors, or for worthless wealth,
Resemble battles of contending ants.
O wretched minds of men, O souls so blind,
Can you not see man’s nature but requires
A body free from pain; a mind exempt
From care and fear; a spirit resolute
To be in tune with Nature’s loveliness.
The grass in Spring beside a sparkling stream
Is lovelier far than the nocturnal feast,
Illuminated by a golden lamp;
And social converse underneath the boughs
Can be sweet as in a gorgeous room.
Hot fevers wrack the body, just the same,
Beneath the silken covers of the rich
As underneath a plebeian covering;
Since neither riches nor nobility,
Nor glory of a kingdom can suffice
To make the body vigorous and strong,
Why should they make the mind more firm and true?
Man can be happy without mustering
An army in review upon the plain,
Or fleet of warships sailing on the sea.
If he would banish all religious fears,
And think of death with spirit undisturbed,
Admire all beauty for itself alone;
So, when you see a golden filament
All studded o’er with gems of wealth untold,
Then, in the deep recesses of your mind,
Call into vision how the cobweb glows,
All animated by Aurora’s rays,
Whereon the dewdrops brightly scintillate.
Remember how the violet emits
A ray as lovely as the sapphire does,
While every modest blade of grass or leaf
Contains an emerald for your delight.
The blood red ruby never can excel
The sparkle of the dewdrop on the rose,
When first the morning sun the flower doth kiss.
And yet, the dewdrops dissipate,
Scarce faster than the joy possession gives
Of the ephemeral delights of pride.
Religion on the altar of the Gods,
May sacrifice a calf. With what result?
It’s mother wandering o’er the grassy meads,
And through the tender forests in the spring,
Her cloven hoofprint leaves upon the ground,
Surveying every corner with her eyes
For traces of her offspring to discern.
Then, standing still within the leafy bower,
She fills the valley with her loud complaints.
And, oft returning to the vacant stall,
She hopes against all hope to find it there.
The tender willows cannot soothe her breast,
The forms of other calves attract her not,
And for her loss she is inconsolable,
When with a flattery insidious,
The calm deep smiles, the faithless sea,
So prone to violence and treachery,
Deceives the wary mariner to embark;
Then roars in rage and overwhelms his ship;
What does it profit, that in Neptune’s fane,
He shed the blood of the poor helpless calf?
The war of principles regards not man.
When Aetna rages forth in mighty flames,
She cares not for cities or for fields;
And yet the same force animates the grain
To spring green from the earth and fructify,
The ancient poets of the Greeks have sung,
That Mother Earth drives in her chariot,
By two great lions drawn, together yoked
To signify the wildest offspring should
Be softened to obey a parents rein.
And when unto her bosom you are called,
Your friends will all regret that you are gone;
Your pleasant wife will weep for you alone,
Your children, then will miss your evening kiss;
For this, at feasts, the custom still prevails
To raise on high the flowing cup of wine,
And say, “The time to drink is very short,
And when we’re gone, shall we remember it?”
For he, who suddenly is roused from sleep
At first can scarcely recollect himself.
Death, then can be no greater pain than sleep,
Why do you groan and weep at thought of it?
If life has been a pleasant thing to you,
Why do you not, unreasonable man,
Retire like a guest, well satisfied?
And, if your life in trouble has been passed,
Why should you grieve that you have reached its end?
For Nature drives the old out with the new;
And other generations will succeed.
When we are gone, who only have the use,
Not the possession of the life we live.
Do you believe with terror Tantalus
Beholds the rock impending in the air?
No. Rather terror dwells within life,
Who dread the fall that fortune may assign.
The vulture feeding upon Tityus,
In time would eat a body great as earth.
But he is Tityus among us here,
Whom passions tear, or cares shall lacerate.
A Sisyphus is he, before our eyes,
Who rolls the stone of popularity
To seek high office from public vote.
Are you afraid three-headed Cerberus
Will tear you in the that is to come?
He will not bite as outraged conscience does.
The thunderbolt of war, dread Scipio,
Returned to eart, as doth the meanest slave.
Will you then hesitate and grudge to die?
You spend the greater part of life in sleep,
And sleep is but the counterfeit of death.
Awake, the wealthy, weary of their homes,
Rush forth, that they their emnui May assuage,
Returning quickly, when their restless minds
Can find no comfort though they are abroad.
A person from himself can never flee;
And hence, the first step toward happiness
Is to avoid a conflict of the soul.
To still desire is better than to gain
That which possession turns to nothingness.
The weary body sought a welcome rest
Before soft cushions graced the silken couch.
The crystal stream the thirsty palate quenched,
Long, long before the cup came into use.
And love, ah love indeed can tear the soul,
With fury little else can simulate.
To those in love the black are lovely brown;
The pigmy dwarf has sprightly grace and wit;
The overgrown are dignified and grand;
The fierce virago has a noble fire(
The broad-lipped lass for kisses has been formed.
The monuments of heroes often fall,
But the ethereal sun shines just the same,
As when he shone upon primeval man,
Who, driven from his cavern in the night
By some wild boar or raging lioness,
Sat watching for his riding in some tree.
In those days savage beasts would slay a man,
And crunch his bones for food, but men were spared
Whole armies perishing for glory’s sake.
Man died by hunger then, now luxury
Creates more victims than did famine then.
Say, who, with mighty genius can compose
A poem on the Cosmos as it is?

By Henry B. Lister