and so forth, would be childish.
All we can do is to point to the fact that the circumambient
atmosphere of human ignorance, with reference to the main matters of
speculation, remains undissipated. The mass of experience acquired
since the age of Lucretius is enormous, and is infinitely valuable;
while our power of tabulating, methodising, and extending the sphere
of experimental knowledge seems to be unlimited. Only ontological
deductions, whether negative or affirmative, remain pretty much
where they were then.

The fame of Lucretius, however, rests not on this foundation of
hypothesis. In his poetry lies the secret of a charm which he will
continue to exercise as long as humanity chooses to read Latin
verse. No poet has created a world of larger and nobler images,
designed with the _sprezzatura_ of indifference to mere
gracefulness, but all the more fascinating because of the artist's
negligence. There is something monumental in the effect produced by
his large-sounding single epithets and simple names. We are at home
with the daemonic life of nature when he chooses to bring Pan and his
following before our eyes (iv. 580). Or, again, the Seasons pass
like figures on some frieze of Mantegna, to which, by divine
accident, has been added the glow of Titian's colouring[1] (v.
737):--

it ver et Venus, et veris praenuntius ante
pennatus graditur zephyrus, vestigia propter
Flora quibus mater praespargens ante viai
cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet.
inde loci sequitur calor aridus et comes una
pulverulenta Ceres et etesia flabra aquilonum,
inde antumnus adit, graditur simul Eubius Euan,
inde aliae tempestates ventique secuntur,
altitonans Volturnus et auster fulmine pollens.
tandem bruma nives adfert pigrumque rigorem,
prodit hiemps, sequitur crepitans hanc dentibus algor.

With what a noble style, too, are the holidays of the primeval
pastoral folk described (v. 1379-1404). It is no mere celebration of
the _bell' eta dell' oro_: but we see the woodland glades, and hear
the songs of shepherds, and feel the hush of summer among rustling
forest trees, while at the same time all is far away, in a better,
simpler, larger age. The sympathy of Lucretius for every form of
country life was very noticeable. It belonged to that which was most
deeply and sincerely poetic in the Latin genius, whence Virgil drew
his sweetest strain of melancholy, and Horace his most unaffected
pictures, and Catul