Pythagoras

Crotona had a man, Pythagoras,

who had been born in Samos but then fled

his island and its rulers, for he hated

all tyranny—and so had chosen exile.

Although the gods were in the distant skies,

Pythagoras drew near them with his mind;

what nature had denied to human sight,

he saw with intellect, his mental eye.

When he, with reason and tenacious care,

had probed all things, he taught—to those who gathered

in silence and amazement—what he’d learned

of the beginnings of the universe,

of what caused things to happen, and what is

their nature: what god is, whence come the snows,

what is the origin of lightning bolts—

whether it is the thundering winds or Jove

that cleave the cloudbanks—and what is the cause

of earthquakes, and what laws control the course

of stars: in sum, whatever had been hid,

Pythagoras revealed.

 

Latin [51–72]

 

          He was the first

to speak against the use of animals

as human food, a practice he denounced

with learned but unheeded lips. His words:

 

“O mortals, don’t contaminate your bodies

with food procured so sacrilegiously.

For you can gather grain, and there are fruits

that bend the branches with their weight, and grapes

that swell in clusters on the vines; there are

delicious greens that cooking makes still more

inviting, still more tender. You need not

refrain from milk, or honey sweet with scent

of thyme. The earth is kind—and it provides

so much abundance; you are offered feasts

for which there is no need to slaughter beasts,

to shed their blood. Some animals do feed

on flesh—but yet, not all of them: for sheep

and cattle graze on grass. And those who need

to feed on bloody food are savage beasts:

fierce lions, wolves, and bears, Armenian

tigers. Ah, it’s a monstrous crime indeed

to stuff your innards with a living thing’s

own innards, to make fat your greedy flesh

by swallowing another body, letting

another die that you may live. Amid

so many things that Earth, the best of mothers,

may offer, must you really choose to chew

with cruel teeth such wretched, slaughtered flesh—

and mime the horrid Cyclops as you eat?

Is your voracious, pampered gut appeased

by this alone: your killing living things?

 

“And yet that ancient age to which we gave

the golden age as name, was quite content

to take the tree-bome fruit as nourishment,

and greens the ground gave freely; no one then

defiled his lips with blood. Birds beat their wings

 

Latin [72–99]

 

unmenaced in the air; and through the fields,

hares wandered without fear; men did not snare

unwary fish with hooks. All things were free

of traps and treachery; there was no fear

of fraud; and peace was present everywhere.

But someone—he is nameless—then began

to envy lions’ fare, and so he fed

his greedy guts with flesh—and sacrilege

was started. At its origins, confined

to savage beasts, the blade was justified:

our iron shed the warm blood, took the life

of animals who menaced us—and such

defense was not a profanation—but

the need to kill them never did imply

the right to feed upon them. From that seed

there grew still fouler crimes. The first to be

a sacrificial victim was the pig

because, with his broad snout, he rooted up

the planted seeds and spoiled the hoped-for crop.

The goat was also prey to punishment;

they butchered him on Bacchus’ altars since

he browsed the god’s grapevines. Those goats and pigs

were made to pay for what, in truth, they did;

but sheep, what did you do to merit death—

you, peaceful beasts, born to bring good to men,

you flocks whose swollen udders bear white nectar,

whose wool provides soft clothing for us—who

in life are far more useful than in death?

What evil has the bullock done—that beast

who never cheats, never deceives? Helpless

and innocent, he has unending patience.

Ungrateful—and indeed not meriting

the grain he’s gathered—is the man who then,

with harvest done, when he’s unyoked his friend,

would butcher him and aim his ax against

the neck that bears the signs of heavy tasks,

the neck of one who helped him reap the crop,

renewing stubborn soil. And men were not

 

Latin [99–127]

 

content with that: they even made the gods

share in iniquity: the deities

were said to take delight in the destruction

of the untiring ox. The stainless victim,

unblemished and most handsome (too much beauty

brings sorrow), all adorned with gilded horns

and fillets, is arrayed before the altar

and, ignorant of what they mean, must hear

the prayers recited; and when they append

upon his head, between his horns, the ears

of grain that he helped gather, he must stand

and wait and watch his executioners.

When struck, he stains with his own blood the blade

whose flash he may in fact have seen reflected

in the clear waters of the temple pool.

At once—while he is still alive—they pull

the vitals from the victim’s chest; and these

they scrutinize, to see if they can read

the god’s intentions. Oh, do you, the tribe

of mortals, dare to feed upon such meat?

Can you lust so for that forbidden feast?

Stop that disgrace, I pray: heed what I say!

But if, in any case, your mouths still crave

the limbs of butchered beasts, then be aware

that you’re devouring your own laborers.

“And since it is a god who urges me,

my lips will follow him devotedly.

I shall disclose my Delphi: I’ll reveal

the truths of heaven, all the oracles

that highest wisdom holds. The things I sing

are mighty things our forebears did not probe,

things that have long been hidden. Let us roam

among the starry heights; yes, let us rise

above the earth—this site so dull, inert;

let clouds transport us, let us stand upon

the sturdy Atlas’ shoulders; from that height,

we shall watch those who stagger far below,

 

Latin [127–50]

 

who, lacking reason, stray and stumble, those

who tremble in the face of what death holds;

but I’ll dispel their fears: I shall unfold

the ways of fate. O you, bewildered race,

dismayed and terrified as you await

the chill of death! Why do you dread the Shades

and empty names that poets fabricate?

The Styx is nothing but a counterfeit,

a figment world whose perils don’t exist.

Your bodies, whether they have been consumed

by flames upon the pyre or worn away

by time, can suffer nothing more, I say.

But over souls—be sure—death has no sway:

each soul, once it has left one body, takes

another body as its home, the place

where it lives on. Yes, I myself recall

that when the Trojan war was waged, I was

Euphorbus, son of Panthous; my chest

was pierced by Menelaus’ heavy lance.

Not long ago, at Juno’s shrine in Argos,

the city Abas built, I recognized

the shield that my left arm—in time gone by—

held high. For all things change, but no thing dies.

The spirit wanders: here and there, at will,

the soul can journey from an animal

into a human body, and from us

to beasts; it occupies a body, but

it never perishes. As pliant wax

is still the selfsame wax, so do I say

that soul, however much it may migrate,

is still the same. And thus, lest piety

suffer defeat when faced with belly’s greed,

do not expel—so I, a prophet, teach—

the soul of others by your butchery:

those souls are kin to your own souls; don’t feed

your blood upon another’s blood.

 

Latin [150–75]

 

          “Indeed,

since I am now well launched on this vast sea

and, under full sail, with kind winds, can speed,

I add: in all this world, no thing can keep

its form. For all things flow; all things are born

to change their shapes. And time itself is like

a river, flowing on an endless course.

Witness: no stream and no swift moment can

relent; they must forever flow; just as

wave follows wave, and every wave is pressed,

and also presses on the wave ahead;

so, too, must moments always be renewed.

What was is now no more, and what was not

has come to be; renewal is the lot

of time.

 

      “You see how nights flow toward firstlight,

and how resplendent light succeeds dark night.

And when all weary things have given way

to sleep, the heavens’ hue is not the same

as when bright Lucifer, on his white steed,

rides out; and still another color reigns

when, heralding the day, Aurora stains

the sky before consigning it to Phoebus.

And when that god’s round shield is rising from

beneath the earth, at morning, it is red;

and it is red when, once again, it sets;

but at its zenith, Phoebus’ shield is white,

for there the air is purer, and the blight

of earth—its foul contagion—is far off.

Nor can the nightly shape Diana takes

remain unchanged: the size that she displays

today will grow tomorrow or will wane.

 

“And then, too, can’t you see the year’s career

in changing chapters, four in number, like

the ages of our life? In early spring,

the year is fresh and tender as it mimes

 

Latin [176–202]

 

a little child; the plants are swollen, soft;

and though they still lack force, they do enchant

the farmers’ hearts with hope. All blossoms; and

the colors of the flowers play; they dance

across the fertile fields, though stem and branch

are frail as yet. But after spring has passed,

the year is more robust: it now has crossed

to summer; it is like a strong young man;

there is no season sturdier than this,

none more exuberant, more keen, more rich.

Then autumn enters; fervor may be lost,

but fall is ripe and mild; a time midway

between our youth and age, and flecked with gray

upon the temples. Then, with faltering steps,

and shriveled, shivering, old winter treads;

now all its hair is gone—or any left

is white.

 

          “Just so, our bodies undergo

the never-resting changes: what we were

and what we are today is not to be

tomorrow. Once we were but simple seeds,

the germ from which—one hoped—a man might spring;

we dwelled within our mother’s womb until,

with hands expert and wily, nature willed

that we not lie so cramped in narrow walls,

within our mother’s bowels; she drew us out

into the open air from our first house.

Brought forth into the light, the infant lay

helpless; then on all fours, much like a beast,

he hauled his body up and, with his knees

unsteady, wobbling still, gradually,

although in need of props, stood on his feet.

Once he has gained agility and force,

he journeys through the time of youth and then

the days of middle age; when these are spent,

he glides along the downhill slope, the west

of time, the age when sunlight sets. The strength

 

Latin [202–28]

 

that once was his is undermined, upset;

so Milon, now that he is old, laments:

he weeps to see the arms that once had biceps

that rivaled Hercules’ in mass and strength

but now hang flabby, slack. And Helen weeps

when, in the looking-glass, her eyes can see

her aged wrinkles; and she asks how she

could ever have been sought and carried off

as prize—not once, but twice. You, Time, as well

as envious Old Age, devour all;

with gnawing teeth, with slow and lingering

demise, you two destroy, consume all things.

 

“Not even things that we call elements

persist. And now I shall explain to you

(but listen carefully) what they go through.

There are four generating substances

in the eternal universe. And two,

water and earth, are heavy; drawn by their

own weight, they sink below. Whereas the air

and fire, which is purer still than air,

are weightless; and if nothing curbs their course,

those two will tend to rise on high. All four—

earth, water, air, and fire—are separate

in space, yet each is born out of the other,

and, to the other, each of them returns.

Thus earth, released from its confines, thins out,

becoming liquid; and when thinned still more,

that water is transformed to air and vapor;

and on its part, the air, released from weight,

leaps higher still, so that it takes its place

as fire, which occupies the topmost space;

but then, when fire thickens, it returns

to air, and air to water; water, when

it has coagulated, turns to earth.

 

“There is no thing that keeps its shape; for nature,

the innovator, would forever draw

 

Latin [228–53]

 

forms out of other forms. In all this world—

you can believe me—no thing ever dies.

By birth we mean beginning to re-form,

a thing’s becoming other than it was;

and death is but the end of the old state;

one thing shifts here, another there; and yet

the total of all things is permanent.

 

“I think there’s nothing that retains its form

for long: the world itself has undergone

the passage from the age of gold to iron.

And places also change: for I have seen

what once was solid land turn into sea,

and what before was sea turn into land.

Seashells lie distant from the oceanside;

old anchors have been found on mountain tops,

and waters flowing down the slopes have made

plains into valleys; and the force of floods

has carried mountains down into the sea;

what once were marshlands have become dry sands,

and lands that once were parched are now wet marsh.

Here nature has new fountains flow, and here

she blocks their course; the tremors of the earth

at times make rivers rush, at times obstruct

and curb a stream until it’s seen no more.

The Lycus, swallowed by the yawning earth,

emerges at a point far off, reborn

in other guise; the Erasinus’ flow

is swallowed by the soil and glides along

beneath the earth until it surfaces—

a mighty stream—in the Argolic fields;

and, discontent with its old banks and source,

in Mysia the Caicus changed its course;

whereas the Amenanus, bearing sands,

at times will flow through Sicily and then,

at other times—its sources blocked—dries up.

Anigrus’ waters once were pure enough

to drink, but now they’re better left untouched

 

Latin [253–82]

 

(unless all that the poets sing is false);

for there the biform centaurs bathed the wounds

inflicted by the bow of Hercules,

when he who bears the club defeated them.

And, too, has not the Hypanis, which once

ran sweet and fresh down from the Scythian hills,

been spoiled by waters bearing bitter salt?

 

“Antissa, Pharos, and Phoenician Tyre—

all three were once surrounded by the sea,

but none of these is now an isle. Whereas,

in days gone by, all those who lived on Leucas

could say their homes were on the mainland, now

the sea surrounds them: Leucas is an isle.

Messina once was joined to Italy—they

say—until their common boundary

was borne off by the sea, which intervened

with waves and pushed the land away from land.

And if you searched for Helice and Buris,

Achaean towns, you’d find them underneath

the waves; with sailors as your guides, you still

can see—submerged—the sloping city walls.

Near Troezen, Pittheus’ town, there is a hill

that rises from a plain that once was level—

completely flat; that tall and treeless mound

resulted from the winds’ ferocious force:

for (this is terrible to tell) the winds,

imprisoned in dark caverns underground,

after they’d fought in vain for freer space

within the sky (those caves had not one cleft

where gusts could pass), puffed out; the soil was stretched,

as one inflates a bladder with his breath

or a two-horned goat’s skin used as a sack.

That site still bulges, and it has the aspect

of a high hill; as time went by, it hardened.

 

“Though many more examples come to mind—

things I have seen or heard men tell—I’ll cite

 

Latin [282–308]

 

only a few. Just think of guise on guise

that water takes. Horned Ammon, at midday

your stream is cold; at dawn and dusk it warms,

and—so they say—the Athamanians,

just when the moon has almost fully waned,

pour water onto wood to kindle flames.

And there’s a river of the Cicones

that turns to stone the guts of those who drink

its waters; anything its waters touch

is changed to marble. And not far from us,

Cratis and Sybaris can make one’s hair

like gold and amber. What is even more

astonishing—those waters can transform

not just the body but the mind as well.

Who can forget Salmacis’ horrid pool

and, too, the lakes of Ethiopia—

those lakes that drive to madness all who drink,

or plunge them into sleep so strange, so deep?

Whoever slakes his thirst at Clitor’s fount

shuns wine; abstemious, he prizes just

pure water; and the cause of this may be

those waters’ power to counteract wine’s heat;

or else—as people of that place insist—

when Amythaon’s son, with spells and herbs,

freed Proetus’ daughters from insanity,

he threw the herbs he’d used to purge their minds

into that spring; and to this day, the hate

of wine remains within that fountain’s waves.

But in the land of the Lyncestians,

there is a stream with opposite effect:

whoever swallows but a moderate

amount of water there, will sway as if

he’d drunk pure wine. And in Arcadia

there is a lake (the ancients called it Pheneus)

whose waters are ambiguous: by night

it’s to be shunned; drunk then, its waters are

malefic; drunk by day, they do no harm.

 

Latin [308–34]

 

The powers manifest in lakes and streams—

as you can see—are various indeed.

 

“In ancient days Ortygia floated freely,

and now that island has stability;

and when the Argo sailed, it was afraid

of the Symplegades: with crashing spray,

those rocks would pound each other, but today

the reefs are fixed and firm; they don’t give way

before the winds. And Aetna, too, has changed

and will yet change again: for now it flames

with fires from sulfurous furnaces, and yet

it will not flame forever—and, in fact,

there was a time when all its flames were spent.

And to account for this, one might suggest

that earth is like a living animal:

it is equipped with many breathing-holes

to exhale flames, and it indeed can change

from time to time the paths its fires take;

for every time earth shakes, it can close caves

at one point, while it opens them elsewhere.

Or one could offer this hypothesis:

that if, within the deep caves underground

swift winds have been imprisoned, when they gust,

they drive the rocks against each other and

against the flinty matter that contains

the seeds of flame, and so the caves grow hot;

but once the winds have lost their force, the caves

will once again cool down. Or one might claim

that pitch and other things bituminous

catch fire underneath, or yellow sulfur,

which burns with slender flames. And certainly,

when, in the course of many centuries,

earth will have lost its energies and can

no longer richly feed and fuel those flames,

voracious nature then will feel her lack

of nourishment: unable to withstand

that hunger, being left to starve, she’ll let

those fires starve—and Aetna will be spent.

 

Latin [335–55]

 

“They say that in the Hyperboreans’ land,

within Pallene, one finds certain men

who, when they’ve plunged into Minerva’s pool

nine times, emerge with bodies covered by

light feathers. I do not believe that’s true;

but it is said of Scythian women, too,

that they can gain light feathers through the use

of magic potions sprinkled on their bodies.

 

“But if we turn to things that we ourselves

can test and trust, you’ll see that any corpse

which—through long lapse of time or else because

of liquefying heat—has decomposed,

is transformed into tiny animals.

If, after precious bulls are sacrificed,

you set their carcasses within a ditch,

you’ll see (it’s a familiar happening)

that everywhere among the rotting guts,

the pollen-gathering bees will soon spring up;

and like the bulls from which they’ve sprung, those bees

are fond of fields, work eagerly, and wait

with patience for the fruits their labor brings.

While from the buried body of a horse,

the animal that shows its worth in war,

it is the hornet that is born. Tear off

the curving claws of the shore-loving crab,

and hide the rest of him beneath the sands;

then, from the buried part, a scorpion

will come and threaten you with his hooked tail.

And in the countryside, those worms that weave

white threads among the trees (as farmers see)

will change, becoming butterflies—the form

that often is depicted on tombstones.

In slimy mud, one seeks and finds the seeds

that generate green frogs: they have no feet

at first; but soon enough, the frogs receive

the legs that help them swim; and since they need

to leap, the pair in back is longer than

. . .

 

Latin [356–78]

 

the pair in front. And at their birth, bear cubs

are nothing more than shapeless flesh—mere lumps—

until the she-bear licks their limbs and gives

to them the shape—however crude—that she

herself, their mother, has. And can’t you see

just how the larvae of the honeybees

have bodies without limbs when they are born

within their waxen cells, the hexagons

that shelter them? And only later will

you see the bee get feet and, later still,

get wings. And Juno’s sacred bird, whose tail

is graced by many starlike shapes, as well

as that great bird who bears Jove’s thunderbolts;

and Cytherea’s doves—indeed all birds:

unless one knew, could anyone suspect

that these came from the inside of an egg?

Some even hold that when the spinal bones

rot in the sepulcher, the human marrow

is changed into a snake.

 

          “In any case,

all of these newborn bodies take their shapes

from other bodies. One alone can take

life from itself and so regenerate:

the bird that the Assyrians call phoenix.

The phoenix does not feed on seeds of grain

or plants, but on the gum of frankincense

and juice of the amomum; when his life

completes five hundred years, the phoenix flies

onto a swaying palm; and in that tree

he builds, with talons and untainted beak,

a nest among the boughs. When he has lined

this nest with yellow myrrh, slim stalks of nard,

and powdered cinnamon and cassia bark,

the phoenix stretches out and ends his days

among those fragrances. And then—they say—

up from his father’s body springs—reborn—

a little phoenix, one who’ll live as long

 

Latin [378–402]

 

as did his father. When with time, the young

bird gains sufficient strength to free the boughs;

he carries off the nest that had weighed down

the tall palm-tree. So, piously, he bears

what was his cradle and his father’s tomb

through the thin air, until he has drawn near

the city of Hyperion; and there

he sets the nest before the sacred entry,

the doorway of the Sun-god’s sanctuary.

And if you find these things amazing, strange,

consider still another striking change—

the way that the hyena alternates:

now she’s a female mounted by a male,

and now becomes herself the male who mounts.

To these, I’d add the animal that feeds

on wind and air and takes its color from

the color of the things it’s placed upon.

And after the chameleon, I can

point to the present that the Indians

gave Bacchus after he converted them:

the god who’s crowned by vines received a gift

of lynxes: any liquid they emit

turns into stones—they say—as soon as it

meets air. And something similar: the moment

that coral meets the air, it hardens—though

it was a pliant plant when underwater.

 

“But day could well be done, and Phoebus plunge

into the deep sea with his weary steeds,

before my words had finished a recounting

of all the things that take new shapes. We see

that eras change: for here some nations gain

and grow in strength, there others lose the day.

So, Troy had might and men and wealth: she could

afford for ten long years to shed her blood;

now, razed, all she can show are ancient ruins—

her only riches are ancestral tombs.

Sparta was famed, and great Mycenae claimed

 

Latin [402–26]

 

much might; so did Amphion’s citadel

and Cecrops’, too. The land of Sparta now

is worthless; proud Mycenae is laid low;

what has the Thebes of Oedipus to show

except for her own name? And what is left

to Cecrops’ Athens other than her fame?

And now the rumor runs that Rome, the town

that sons of Dardanus had founded, grows;

along the Tiber’s banks—the stream that flows

down from the Apennines—that city lays

the base of a great state. There, too, is change:

for as she grows, Rome is reshaped; one day

she will hold all the world beneath its sway.

They say that this is what the oracles

and augurs have affirmed; I, too, recall

that, when the fate of Troy was insecure,

the son of Priam, Helenus, assured

Aeneas, then oppressed by doubt and sadness:

‘O son of Venus, if you keep in mind—

as you indeed must do—the things that I

foresee, Troy is not doomed entirely,

for you are fated to be saved. For you,

between the fire and the sword, a path

will open. You will leave; and taking up

your Pergamum, you’ll carry it until

you have found fields that are indeed more friendly

to you and Troy than your own soil has been.

This, too, I can foresee: that men descended

from Trojans are to found a city, and

no city is or shall be greater than

that city—nor have any ages past

seen any greater. Through long centuries

and through her chiefs, that city will achieve

much power; but she only will become

the ruler of the world beneath one born

of lulus’ line. And he will benefit

the earth; but at the end, he’ll reach the sky;

in him, the heavens then will take delight.’

 

Latin [426–49]

 

These were the prophecies of Helenus,

the things he told Aeneas—I indeed

remember them. And I rejoice to see

walls built by brother Greeks in Italy;

but, too, I’m glad that, from Greek victory,

the Phrygians are to benefit immensely,

for Rome is to become the greatest city.

 

“But lest I gallop far beyond my reach

and, so, forget what I had meant to teach,

know this: the heavens and all things beneath

the heavens change their forms—the earth and all

that is upon the earth; and since we are

parts of the world, we, too, are changeable.

For we’re not only bodies but winged souls;

and we can dwell in bodies of wild beasts

and hide within the shapes of cows and sheep.

And so, let us respect—leave whole, intact—

all bodies where our parents’ souls or those

of brothers or of others dear to us

may well have found a home; let us not stuff

our bellies banqueting, as did Thyestes.

Whoever cuts a calf’s throat with a knife

and listens, without pity, to its cries;

whoever kills a kid that, like a child,

wails loud; whoever feeds upon a bird

that he himself has fed—profanely sheds

the blood of humans: such a man abets

a habit that is evil—little less

than murder. What awaits us at the end

of such a path? I say to you: just let

the bullock plow, and only meet the death

that old age brings; and let the sheep provide

the wool that shields you from the glacial blasts

of Boreas; let she-goat’s teats be pressed

to give you milk. And set aside your traps

and nets and cunning lures and snares: don’t trick

the birds with twigs you’ve limed: don’t scare the deer

 

Latin [450–75]

 

into the nets with feathers hung from trees;

don’t hide barbed hooks in bait set to deceive.

You can kill animals that do you harm.

But do no more than kill: don’t feed on them;

instead seek only gentle nutriment.”