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This is the February 1992 Project Gutenberg release of:
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Paradise Lost by John Milton
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The oldest etext known to Project Gutenberg (ca. 1964-1965)
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(If you know of any older ones, please let us know.)
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Introduction (one page)
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This etext was originally created in 1964-1965 according to Dr.
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Joseph Raben of Queens College, NY, to whom it is attributed by
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Project Gutenberg. We had heard of this etext for years but it
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was not until 1991 that we actually managed to track it down to
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a specific location, and then it took months to convince people
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to let us have a copy, then more months for them actually to do
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the copying and get it to us. Then another month to convert to
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something we could massage with our favorite 486 in DOS. After
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that is was only a matter of days to get it into this shape you
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will see below. The original was, of course, in CAPS only, and
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so were all the other etexts of the 60's and early 70's. Don't
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let anyone fool you into thinking any etext with both upper and
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lower case is an original; all those original Project Gutenberg
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etexts were also in upper case and were translated or rewritten
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many times to get them into their current condition. They have
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been worked on by many people throughout the world.
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In the course of our searches for Professor Raben and his etext
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we were never able to determine where copies were or which of a
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variety of editions he may have used as a source. We did get a
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little information here and there, but even after we received a
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copy of the etext we were unwilling to release it without first
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determining that it was in fact Public Domain and finding Raben
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to verify this and get his permission. Interested enough, in a
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totally unrelated action to our searches for him, the professor
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subscribed to the Project Gutenberg listserver and we happened,
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by accident, to notice his name. (We don't really look at every
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subscription request as the computers usually handle them.) The
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etext was then properly identified, copyright analyzed, and the
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current edition prepared.
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To give you an estimation of the difference in the original and
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what we have today: the original was probably entered on cards
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commonly known at the time as "IBM cards" (Do Not Fold, Spindle
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or Mutilate) and probably took in excess of 100,000 of them. A
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single card could hold 80 characters (hence 80 characters is an
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accepted standard for so many computer margins), and the entire
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original edition we received in all caps was over 800,000 chars
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in length, including line enumeration, symbols for caps and the
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punctuation marks, etc., since they were not available keyboard
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characters at the time (probably the keyboards operated at baud
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rates of around 113, meaning the typists had to type slowly for
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the keyboard to keep up).
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This is the second version of Paradise Lost released by Project
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Gutenberg. The first was released as our October, 1991 etext.
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Paradise Lost
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Book I
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Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit
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Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
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Brought death into the World, and all our woe,
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With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
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Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
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Sing, Heavenly Muse, that, on the secret top
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Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
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That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed
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In the beginning how the heavens and earth
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Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill
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Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed
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Fast by the oracle of God, I thence
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Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song,
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That with no middle flight intends to soar
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Above th' Aonian mount, while it pursues
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Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
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And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer
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Before all temples th' upright heart and pure,
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Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou from the first
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Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread,
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Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss,
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And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark
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Illumine, what is low raise and support;
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That, to the height of this great argument,
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I may assert Eternal Providence,
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And justify the ways of God to men.
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Say first--for Heaven hides nothing from thy view,
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Nor the deep tract of Hell--say first what cause
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Moved our grand parents, in that happy state,
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Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off
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From their Creator, and transgress his will
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For one restraint, lords of the World besides.
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Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?
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Th' infernal Serpent; he it was whose guile,
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Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived
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The mother of mankind, what time his pride
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Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host
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Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring
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To set himself in glory above his peers,
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He trusted to have equalled the Most High,
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If he opposed, and with ambitious aim
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Against the throne and monarchy of God,
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Raised impious war in Heaven and battle proud,
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With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
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Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky,
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With hideous ruin and combustion, down
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To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
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In adamantine chains and penal fire,
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Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.
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Nine times the space that measures day and night
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To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew,
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Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,
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Confounded, though immortal. But his doom
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Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought
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Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
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Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes,
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That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
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Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.
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At once, as far as Angels ken, he views
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The dismal situation waste and wild.
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A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
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As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames
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No light; but rather darkness visible
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Served only to discover sights of woe,
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Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
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And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
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That comes to all, but torture without end
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Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
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With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
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Such place Eternal Justice has prepared
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For those rebellious; here their prison ordained
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In utter darkness, and their portion set,
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As far removed from God and light of Heaven
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As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole.
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Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell!
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There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed
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With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,
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He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side,
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One next himself in power, and next in crime,
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Long after known in Palestine, and named
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Beelzebub. To whom th' Arch-Enemy,
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And thence in Heaven called Satan, with bold words
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Breaking the horrid silence, thus began:--
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"If thou beest he--but O how fallen! how changed
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From him who, in the happy realms of light
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Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine
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Myriads, though bright!--if he whom mutual league,
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United thoughts and counsels, equal hope
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And hazard in the glorious enterprise
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Joined with me once, now misery hath joined
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In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest
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From what height fallen: so much the stronger proved
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He with his thunder; and till then who knew
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The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those,
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Nor what the potent Victor in his rage
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Can else inflict, do I repent, or change,
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Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed mind,
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And high disdain from sense of injured merit,
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That with the Mightiest raised me to contend,
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And to the fierce contentions brought along
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Innumerable force of Spirits armed,
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That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,
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His utmost power with adverse power opposed
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In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven,
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And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?
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All is not lost--the unconquerable will,
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And study of revenge, immortal hate,
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And courage never to submit or yield:
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And what is else not to be overcome?
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That glory never shall his wrath or might
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Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
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With suppliant knee, and deify his power
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Who, from the terror of this arm, so late
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Doubted his empire--that were low indeed;
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That were an ignominy and shame beneath
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This downfall; since, by fate, the strength of Gods,
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And this empyreal sybstance, cannot fail;
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Since, through experience of this great event,
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In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced,
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We may with more successful hope resolve
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To wage by force or guile eternal war,
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Irreconcilable to our grand Foe,
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Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy
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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven."
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So spake th' apostate Angel, though in pain,
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Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair;
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And him thus answered soon his bold compeer:--
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"O Prince, O Chief of many throned Powers
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That led th' embattled Seraphim to war
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Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds
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Fearless, endangered Heaven's perpetual King,
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And put to proof his high supremacy,
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Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate,
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Too well I see and rue the dire event
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That, with sad overthrow and foul defeat,
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Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty host
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In horrible destruction laid thus low,
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As far as Gods and heavenly Essences
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Can perish: for the mind and spirit remains
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Invincible, and vigour soon returns,
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Though all our glory extinct, and happy state
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Here swallowed up in endless misery.
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But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now
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Of force believe almighty, since no less
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Than such could have o'erpowered such force as ours)
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Have left us this our spirit and strength entire,
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Strongly to suffer and support our pains,
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That we may so suffice his vengeful ire,
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Or do him mightier service as his thralls
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By right of war, whate'er his business be,
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Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire,
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Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep?
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What can it the avail though yet we feel
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Strength undiminished, or eternal being
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To undergo eternal punishment?"
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Whereto with speedy words th' Arch-Fiend replied:--
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"Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable,
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Doing or suffering: but of this be sure--
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To do aught good never will be our task,
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But ever to do ill our sole delight,
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As being the contrary to his high will
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Whom we resist. If then his providence
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Out of our evil seek to bring forth good,
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Our labour must be to pervert that end,
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And out of good still to find means of evil;
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Which ofttimes may succeed so as perhaps
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Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb
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His inmost counsels from their destined aim.
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But see! the angry Victor hath recalled
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His ministers of vengeance and pursuit
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Back to the gates of Heaven: the sulphurous hail,
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Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath laid
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The fiery surge that from the precipice
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Of Heaven received us falling; and the thunder,
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Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage,
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Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now
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To bellow through the vast and boundless Deep.
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Let us not slip th' occasion, whether scorn
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Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe.
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Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,
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The seat of desolation, void of light,
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Save what the glimmering of these livid flames
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Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend
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From off the tossing of these fiery waves;
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There rest, if any rest can harbour there;
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And, re-assembling our afflicted powers,
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Consult how we may henceforth most offend
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Our enemy, our own loss how repair,
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How overcome this dire calamity,
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope,
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If not, what resolution from despair."
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Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate,
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With head uplift above the wave, and eyes
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That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides
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Prone on the flood, extended long and large,
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Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge
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As whom the fables name of monstrous size,
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Titanian or Earth-born, that warred on Jove,
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Briareos or Typhon, whom the den
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By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast
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Leviathan, which God of all his works
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Created hugest that swim th' ocean-stream.
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Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam,
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The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff,
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Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell,
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With fixed anchor in his scaly rind,
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Moors by his side under the lee, while night
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Invests the sea, and wished morn delays.
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So stretched out huge in length the Arch-fiend lay,
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Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thence
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Had risen, or heaved his head, but that the will
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And high permission of all-ruling Heaven
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Left him at large to his own dark designs,
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That with reiterated crimes he might
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Heap on himself damnation, while he sought
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Evil to others, and enraged might see
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How all his malice served but to bring forth
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Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn
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On Man by him seduced, but on himself
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Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured.
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Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool
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His mighty stature; on each hand the flames
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Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and,rolled
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In billows, leave i' th' midst a horrid vale.
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Then with expanded wings he steers his flight
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Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air,
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That felt unusual weight; till on dry land
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He lights--if it were land that ever burned
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With solid, as the lake with liquid fire,
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And such appeared in hue as when the force
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Of subterranean wind transprots a hill
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Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side
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Of thundering Etna, whose combustible
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And fuelled entrails, thence conceiving fire,
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Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds,
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And leave a singed bottom all involved
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With stench and smoke. Such resting found the sole
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Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate;
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Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood
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As gods, and by their own recovered strength,
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Not by the sufferance of supernal Power.
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"Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,"
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Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat
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That we must change for Heaven?--this mournful gloom
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For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
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Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid
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What shall be right: farthest from him is best
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Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
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Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,
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Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell,
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Receive thy new possessor--one who brings
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A mind not to be changed by place or time.
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The mind is its own place, and in itself
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Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
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What matter where, if I be still the same,
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And what I should be, all but less than he
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Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
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We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
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Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
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Here we may reigh secure; and, in my choice,
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To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
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Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
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But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
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Th' associates and co-partners of our loss,
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Lie thus astonished on th' oblivious pool,
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And call them not to share with us their part
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In this unhappy mansion, or once more
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With rallied arms to try what may be yet
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Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell?"
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So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub
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Thus answered:--"Leader of those armies bright
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Which, but th' Omnipotent, none could have foiled!
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If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge
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Of hope in fears and dangers--heard so oft
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In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
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Of battle, when it raged, in all assaults
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Their surest signal--they will soon resume
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New courage and revive, though now they lie
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Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire,
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As we erewhile, astounded and amazed;
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No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height!"
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He scare had ceased when the superior Fiend
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Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield,
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Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,
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Behind him cast. The broad circumference
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Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb
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Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views
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At evening, from the top of Fesole,
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Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
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Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.
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His spear--to equal which the tallest pine
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Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
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Of some great ammiral, were but a wand--
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He walked with, to support uneasy steps
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Over the burning marl, not like those steps
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On Heaven's azure; and the torrid clime
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Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.
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Nathless he so endured, till on the beach
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Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called
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His legions--Angel Forms, who lay entranced
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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
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In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades
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High over-arched embower; or scattered sedge
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Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed
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Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew
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Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,
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While with perfidious hatred they pursued
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The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
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From the safe shore their floating carcases
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And broken chariot-wheels. So thick bestrown,
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Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood,
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Under amazement of their hideous change.
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He called so loud that all the hollow deep
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Of Hell resounded:--"Princes, Potentates,
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Warriors, the Flower of Heaven--once yours; now lost,
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If such astonishment as this can seize
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Eternal Spirits! Or have ye chosen this place
|
|
|
After the toil of battle to repose
|
|
|
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find
|
|
|
To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven?
|
|
|
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
|
|
|
To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds
|
|
|
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood
|
|
|
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon
|
|
|
His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern
|
|
|
Th' advantage, and, descending, tread us down
|
|
|
Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts
|
|
|
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf?
|
|
|
Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen!"
|
|
|
They heard, and were abashed, and up they sprung
|
|
|
Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch
|
|
|
On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread,
|
|
|
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.
|
|
|
Nor did they not perceive the evil plight
|
|
|
In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel;
|
|
|
Yet to their General's voice they soon obeyed
|
|
|
Innumerable. As when the potent rod
|
|
|
Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day,
|
|
|
Waved round the coast, up-called a pitchy cloud
|
|
|
Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind,
|
|
|
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung
|
|
|
Like Night, and darkened all the land of Nile;
|
|
|
So numberless were those bad Angels seen
|
|
|
Hovering on wing under the cope of Hell,
|
|
|
'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires;
|
|
|
Till, as a signal given, th' uplifted spear
|
|
|
Of their great Sultan waving to direct
|
|
|
Their course, in even balance down they light
|
|
|
On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain:
|
|
|
A multitude like which the populous North
|
|
|
Poured never from her frozen loins to pass
|
|
|
Rhene or the Danaw, when her barbarous sons
|
|
|
Came like a deluge on the South, and spread
|
|
|
Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.
|
|
|
Forthwith, form every squadron and each band,
|
|
|
The heads and leaders thither haste where stood
|
|
|
Their great Commander--godlike Shapes, and Forms
|
|
|
Excelling human; princely Dignities;
|
|
|
And Powers that erst in Heaven sat on thrones,
|
|
|
Though on their names in Heavenly records now
|
|
|
Be no memorial, blotted out and rased
|
|
|
By their rebellion from the Books of Life.
|
|
|
Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve
|
|
|
Got them new names, till, wandering o'er the earth,
|
|
|
Through God's high sufferance for the trial of man,
|
|
|
By falsities and lies the greatest part
|
|
|
Of mankind they corrupted to forsake
|
|
|
God their Creator, and th' invisible
|
|
|
Glory of him that made them to transform
|
|
|
Oft to the image of a brute, adorned
|
|
|
With gay religions full of pomp and gold,
|
|
|
And devils to adore for deities:
|
|
|
Then were they known to men by various names,
|
|
|
And various idols through the heathen world.
|
|
|
Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, who last,
|
|
|
Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch,
|
|
|
At their great Emperor's call, as next in worth
|
|
|
Came singly where he stood on the bare strand,
|
|
|
While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof?
|
|
|
The chief were those who, from the pit of Hell
|
|
|
Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix
|
|
|
Their seats, long after, next the seat of God,
|
|
|
Their altars by his altar, gods adored
|
|
|
Among the nations round, and durst abide
|
|
|
Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned
|
|
|
Between the Cherubim; yea, often placed
|
|
|
Within his sanctuary itself their shrines,
|
|
|
Abominations; and with cursed things
|
|
|
His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned,
|
|
|
And with their darkness durst affront his light.
|
|
|
First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood
|
|
|
Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears;
|
|
|
Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud,
|
|
|
Their children's cries unheard that passed through fire
|
|
|
To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite
|
|
|
Worshiped in Rabba and her watery plain,
|
|
|
In Argob and in Basan, to the stream
|
|
|
Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such
|
|
|
Audacious neighbourhood, the wisest heart
|
|
|
Of Solomon he led by fraoud to build
|
|
|
His temple right against the temple of God
|
|
|
On that opprobrious hill, and made his grove
|
|
|
The pleasant valley of Hinnom, Tophet thence
|
|
|
And black Gehenna called, the type of Hell.
|
|
|
Next Chemos, th' obscene dread of Moab's sons,
|
|
|
From Aroar to Nebo and the wild
|
|
|
Of southmost Abarim; in Hesebon
|
|
|
And Horonaim, Seon's real, beyond
|
|
|
The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines,
|
|
|
And Eleale to th' Asphaltic Pool:
|
|
|
Peor his other name, when he enticed
|
|
|
Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile,
|
|
|
To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe.
|
|
|
Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged
|
|
|
Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove
|
|
|
Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate,
|
|
|
Till good Josiah drove them thence to Hell.
|
|
|
With these came they who, from the bordering flood
|
|
|
Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts
|
|
|
Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names
|
|
|
Of Baalim and Ashtaroth--those male,
|
|
|
These feminine. For Spirits, when they please,
|
|
|
Can either sex assume, or both; so soft
|
|
|
And uncompounded is their essence pure,
|
|
|
Not tried or manacled with joint or limb,
|
|
|
Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,
|
|
|
Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape they choose,
|
|
|
Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure,
|
|
|
Can execute their airy purposes,
|
|
|
And works of love or enmity fulfil.
|
|
|
For those the race of Israel oft forsook
|
|
|
Their Living Strength, and unfrequented left
|
|
|
His righteous altar, bowing lowly down
|
|
|
To bestial gods; for which their heads as low
|
|
|
Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear
|
|
|
Of despicable foes. With these in troop
|
|
|
Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians called
|
|
|
Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns;
|
|
|
To whose bright image nigntly by the moon
|
|
|
Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs;
|
|
|
In Sion also not unsung, where stood
|
|
|
Her temple on th' offensive mountain, built
|
|
|
By that uxorious king whose heart, though large,
|
|
|
Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell
|
|
|
To idols foul. Thammuz came next behind,
|
|
|
Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured
|
|
|
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate
|
|
|
In amorous ditties all a summer's day,
|
|
|
While smooth Adonis from his native rock
|
|
|
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood
|
|
|
Of Thammuz yearly wounded: the love-tale
|
|
|
Infected Sion's daughters with like heat,
|
|
|
Whose wanton passions in the sacred proch
|
|
|
Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led,
|
|
|
His eye surveyed the dark idolatries
|
|
|
Of alienated Judah. Next came one
|
|
|
Who mourned in earnest, when the captive ark
|
|
|
Maimed his brute image, head and hands lopt off,
|
|
|
In his own temple, on the grunsel-edge,
|
|
|
Where he fell flat and shamed his worshippers:
|
|
|
Dagon his name, sea-monster,upward man
|
|
|
And downward fish; yet had his temple high
|
|
|
Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast
|
|
|
Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon,
|
|
|
And Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds.
|
|
|
Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat
|
|
|
Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks
|
|
|
Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.
|
|
|
He also against the house of God was bold:
|
|
|
A leper once he lost, and gained a king--
|
|
|
Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew
|
|
|
God's altar to disparage and displace
|
|
|
For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn
|
|
|
His odious offerings, and adore the gods
|
|
|
Whom he had vanquished. After these appeared
|
|
|
A crew who, under names of old renown--
|
|
|
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train--
|
|
|
With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused
|
|
|
Fanatic Egypt and her priests to seek
|
|
|
Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms
|
|
|
Rather than human. Nor did Israel scape
|
|
|
Th' infection, when their borrowed gold composed
|
|
|
The calf in Oreb; and the rebel king
|
|
|
Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan,
|
|
|
Likening his Maker to the grazed ox--
|
|
|
Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passed
|
|
|
From Egypt marching, equalled with one stroke
|
|
|
Both her first-born and all her bleating gods.
|
|
|
Belial came last; than whom a Spirit more lewd
|
|
|
Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love
|
|
|
Vice for itself. To him no temple stood
|
|
|
Or altar smoked; yet who more oft than he
|
|
|
In temples and at altars, when the priest
|
|
|
Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled
|
|
|
With lust and violence the house of God?
|
|
|
In courts and palaces he also reigns,
|
|
|
And in luxurious cities, where the noise
|
|
|
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers,
|
|
|
And injury and outrage; and, when night
|
|
|
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons
|
|
|
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
|
|
|
Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night
|
|
|
In Gibeah, when the hospitable door
|
|
|
Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape.
|
|
|
These were the prime in order and in might:
|
|
|
The rest were long to tell; though far renowned
|
|
|
Th' Ionian gods--of Javan's issue held
|
|
|
Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and Earth,
|
|
|
Their boasted parents;--Titan, Heaven's first-born,
|
|
|
With his enormous brood, and birthright seized
|
|
|
By younger Saturn: he from mightier Jove,
|
|
|
His own and Rhea's son, like measure found;
|
|
|
So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in Crete
|
|
|
And Ida known, thence on the snowy top
|
|
|
Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air,
|
|
|
Their highest heaven; or on the Delphian cliff,
|
|
|
Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds
|
|
|
Of Doric land; or who with Saturn old
|
|
|
Fled over Adria to th' Hesperian fields,
|
|
|
And o'er the Celtic roamed the utmost Isles.
|
|
|
All these and more came flocking; but with looks
|
|
|
Downcast and damp; yet such wherein appeared
|
|
|
Obscure some glimpse of joy to have found their Chief
|
|
|
Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost
|
|
|
In loss itself; which on his countenance cast
|
|
|
Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted pride
|
|
|
Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore
|
|
|
Semblance of worth, not substance, gently raised
|
|
|
Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears.
|
|
|
Then straight commands that, at the warlike sound
|
|
|
Of trumpets loud and clarions, be upreared
|
|
|
His mighty standard. That proud honour claimed
|
|
|
Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall:
|
|
|
Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurled
|
|
|
Th' imperial ensign; which, full high advanced,
|
|
|
Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind,
|
|
|
With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,
|
|
|
Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while
|
|
|
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds:
|
|
|
At which the universal host up-sent
|
|
|
A shout that tore Hell's concave, and beyond
|
|
|
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
|
|
|
All in a moment through the gloom were seen
|
|
|
Ten thousand banners rise into the air,
|
|
|
With orient colours waving: with them rose
|
|
|
A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms
|
|
|
Appeared, and serried shields in thick array
|
|
|
Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move
|
|
|
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
|
|
|
Of flutes and soft recorders--such as raised
|
|
|
To height of noblest temper heroes old
|
|
|
Arming to battle, and instead of rage
|
|
|
Deliberate valour breathed, firm, and unmoved
|
|
|
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat;
|
|
|
Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage
|
|
|
With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase
|
|
|
Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain
|
|
|
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they,
|
|
|
Breathing united force with fixed thought,
|
|
|
Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed
|
|
|
Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil. And now
|
|
|
Advanced in view they stand--a horrid front
|
|
|
Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise
|
|
|
Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield,
|
|
|
Awaiting what command their mighty Chief
|
|
|
Had to impose. He through the armed files
|
|
|
Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse
|
|
|
The whole battalion views--their order due,
|
|
|
Their visages and stature as of gods;
|
|
|
Their number last he sums. And now his heart
|
|
|
Distends with pride, and, hardening in his strength,
|
|
|
Glories: for never, since created Man,
|
|
|
Met such embodied force as, named with these,
|
|
|
Could merit more than that small infantry
|
|
|
Warred on by cranes--though all the giant brood
|
|
|
Of Phlegra with th' heroic race were joined
|
|
|
That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side
|
|
|
Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what resounds
|
|
|
In fable or romance of Uther's son,
|
|
|
Begirt with British and Armoric knights;
|
|
|
And all who since, baptized or infidel,
|
|
|
Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban,
|
|
|
Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond,
|
|
|
Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore
|
|
|
When Charlemain with all his peerage fell
|
|
|
By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond
|
|
|
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed
|
|
|
Their dread Commander. He, above the rest
|
|
|
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
|
|
|
Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost
|
|
|
All her original brightness, nor appeared
|
|
|
Less than Archangel ruined, and th' excess
|
|
|
Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen
|
|
|
Looks through the horizontal misty air
|
|
|
Shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon,
|
|
|
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
|
|
|
On half the nations, and with fear of change
|
|
|
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone
|
|
|
Above them all th' Archangel: but his face
|
|
|
Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care
|
|
|
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows
|
|
|
Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride
|
|
|
Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast
|
|
|
Signs of remorse and passion, to behold
|
|
|
The fellows of his crime, the followers rather
|
|
|
(Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned
|
|
|
For ever now to have their lot in pain--
|
|
|
Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced
|
|
|
Of Heaven, and from eteranl splendours flung
|
|
|
For his revolt--yet faithful how they stood,
|
|
|
Their glory withered; as, when heaven's fire
|
|
|
Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines,
|
|
|
With singed top their stately growth, though bare,
|
|
|
Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared
|
|
|
To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend
|
|
|
From wing to wing, and half enclose him round
|
|
|
With all his peers: attention held them mute.
|
|
|
Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn,
|
|
|
Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth: at last
|
|
|
Words interwove with sighs found out their way:--
|
|
|
"O myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers
|
|
|
Matchless, but with th' Almighth!--and that strife
|
|
|
Was not inglorious, though th' event was dire,
|
|
|
As this place testifies, and this dire change,
|
|
|
Hateful to utter. But what power of mind,
|
|
|
Forseeing or presaging, from the depth
|
|
|
Of knowledge past or present, could have feared
|
|
|
How such united force of gods, how such
|
|
|
As stood like these, could ever know repulse?
|
|
|
For who can yet believe, though after loss,
|
|
|
That all these puissant legions, whose exile
|
|
|
Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascend,
|
|
|
Self-raised, and repossess their native seat?
|
|
|
For me, be witness all the host of Heaven,
|
|
|
If counsels different, or danger shunned
|
|
|
By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns
|
|
|
Monarch in Heaven till then as one secure
|
|
|
Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute,
|
|
|
Consent or custom, and his regal state
|
|
|
Put forth at full, but still his strength concealed--
|
|
|
Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall.
|
|
|
Henceforth his might we know, and know our own,
|
|
|
So as not either to provoke, or dread
|
|
|
New war provoked: our better part remains
|
|
|
To work in close design, by fraud or guile,
|
|
|
What force effected not; that he no less
|
|
|
At length from us may find, who overcomes
|
|
|
By force hath overcome but half his foe.
|
|
|
Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife
|
|
|
There went a fame in Heaven that he ere long
|
|
|
Intended to create, and therein plant
|
|
|
A generation whom his choice regard
|
|
|
Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven.
|
|
|
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps
|
|
|
Our first eruption--thither, or elsewhere;
|
|
|
For this infernal pit shall never hold
|
|
|
Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor th' Abyss
|
|
|
Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts
|
|
|
Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired;
|
|
|
For who can think submission? War, then, war
|
|
|
Open or understood, must be resolved."
|
|
|
He spake; and, to confirm his words, outflew
|
|
|
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
|
|
|
Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze
|
|
|
Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged
|
|
|
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms
|
|
|
Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war,
|
|
|
Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.
|
|
|
There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top
|
|
|
Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire
|
|
|
Shone with a glossy scurf--undoubted sign
|
|
|
That in his womb was hid metallic ore,
|
|
|
The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed,
|
|
|
A numerous brigade hastened: as when bands
|
|
|
Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed,
|
|
|
Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field,
|
|
|
Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on--
|
|
|
Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell
|
|
|
From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts
|
|
|
Were always downward bent, admiring more
|
|
|
The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold,
|
|
|
Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed
|
|
|
In vision beatific. By him first
|
|
|
Men also, and by his suggestion taught,
|
|
|
Ransacked the centre, and with impious hands
|
|
|
Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth
|
|
|
For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew
|
|
|
Opened into the hill a spacious wound,
|
|
|
And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire
|
|
|
That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best
|
|
|
Deserve the precious bane. And here let those
|
|
|
Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell
|
|
|
Of Babel, and the works of Memphian kings,
|
|
|
Learn how their greatest monuments of fame
|
|
|
And strength, and art, are easily outdone
|
|
|
By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour
|
|
|
What in an age they, with incessant toil
|
|
|
And hands innumerable, scarce perform.
|
|
|
Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared,
|
|
|
That underneath had veins of liquid fire
|
|
|
Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude
|
|
|
With wondrous art founded the massy ore,
|
|
|
Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion-dross.
|
|
|
A third as soon had formed within the ground
|
|
|
A various mould, and from the boiling cells
|
|
|
By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook;
|
|
|
As in an organ, from one blast of wind,
|
|
|
To many a row of pipes the sound-board breathes.
|
|
|
Anon out of the earth a fabric huge
|
|
|
Rose like an exhalation, with the sound
|
|
|
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet--
|
|
|
Built like a temple, where pilasters round
|
|
|
Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid
|
|
|
With golden architrave; nor did there want
|
|
|
Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven;
|
|
|
The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon
|
|
|
Nor great Alcairo such magnificence
|
|
|
Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine
|
|
|
Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat
|
|
|
Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove
|
|
|
In wealth and luxury. Th' ascending pile
|
|
|
Stood fixed her stately height, and straight the doors,
|
|
|
Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide
|
|
|
Within, her ample spaces o'er the smooth
|
|
|
And level pavement: from the arched roof,
|
|
|
Pendent by subtle magic, many a row
|
|
|
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed
|
|
|
With naptha and asphaltus, yielded light
|
|
|
As from a sky. The hasty multitude
|
|
|
Admiring entered; and the work some praise,
|
|
|
And some the architect. His hand was known
|
|
|
In Heaven by many a towered structure high,
|
|
|
Where sceptred Angels held their residence,
|
|
|
And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King
|
|
|
Exalted to such power, and gave to rule,
|
|
|
Each in his Hierarchy, the Orders bright.
|
|
|
Nor was his name unheard or unadored
|
|
|
In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land
|
|
|
Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell
|
|
|
From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry Jove
|
|
|
Sheer o'er the crystal battlements: from morn
|
|
|
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
|
|
|
A summer's day, and with the setting sun
|
|
|
Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star,
|
|
|
On Lemnos, th' Aegaean isle. Thus they relate,
|
|
|
Erring; for he with this rebellious rout
|
|
|
Fell long before; nor aught aviled him now
|
|
|
To have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he scape
|
|
|
By all his engines, but was headlong sent,
|
|
|
With his industrious crew, to build in Hell.
|
|
|
Meanwhile the winged Heralds, by command
|
|
|
Of sovereign power, with awful ceremony
|
|
|
And trumpet's sound, throughout the host proclaim
|
|
|
A solemn council forthwith to be held
|
|
|
At Pandemonium, the high capital
|
|
|
Of Satan and his peers. Their summons called
|
|
|
From every band and squared regiment
|
|
|
By place or choice the worthiest: they anon
|
|
|
With hundreds and with thousands trooping came
|
|
|
Attended. All access was thronged; the gates
|
|
|
And porches wide, but chief the spacious hall
|
|
|
(Though like a covered field, where champions bold
|
|
|
Wont ride in armed, and at the Soldan's chair
|
|
|
Defied the best of Paynim chivalry
|
|
|
To mortal combat, or career with lance),
|
|
|
Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air,
|
|
|
Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As bees
|
|
|
In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus rides.
|
|
|
Pour forth their populous youth about the hive
|
|
|
In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers
|
|
|
Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank,
|
|
|
The suburb of their straw-built citadel,
|
|
|
New rubbed with balm, expatiate, and confer
|
|
|
Their state-affairs: so thick the airy crowd
|
|
|
Swarmed and were straitened; till, the signal given,
|
|
|
Behold a wonder! They but now who seemed
|
|
|
In bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons,
|
|
|
Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room
|
|
|
Throng numberless--like that pygmean race
|
|
|
Beyond the Indian mount; or faery elves,
|
|
|
Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side
|
|
|
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
|
|
|
Or dreams he sees, while overhead the Moon
|
|
|
Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth
|
|
|
Wheels her pale course: they, on their mirth and dance
|
|
|
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear;
|
|
|
At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.
|
|
|
Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms
|
|
|
Reduced their shapes immense, and were at large,
|
|
|
Though without number still, amidst the hall
|
|
|
Of that infernal court. But far within,
|
|
|
And in their own dimensions like themselves,
|
|
|
The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim
|
|
|
In close recess and secret conclave sat,
|
|
|
A thousand demi-gods on golden seats,
|
|
|
Frequent and full. After short silence then,
|
|
|
And summons read, the great consult began.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Book II
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
High on a throne of royal state, which far
|
|
|
Outshone the wealth or Ormus and of Ind,
|
|
|
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
|
|
|
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
|
|
|
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
|
|
|
To that bad eminence; and, from despair
|
|
|
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
|
|
|
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
|
|
|
Vain war with Heaven; and, by success untaught,
|
|
|
His proud imaginations thus displayed:--
|
|
|
"Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven!--
|
|
|
For, since no deep within her gulf can hold
|
|
|
Immortal vigour, though oppressed and fallen,
|
|
|
I give not Heaven for lost: from this descent
|
|
|
Celestial Virtues rising will appear
|
|
|
More glorious and more dread than from no fall,
|
|
|
And trust themselves to fear no second fate!--
|
|
|
Me though just right, and the fixed laws of Heaven,
|
|
|
Did first create your leader--next, free choice
|
|
|
With what besides in council or in fight
|
|
|
Hath been achieved of merit--yet this loss,
|
|
|
Thus far at least recovered, hath much more
|
|
|
Established in a safe, unenvied throne,
|
|
|
Yielded with full consent. The happier state
|
|
|
In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw
|
|
|
Envy from each inferior; but who here
|
|
|
Will envy whom the highest place exposes
|
|
|
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim
|
|
|
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share
|
|
|
Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no good
|
|
|
For which to strive, no strife can grow up there
|
|
|
From faction: for none sure will claim in Hell
|
|
|
Precedence; none whose portion is so small
|
|
|
Of present pain that with ambitious mind
|
|
|
Will covet more! With this advantage, then,
|
|
|
To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,
|
|
|
More than can be in Heaven, we now return
|
|
|
To claim our just inheritance of old,
|
|
|
Surer to prosper than prosperity
|
|
|
Could have assured us; and by what best way,
|
|
|
Whether of open war or covert guile,
|
|
|
We now debate. Who can advise may speak."
|
|
|
He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king,
|
|
|
Stood up--the strongest and the fiercest Spirit
|
|
|
That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair.
|
|
|
His trust was with th' Eternal to be deemed
|
|
|
Equal in strength, and rather than be less
|
|
|
Cared not to be at all; with that care lost
|
|
|
Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse,
|
|
|
He recked not, and these words thereafter spake:--
|
|
|
"My sentence is for open war. Of wiles,
|
|
|
More unexpert, I boast not: them let those
|
|
|
Contrive who need, or when they need; not now.
|
|
|
For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest--
|
|
|
Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait
|
|
|
The signal to ascend--sit lingering here,
|
|
|
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place
|
|
|
Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame,
|
|
|
The prison of his ryranny who reigns
|
|
|
By our delay? No! let us rather choose,
|
|
|
Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at once
|
|
|
O'er Heaven's high towers to force resistless way,
|
|
|
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
|
|
|
Against the Torturer; when, to meet the noise
|
|
|
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear
|
|
|
Infernal thunder, and, for lightning, see
|
|
|
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
|
|
|
Among his Angels, and his throne itself
|
|
|
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,
|
|
|
His own invented torments. But perhaps
|
|
|
The way seems difficult, and steep to scale
|
|
|
With upright wing against a higher foe!
|
|
|
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench
|
|
|
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,
|
|
|
That in our porper motion we ascend
|
|
|
Up to our native seat; descent and fall
|
|
|
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,
|
|
|
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
|
|
|
Insulting, and pursued us through the Deep,
|
|
|
With what compulsion and laborious flight
|
|
|
We sunk thus low? Th' ascent is easy, then;
|
|
|
Th' event is feared! Should we again provoke
|
|
|
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find
|
|
|
To our destruction, if there be in Hell
|
|
|
Fear to be worse destroyed! What can be worse
|
|
|
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned
|
|
|
In this abhorred deep to utter woe!
|
|
|
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
|
|
|
Must exercise us without hope of end
|
|
|
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
|
|
|
Inexorably, and the torturing hour,
|
|
|
Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus,
|
|
|
We should be quite abolished, and expire.
|
|
|
What fear we then? what doubt we to incense
|
|
|
His utmost ire? which, to the height enraged,
|
|
|
Will either quite consume us, and reduce
|
|
|
To nothing this essential--happier far
|
|
|
Than miserable to have eternal being!--
|
|
|
Or, if our substance be indeed divine,
|
|
|
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst
|
|
|
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
|
|
|
Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven,
|
|
|
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
|
|
|
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne:
|
|
|
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge."
|
|
|
He ended frowning, and his look denounced
|
|
|
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous
|
|
|
To less than gods. On th' other side up rose
|
|
|
Belial, in act more graceful and humane.
|
|
|
A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed
|
|
|
For dignity composed, and high exploit.
|
|
|
But all was false and hollow; though his tongue
|
|
|
Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear
|
|
|
The better reason, to perplex and dash
|
|
|
Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low--
|
|
|
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
|
|
|
Timorous and slothful. Yet he pleased the ear,
|
|
|
And with persuasive accent thus began:--
|
|
|
"I should be much for open war, O Peers,
|
|
|
As not behind in hate, if what was urged
|
|
|
Main reason to persuade immediate war
|
|
|
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast
|
|
|
Ominous conjecture on the whole success;
|
|
|
When he who most excels in fact of arms,
|
|
|
In what he counsels and in what excels
|
|
|
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair
|
|
|
And utter dissolution, as the scope
|
|
|
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.
|
|
|
First, what revenge? The towers of Heaven are filled
|
|
|
With armed watch, that render all access
|
|
|
Impregnable: oft on the bodering Deep
|
|
|
Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing
|
|
|
Scout far and wide into the realm of Night,
|
|
|
Scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way
|
|
|
By force, and at our heels all Hell should rise
|
|
|
With blackest insurrection to confound
|
|
|
Heaven's purest light, yet our great Enemy,
|
|
|
All incorruptible, would on his throne
|
|
|
Sit unpolluted, and th' ethereal mould,
|
|
|
Incapable of stain, would soon expel
|
|
|
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
|
|
|
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope
|
|
|
Is flat despair: we must exasperate
|
|
|
Th' Almighty Victor to spend all his rage;
|
|
|
And that must end us; that must be our cure--
|
|
|
To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose,
|
|
|
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
|
|
|
Those thoughts that wander through eternity,
|
|
|
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
|
|
|
In the wide womb of uncreated Night,
|
|
|
Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows,
|
|
|
Let this be good, whether our angry Foe
|
|
|
Can give it, or will ever? How he can
|
|
|
Is doubtful; that he never will is sure.
|
|
|
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire,
|
|
|
Belike through impotence or unaware,
|
|
|
To give his enemies their wish, and end
|
|
|
Them in his anger whom his anger saves
|
|
|
To punish endless? 'Wherefore cease we, then?'
|
|
|
Say they who counsel war; 'we are decreed,
|
|
|
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe;
|
|
|
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,
|
|
|
What can we suffer worse?' Is this, then, worst--
|
|
|
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
|
|
|
What when we fled amain, pursued and struck
|
|
|
With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought
|
|
|
The Deep to shelter us? This Hell then seemed
|
|
|
A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay
|
|
|
Chained on the burning lake? That sure was worse.
|
|
|
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,
|
|
|
Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,
|
|
|
And plunge us in the flames; or from above
|
|
|
Should intermitted vengeance arm again
|
|
|
His red right hand to plague us? What if all
|
|
|
Her stores were opened, and this firmament
|
|
|
Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire,
|
|
|
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall
|
|
|
One day upon our heads; while we perhaps,
|
|
|
Designing or exhorting glorious war,
|
|
|
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled,
|
|
|
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey
|
|
|
Or racking whirlwinds, or for ever sunk
|
|
|
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains,
|
|
|
There to converse with everlasting groans,
|
|
|
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,
|
|
|
Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse.
|
|
|
War, therefore, open or concealed, alike
|
|
|
My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile
|
|
|
With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye
|
|
|
Views all things at one view? He from Heaven's height
|
|
|
All these our motions vain sees and derides,
|
|
|
Not more almighty to resist our might
|
|
|
Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles.
|
|
|
Shall we, then, live thus vile--the race of Heaven
|
|
|
Thus trampled, thus expelled, to suffer here
|
|
|
Chains and these torments? Better these than worse,
|
|
|
By my advice; since fate inevitable
|
|
|
Subdues us, and omnipotent decree,
|
|
|
The Victor's will. To suffer, as to do,
|
|
|
Our strength is equal; nor the law unjust
|
|
|
That so ordains. This was at first resolved,
|
|
|
If we were wise, against so great a foe
|
|
|
Contending, and so doubtful what might fall.
|
|
|
I laugh when those who at the spear are bold
|
|
|
And venturous, if that fail them, shrink, and fear
|
|
|
What yet they know must follow--to endure
|
|
|
Exile, or igominy, or bonds, or pain,
|
|
|
The sentence of their Conqueror. This is now
|
|
|
Our doom; which if we can sustain and bear,
|
|
|
Our Supreme Foe in time may much remit
|
|
|
His anger, and perhaps, thus far removed,
|
|
|
Not mind us not offending, satisfied
|
|
|
With what is punished; whence these raging fires
|
|
|
Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames.
|
|
|
Our purer essence then will overcome
|
|
|
Their noxious vapour; or, inured, not feel;
|
|
|
Or, changed at length, and to the place conformed
|
|
|
In temper and in nature, will receive
|
|
|
Familiar the fierce heat; and, void of pain,
|
|
|
This horror will grow mild, this darkness light;
|
|
|
Besides what hope the never-ending flight
|
|
|
Of future days may bring, what chance, what change
|
|
|
Worth waiting--since our present lot appears
|
|
|
For happy though but ill, for ill not worst,
|
|
|
If we procure not to ourselves more woe."
|
|
|
Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb,
|
|
|
Counselled ignoble ease and peaceful sloth,
|
|
|
Not peace; and after him thus Mammon spake:--
|
|
|
"Either to disenthrone the King of Heaven
|
|
|
We war, if war be best, or to regain
|
|
|
Our own right lost. Him to unthrone we then
|
|
|
May hope, when everlasting Fate shall yield
|
|
|
To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
|
|
|
The former, vain to hope, argues as vain
|
|
|
The latter; for what place can be for us
|
|
|
Within Heaven's bound, unless Heaven's Lord supreme
|
|
|
We overpower? Suppose he should relent
|
|
|
And publish grace to all, on promise made
|
|
|
Of new subjection; with what eyes could we
|
|
|
Stand in his presence humble, and receive
|
|
|
Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne
|
|
|
With warbled hyms, and to his Godhead sing
|
|
|
Forced hallelujahs, while he lordly sits
|
|
|
Our envied sovereign, and his altar breathes
|
|
|
Ambrosial odours and ambrosial flowers,
|
|
|
Our servile offerings? This must be our task
|
|
|
In Heaven, this our delight. How wearisome
|
|
|
Eternity so spent in worship paid
|
|
|
To whom we hate! Let us not then pursue,
|
|
|
By force impossible, by leave obtained
|
|
|
Unacceptable, though in Heaven, our state
|
|
|
Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek
|
|
|
Our own good from ourselves, and from our own
|
|
|
Live to ourselves, though in this vast recess,
|
|
|
Free and to none accountable, preferring
|
|
|
Hard liberty before the easy yoke
|
|
|
Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear
|
|
|
Then most conspicuous when great things of small,
|
|
|
Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse,
|
|
|
We can create, and in what place soe'er
|
|
|
Thrive under evil, and work ease out of pain
|
|
|
Through labour and endurance. This deep world
|
|
|
Of darkness do we dread? How oft amidst
|
|
|
Thick clouds and dark doth Heaven's all-ruling Sire
|
|
|
Choose to reside, his glory unobscured,
|
|
|
And with the majesty of darkness round
|
|
|
Covers his throne, from whence deep thunders roar.
|
|
|
Mustering their rage, and Heaven resembles Hell!
|
|
|
As he our darkness, cannot we his light
|
|
|
Imitate when we please? This desert soil
|
|
|
Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold;
|
|
|
Nor want we skill or art from whence to raise
|
|
|
Magnificence; and what can Heaven show more?
|
|
|
Our torments also may, in length of time,
|
|
|
Become our elements, these piercing fires
|
|
|
As soft as now severe, our temper changed
|
|
|
Into their temper; which must needs remove
|
|
|
The sensible of pain. All things invite
|
|
|
To peaceful counsels, and the settled state
|
|
|
Of order, how in safety best we may
|
|
|
Compose our present evils, with regard
|
|
|
Of what we are and where, dismissing quite
|
|
|
All thoughts of war. Ye have what I advise."
|
|
|
He scarce had finished, when such murmur filled
|
|
|
Th' assembly as when hollow rocks retain
|
|
|
The sound of blustering winds, which all night long
|
|
|
Had roused the sea, now with hoarse cadence lull
|
|
|
Seafaring men o'erwatched, whose bark by chance
|
|
|
Or pinnace, anchors in a craggy bay
|
|
|
After the tempest. Such applause was heard
|
|
|
As Mammon ended, and his sentence pleased,
|
|
|
Advising peace: for such another field
|
|
|
They dreaded worse than Hell; so much the fear
|
|
|
Of thunder and the sword of Michael
|
|
|
Wrought still within them; and no less desire
|
|
|
To found this nether empire, which might rise,
|
|
|
By policy and long process of time,
|
|
|
In emulation opposite to Heaven.
|
|
|
Which when Beelzebub perceived--than whom,
|
|
|
Satan except, none higher sat--with grave
|
|
|
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed
|
|
|
A pillar of state. Deep on his front engraven
|
|
|
Deliberation sat, and public care;
|
|
|
And princely counsel in his face yet shone,
|
|
|
Majestic, though in ruin. Sage he stood
|
|
|
With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear
|
|
|
The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look
|
|
|
Drew audience and attention still as night
|
|
|
Or summer's noontide air, while thus he spake:--
|
|
|
"Thrones and Imperial Powers, Offspring of Heaven,
|
|
|
Ethereal Virtues! or these titles now
|
|
|
Must we renounce, and, changing style, be called
|
|
|
Princes of Hell? for so the popular vote
|
|
|
Inclines--here to continue, and build up here
|
|
|
A growing empire; doubtless! while we dream,
|
|
|
And know not that the King of Heaven hath doomed
|
|
|
This place our dungeon, not our safe retreat
|
|
|
Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt
|
|
|
From Heaven's high jurisdiction, in new league
|
|
|
Banded against his throne, but to remain
|
|
|
In strictest bondage, though thus far removed,
|
|
|
Under th' inevitable curb, reserved
|
|
|
His captive multitude. For he, to be sure,
|
|
|
In height or depth, still first and last will reign
|
|
|
Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part
|
|
|
By our revolt, but over Hell extend
|
|
|
His empire, and with iron sceptre rule
|
|
|
Us here, as with his golden those in Heaven.
|
|
|
What sit we then projecting peace and war?
|
|
|
War hath determined us and foiled with loss
|
|
|
Irreparable; terms of peace yet none
|
|
|
Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will be given
|
|
|
To us enslaved, but custody severe,
|
|
|
And stripes and arbitrary punishment
|
|
|
Inflicted? and what peace can we return,
|
|
|
But, to our power, hostility and hate,
|
|
|
Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though slow,
|
|
|
Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least
|
|
|
May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice
|
|
|
In doing what we most in suffering feel?
|
|
|
Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need
|
|
|
With dangerous expedition to invade
|
|
|
Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault or siege,
|
|
|
Or ambush from the Deep. What if we find
|
|
|
Some easier enterprise? There is a place
|
|
|
(If ancient and prophetic fame in Heaven
|
|
|
Err not)--another World, the happy seat
|
|
|
Of some new race, called Man, about this time
|
|
|
To be created like to us, though less
|
|
|
In power and excellence, but favoured more
|
|
|
Of him who rules above; so was his will
|
|
|
Pronounced among the Gods, and by an oath
|
|
|
That shook Heaven's whole circumference confirmed.
|
|
|
Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to learn
|
|
|
What creatures there inhabit, of what mould
|
|
|
Or substance, how endued, and what their power
|
|
|
And where their weakness: how attempted best,
|
|
|
By force of subtlety. Though Heaven be shut,
|
|
|
And Heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure
|
|
|
In his own strength, this place may lie exposed,
|
|
|
The utmost border of his kingdom, left
|
|
|
To their defence who hold it: here, perhaps,
|
|
|
Some advantageous act may be achieved
|
|
|
By sudden onset--either with Hell-fire
|
|
|
To waste his whole creation, or possess
|
|
|
All as our own, and drive, as we were driven,
|
|
|
The puny habitants; or, if not drive,
|
|
|
Seduce them to our party, that their God
|
|
|
May prove their foe, and with repenting hand
|
|
|
Abolish his own works. This would surpass
|
|
|
Common revenge, and interrupt his joy
|
|
|
In our confusion, and our joy upraise
|
|
|
In his disturbance; when his darling sons,
|
|
|
Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall curse
|
|
|
Their frail original, and faded bliss--
|
|
|
Faded so soon! Advise if this be worth
|
|
|
Attempting, or to sit in darkness here
|
|
|
Hatching vain empires." Thus beelzebub
|
|
|
Pleaded his devilish counsel--first devised
|
|
|
By Satan, and in part proposed: for whence,
|
|
|
But from the author of all ill, could spring
|
|
|
So deep a malice, to confound the race
|
|
|
Of mankind in one root, and Earth with Hell
|
|
|
To mingle and involve, done all to spite
|
|
|
The great Creator? But their spite still serves
|
|
|
His glory to augment. The bold design
|
|
|
Pleased highly those infernal States, and joy
|
|
|
Sparkled in all their eyes: with full assent
|
|
|
They vote: whereat his speech he thus renews:--
|
|
|
"Well have ye judged, well ended long debate,
|
|
|
Synod of Gods, and, like to what ye are,
|
|
|
Great things resolved, which from the lowest deep
|
|
|
Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate,
|
|
|
Nearer our ancient seat--perhaps in view
|
|
|
Of those bright confines, whence, with neighbouring arms,
|
|
|
And opportune excursion, we may chance
|
|
|
Re-enter Heaven; or else in some mild zone
|
|
|
Dwell, not unvisited of Heaven's fair light,
|
|
|
Secure, and at the brightening orient beam
|
|
|
Purge off this gloom: the soft delicious air,
|
|
|
To heal the scar of these corrosive fires,
|
|
|
Shall breathe her balm. But, first, whom shall we send
|
|
|
In search of this new World? whom shall we find
|
|
|
Sufficient? who shall tempt with wandering feet
|
|
|
The dark, unbottomed, infinite Abyss,
|
|
|
And through the palpable obscure find out
|
|
|
His uncouth way, or spread his airy flight,
|
|
|
Upborne with indefatigable wings
|
|
|
Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive
|
|
|
The happy Isle? What strength, what art, can then
|
|
|
Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe,
|
|
|
Through the strict senteries and stations thick
|
|
|
Of Angels watching round? Here he had need
|
|
|
All circumspection: and we now no less
|
|
|
Choice in our suffrage; for on whom we send
|
|
|
The weight of all, and our last hope, relies."
|
|
|
This said, he sat; and expectation held
|
|
|
His look suspense, awaiting who appeared
|
|
|
To second, or oppose, or undertake
|
|
|
The perilous attempt. But all sat mute,
|
|
|
Pondering the danger with deep thoughts; and each
|
|
|
In other's countenance read his own dismay,
|
|
|
Astonished. None among the choice and prime
|
|
|
Of those Heaven-warring champions could be found
|
|
|
So hardy as to proffer or accept,
|
|
|
Alone, the dreadful voyage; till, at last,
|
|
|
Satan, whom now transcendent glory raised
|
|
|
Above his fellows, with monarchal pride
|
|
|
Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus spake:--
|
|
|
"O Progeny of Heaven! Empyreal Thrones!
|
|
|
With reason hath deep silence and demur
|
|
|
Seized us, though undismayed. Long is the way
|
|
|
And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.
|
|
|
Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire,
|
|
|
Outrageous to devour, immures us round
|
|
|
Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant,
|
|
|
Barred over us, prohibit all egress.
|
|
|
These passed, if any pass, the void profound
|
|
|
Of unessential Night receives him next,
|
|
|
Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being
|
|
|
Threatens him, plunged in that abortive gulf.
|
|
|
If thence he scape, into whatever world,
|
|
|
Or unknown region, what remains him less
|
|
|
Than unknown dangers, and as hard escape?
|
|
|
But I should ill become this throne, O Peers,
|
|
|
And this imperial sovereignty, adorned
|
|
|
With splendour, armed with power, if aught proposed
|
|
|
And judged of public moment in the shape
|
|
|
Of difficulty or danger, could deter
|
|
|
Me from attempting. Wherefore do I assume
|
|
|
These royalties, and not refuse to reign,
|
|
|
Refusing to accept as great a share
|
|
|
Of hazard as of honour, due alike
|
|
|
To him who reigns, and so much to him due
|
|
|
Of hazard more as he above the rest
|
|
|
High honoured sits? Go, therefore, mighty Powers,
|
|
|
Terror of Heaven, though fallen; intend at home,
|
|
|
While here shall be our home, what best may ease
|
|
|
The present misery, and render Hell
|
|
|
More tolerable; if there be cure or charm
|
|
|
To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain
|
|
|
Of this ill mansion: intermit no watch
|
|
|
Against a wakeful foe, while I abroad
|
|
|
Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek
|
|
|
Deliverance for us all. This enterprise
|
|
|
None shall partake with me." Thus saying, rose
|
|
|
The Monarch, and prevented all reply;
|
|
|
Prudent lest, from his resolution raised,
|
|
|
Others among the chief might offer now,
|
|
|
Certain to be refused, what erst they feared,
|
|
|
And, so refused, might in opinion stand
|
|
|
His rivals, winning cheap the high repute
|
|
|
Which he through hazard huge must earn. But they
|
|
|
Dreaded not more th' adventure than his voice
|
|
|
Forbidding; and at once with him they rose.
|
|
|
Their rising all at once was as the sound
|
|
|
Of thunder heard remote. Towards him they bend
|
|
|
With awful reverence prone, and as a God
|
|
|
Extol him equal to the Highest in Heaven.
|
|
|
Nor failed they to express how much they praised
|
|
|
That for the general safety he despised
|
|
|
His own: for neither do the Spirits damned
|
|
|
Lose all their virtue; lest bad men should boast
|
|
|
Their specious deeds on earth, which glory excites,
|
|
|
Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal.
|
|
|
Thus they their doubtful consultations dark
|
|
|
Ended, rejoicing in their matchless Chief:
|
|
|
As, when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds
|
|
|
Ascending, while the north wind sleeps, o'erspread
|
|
|
Heaven's cheerful face, the louring element
|
|
|
Scowls o'er the darkened landscape snow or shower,
|
|
|
If chance the radiant sun, with farewell sweet,
|
|
|
Extend his evening beam, the fields revive,
|
|
|
The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds
|
|
|
Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.
|
|
|
O shame to men! Devil with devil damned
|
|
|
Firm concord holds; men only disagree
|
|
|
Of creatures rational, though under hope
|
|
|
Of heavenly grace, and, God proclaiming peace,
|
|
|
Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife
|
|
|
Among themselves, and levy cruel wars
|
|
|
Wasting the earth, each other to destroy:
|
|
|
As if (which might induce us to accord)
|
|
|
Man had not hellish foes enow besides,
|
|
|
That day and night for his destruction wait!
|
|
|
The Stygian council thus dissolved; and forth
|
|
|
In order came the grand infernal Peers:
|
|
|
Midst came their mighty Paramount, and seemed
|
|
|
Alone th' antagonist of Heaven, nor less
|
|
|
Than Hell's dread Emperor, with pomp supreme,
|
|
|
And god-like imitated state: him round
|
|
|
A globe of fiery Seraphim enclosed
|
|
|
With bright emblazonry, and horrent arms.
|
|
|
Then of their session ended they bid cry
|
|
|
With trumpet's regal sound the great result:
|
|
|
Toward the four winds four speedy Cherubim
|
|
|
Put to their mouths the sounding alchemy,
|
|
|
By herald's voice explained; the hollow Abyss
|
|
|
Heard far adn wide, and all the host of Hell
|
|
|
With deafening shout returned them loud acclaim.
|
|
|
Thence more at ease their minds, and somewhat raised
|
|
|
By false presumptuous hope, the ranged Powers
|
|
|
Disband; and, wandering, each his several way
|
|
|
Pursues, as inclination or sad choice
|
|
|
Leads him perplexed, where he may likeliest find
|
|
|
Truce to his restless thoughts, and entertain
|
|
|
The irksome hours, till his great Chief return.
|
|
|
Part on the plain, or in the air sublime,
|
|
|
Upon the wing or in swift race contend,
|
|
|
As at th' Olympian games or Pythian fields;
|
|
|
Part curb their fiery steeds, or shun the goal
|
|
|
With rapid wheels, or fronted brigades form:
|
|
|
As when, to warn proud cities, war appears
|
|
|
Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush
|
|
|
To battle in the clouds; before each van
|
|
|
Prick forth the airy knights, and couch their spears,
|
|
|
Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms
|
|
|
From either end of heaven the welkin burns.
|
|
|
Others, with vast Typhoean rage, more fell,
|
|
|
Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air
|
|
|
In whirlwind; Hell scarce holds the wild uproar:--
|
|
|
As when Alcides, from Oechalia crowned
|
|
|
With conquest, felt th' envenomed robe, and tore
|
|
|
Through pain up by the roots Thessalian pines,
|
|
|
And Lichas from the top of Oeta threw
|
|
|
Into th' Euboic sea. Others, more mild,
|
|
|
Retreated in a silent valley, sing
|
|
|
With notes angelical to many a harp
|
|
|
Their own heroic deeds, and hapless fall
|
|
|
By doom of battle, and complain that Fate
|
|
|
Free Virtue should enthrall to Force or Chance.
|
|
|
Their song was partial; but the harmony
|
|
|
(What could it less when Spirits immortal sing?)
|
|
|
Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment
|
|
|
The thronging audience. In discourse more sweet
|
|
|
(For Eloquence the Soul, Song charms the Sense)
|
|
|
Others apart sat on a hill retired,
|
|
|
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high
|
|
|
Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, and Fate--
|
|
|
Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute,
|
|
|
And found no end, in wandering mazes lost.
|
|
|
Of good and evil much they argued then,
|
|
|
Of happiness and final misery,
|
|
|
Passion and apathy, and glory and shame:
|
|
|
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy!--
|
|
|
Yet, with a pleasing sorcery, could charm
|
|
|
Pain for a while or anguish, and excite
|
|
|
Fallacious hope, or arm th' obdured breast
|
|
|
With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
|
|
|
Another part, in squadrons and gross bands,
|
|
|
On bold adventure to discover wide
|
|
|
That dismal world, if any clime perhaps
|
|
|
Might yield them easier habitation, bend
|
|
|
Four ways their flying march, along the banks
|
|
|
Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge
|
|
|
Into the burning lake their baleful streams--
|
|
|
Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate;
|
|
|
Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;
|
|
|
Cocytus, named of lamentation loud
|
|
|
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegeton,
|
|
|
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.
|
|
|
Far off from these, a slow and silent stream,
|
|
|
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
|
|
|
Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
|
|
|
Forthwith his former state and being forgets--
|
|
|
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.
|
|
|
Beyond this flood a frozen continent
|
|
|
Lies dark and wild, beat with perpetual storms
|
|
|
Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm land
|
|
|
Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems
|
|
|
Of ancient pile; all else deep snow and ice,
|
|
|
A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog
|
|
|
Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old,
|
|
|
Where armies whole have sunk: the parching air
|
|
|
Burns frore, and cold performs th' effect of fire.
|
|
|
Thither, by harpy-footed Furies haled,
|
|
|
At certain revolutions all the damned
|
|
|
Are brought; and feel by turns the bitter change
|
|
|
Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more fierce,
|
|
|
From beds of raging fire to starve in ice
|
|
|
Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine
|
|
|
Immovable, infixed, and frozen round
|
|
|
Periods of time,--thence hurried back to fire.
|
|
|
They ferry over this Lethean sound
|
|
|
Both to and fro, their sorrow to augment,
|
|
|
And wish and struggle, as they pass, to reach
|
|
|
The tempting stream, with one small drop to lose
|
|
|
In sweet forgetfulness all pain and woe,
|
|
|
All in one moment, and so near the brink;
|
|
|
But Fate withstands, and, to oppose th' attempt,
|
|
|
Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards
|
|
|
The ford, and of itself the water flies
|
|
|
All taste of living wight, as once it fled
|
|
|
The lip of Tantalus. Thus roving on
|
|
|
In confused march forlorn, th' adventurous bands,
|
|
|
With shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast,
|
|
|
Viewed first their lamentable lot, and found
|
|
|
No rest. Through many a dark and dreary vale
|
|
|
They passed, and many a region dolorous,
|
|
|
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery alp,
|
|
|
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death--
|
|
|
A universe of death, which God by curse
|
|
|
Created evil, for evil only good;
|
|
|
Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature breeds,
|
|
|
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things,
|
|
|
Obominable, inutterable, and worse
|
|
|
Than fables yet have feigned or fear conceived,
|
|
|
Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.
|
|
|
Meanwhile the Adversary of God and Man,
|
|
|
Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest design,
|
|
|
Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates of Hell
|
|
|
Explores his solitary flight: sometimes
|
|
|
He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the left;
|
|
|
Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars
|
|
|
Up to the fiery concave towering high.
|
|
|
As when far off at sea a fleet descried
|
|
|
Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds
|
|
|
Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles
|
|
|
Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring
|
|
|
Their spicy drugs; they on the trading flood,
|
|
|
Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape,
|
|
|
Ply stemming nightly toward the pole: so seemed
|
|
|
Far off the flying Fiend. At last appear
|
|
|
Hell-bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof,
|
|
|
And thrice threefold the gates; three folds were brass,
|
|
|
Three iron, three of adamantine rock,
|
|
|
Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire,
|
|
|
Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat
|
|
|
On either side a formidable Shape.
|
|
|
The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair,
|
|
|
But ended foul in many a scaly fold,
|
|
|
Voluminous and vast--a serpent armed
|
|
|
With mortal sting. About her middle round
|
|
|
A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked
|
|
|
With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung
|
|
|
A hideous peal; yet, when they list, would creep,
|
|
|
If aught disturbed their noise, into her womb,
|
|
|
And kennel there; yet there still barked and howled
|
|
|
Within unseen. Far less abhorred than these
|
|
|
Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts
|
|
|
Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore;
|
|
|
Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, called
|
|
|
In secret, riding through the air she comes,
|
|
|
Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance
|
|
|
With Lapland witches, while the labouring moon
|
|
|
Eclipses at their charms. The other Shape--
|
|
|
If shape it might be called that shape had none
|
|
|
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;
|
|
|
Or substance might be called that shadow seemed,
|
|
|
For each seemed either--black it stood as Night,
|
|
|
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,
|
|
|
And shook a dreadful dart: what seemed his head
|
|
|
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
|
|
|
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat
|
|
|
The monster moving onward came as fast
|
|
|
With horrid strides; Hell trembled as he strode.
|
|
|
Th' undaunted Fiend what this might be admired--
|
|
|
Admired, not feared (God and his Son except,
|
|
|
Created thing naught valued he nor shunned),
|
|
|
And with disdainful look thus first began:--
|
|
|
"Whence and what art thou, execrable Shape,
|
|
|
That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance
|
|
|
Thy miscreated front athwart my way
|
|
|
To yonder gates? Through them I mean to pass,
|
|
|
That be assured, without leave asked of thee.
|
|
|
Retire; or taste thy folly, and learn by proof,
|
|
|
Hell-born, not to contend with Spirits of Heaven."
|
|
|
To whom the Goblin, full of wrath, replied:--
|
|
|
"Art thou that traitor Angel? art thou he,
|
|
|
Who first broke peace in Heaven and faith, till then
|
|
|
Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms
|
|
|
Drew after him the third part of Heaven's sons,
|
|
|
Conjured against the Highest--for which both thou
|
|
|
And they, outcast from God, are here condemned
|
|
|
To waste eternal days in woe and pain?
|
|
|
And reckon'st thou thyself with Spirits of Heaven
|
|
|
Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn,
|
|
|
Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more,
|
|
|
Thy king and lord? Back to thy punishment,
|
|
|
False fugitive; and to thy speed add wings,
|
|
|
Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue
|
|
|
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart
|
|
|
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before."
|
|
|
So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape,
|
|
|
So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold,
|
|
|
More dreadful and deform. On th' other side,
|
|
|
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood
|
|
|
Unterrified, and like a comet burned,
|
|
|
That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge
|
|
|
In th' arctic sky, and from his horrid hair
|
|
|
Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head
|
|
|
Levelled his deadly aim; their fatal hands
|
|
|
No second stroke intend; and such a frown
|
|
|
Each cast at th' other as when two black clouds,
|
|
|
With heaven's artillery fraught, came rattling on
|
|
|
Over the Caspian,--then stand front to front
|
|
|
Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow
|
|
|
To join their dark encounter in mid-air.
|
|
|
So frowned the mighty combatants that Hell
|
|
|
Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood;
|
|
|
For never but once more was wither like
|
|
|
To meet so great a foe. And now great deeds
|
|
|
Had been achieved, whereof all Hell had rung,
|
|
|
Had not the snaky Sorceress, that sat
|
|
|
Fast by Hell-gate and kept the fatal key,
|
|
|
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between.
|
|
|
"O father, what intends thy hand," she cried,
|
|
|
"Against thy only son? What fury, O son,
|
|
|
Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart
|
|
|
Against thy father's head? And know'st for whom?
|
|
|
For him who sits above, and laughs the while
|
|
|
At thee, ordained his drudge to execute
|
|
|
Whate'er his wrath, which he calls justice, bids--
|
|
|
His wrath, which one day will destroy ye both!"
|
|
|
She spake, and at her words the hellish Pest
|
|
|
Forbore: then these to her Satan returned:--
|
|
|
"So strange thy outcry, and thy words so strange
|
|
|
Thou interposest, that my sudden hand,
|
|
|
Prevented, spares to tell thee yet by deeds
|
|
|
What it intends, till first I know of thee
|
|
|
What thing thou art, thus double-formed, and why,
|
|
|
In this infernal vale first met, thou call'st
|
|
|
Me father, and that phantasm call'st my son.
|
|
|
I know thee not, nor ever saw till now
|
|
|
Sight more detestable than him and thee."
|
|
|
T' whom thus the Portress of Hell-gate replied:--
|
|
|
"Hast thou forgot me, then; and do I seem
|
|
|
Now in thine eye so foul?--once deemed so fair
|
|
|
In Heaven, when at th' assembly, and in sight
|
|
|
Of all the Seraphim with thee combined
|
|
|
In bold conspiracy against Heaven's King,
|
|
|
All on a sudden miserable pain
|
|
|
Surprised thee, dim thine eyes and dizzy swum
|
|
|
In darkness, while thy head flames thick and fast
|
|
|
Threw forth, till on the left side opening wide,
|
|
|
Likest to thee in shape and countenance bright,
|
|
|
Then shining heavenly fair, a goddess armed,
|
|
|
Out of thy head I sprung. Amazement seized
|
|
|
All th' host of Heaven; back they recoiled afraid
|
|
|
At first, and called me Sin, and for a sign
|
|
|
Portentous held me; but, familiar grown,
|
|
|
I pleased, and with attractive graces won
|
|
|
The most averse--thee chiefly, who, full oft
|
|
|
Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing,
|
|
|
Becam'st enamoured; and such joy thou took'st
|
|
|
With me in secret that my womb conceived
|
|
|
A growing burden. Meanwhile war arose,
|
|
|
And fields were fought in Heaven: wherein remained
|
|
|
(For what could else?) to our Almighty Foe
|
|
|
Clear victory; to our part loss and rout
|
|
|
Through all the Empyrean. Down they fell,
|
|
|
Driven headlong from the pitch of Heaven, down
|
|
|
Into this Deep; and in the general fall
|
|
|
I also: at which time this powerful key
|
|
|
Into my hands was given, with charge to keep
|
|
|
These gates for ever shut, which none can pass
|
|
|
Without my opening. Pensive here I sat
|
|
|
Alone; but long I sat not, till my womb,
|
|
|
Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown,
|
|
|
Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes.
|
|
|
At last this odious offspring whom thou seest,
|
|
|
Thine own begotten, breaking violent way,
|
|
|
Tore through my entrails, that, with fear and pain
|
|
|
Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew
|
|
|
Transformed: but he my inbred enemy
|
|
|
Forth issued, brandishing his fatal dart,
|
|
|
Made to destroy. I fled, and cried out Death!
|
|
|
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed
|
|
|
From all her caves, and back resounded Death!
|
|
|
I fled; but he pursued (though more, it seems,
|
|
|
Inflamed with lust than rage), and, swifter far,
|
|
|
Me overtook, his mother, all dismayed,
|
|
|
And, in embraces forcible and foul
|
|
|
Engendering with me, of that rape begot
|
|
|
These yelling monsters, that with ceaseless cry
|
|
|
Surround me, as thou saw'st--hourly conceived
|
|
|
And hourly born, with sorrow infinite
|
|
|
To me; for, when they list, into the womb
|
|
|
That bred them they return, and howl, and gnaw
|
|
|
My bowels, their repast; then, bursting forth
|
|
|
Afresh, with conscious terrors vex me round,
|
|
|
That rest or intermission none I find.
|
|
|
Before mine eyes in opposition sits
|
|
|
Grim Death, my son and foe, who set them on,
|
|
|
And me, his parent, would full soon devour
|
|
|
For want of other prey, but that he knows
|
|
|
His end with mine involved, and knows that I
|
|
|
Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane,
|
|
|
Whenever that shall be: so Fate pronounced.
|
|
|
But thou, O father, I forewarn thee, shun
|
|
|
His deadly arrow; neither vainly hope
|
|
|
To be invulnerable in those bright arms,
|
|
|
Through tempered heavenly; for that mortal dint,
|
|
|
Save he who reigns above, none can resist."
|
|
|
She finished; and the subtle Fiend his lore
|
|
|
Soon learned, now milder, and thus answered smooth:--
|
|
|
"Dear daughter--since thou claim'st me for thy sire,
|
|
|
And my fair son here show'st me, the dear pledge
|
|
|
Of dalliance had with thee in Heaven, and joys
|
|
|
Then sweet, now sad to mention, through dire change
|
|
|
Befallen us unforeseen, unthought-of--know,
|
|
|
I come no enemy, but to set free
|
|
|
From out this dark and dismal house of pain
|
|
|
Both him and thee, and all the heavenly host
|
|
|
Of Spirits that, in our just pretences armed,
|
|
|
Fell with us from on high. From them I go
|
|
|
This uncouth errand sole, and one for all
|
|
|
Myself expose, with lonely steps to tread
|
|
|
Th' unfounded Deep, and through the void immense
|
|
|
To search, with wandering quest, a place foretold
|
|
|
Should be--and, by concurring signs, ere now
|
|
|
Created vast and round--a place of bliss
|
|
|
In the purlieus of Heaven; and therein placed
|
|
|
A race of upstart creatures, to supply
|
|
|
Perhaps our vacant room, though more removed,
|
|
|
Lest Heaven, surcharged with potent multitude,
|
|
|
Might hap to move new broils. Be this, or aught
|
|
|
Than this more secret, now designed, I haste
|
|
|
To know; and, this once known, shall soon return,
|
|
|
And bring ye to the place where thou and Death
|
|
|
Shall dwell at ease, and up and down unseen
|
|
|
Wing silently the buxom air, embalmed
|
|
|
With odours. There ye shall be fed and filled
|
|
|
Immeasurably; all things shall be your prey."
|
|
|
He ceased; for both seemed highly pleased, and Death
|
|
|
Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear
|
|
|
His famine should be filled, and blessed his maw
|
|
|
Destined to that good hour. No less rejoiced
|
|
|
His mother bad, and thus bespake her sire:--
|
|
|
"The key of this infernal Pit, by due
|
|
|
And by command of Heaven's all-powerful King,
|
|
|
I keep, by him forbidden to unlock
|
|
|
These adamantine gates; against all force
|
|
|
Death ready stands to interpose his dart,
|
|
|
Fearless to be o'ermatched by living might.
|
|
|
But what owe I to his commands above,
|
|
|
Who hates me, and hath hither thrust me down
|
|
|
Into this gloom of Tartarus profound,
|
|
|
To sit in hateful office here confined,
|
|
|
Inhabitant of Heaven and heavenly born--
|
|
|
Here in perpetual agony and pain,
|
|
|
With terrors and with clamours compassed round
|
|
|
Of mine own brood, that on my bowels feed?
|
|
|
Thou art my father, thou my author, thou
|
|
|
My being gav'st me; whom should I obey
|
|
|
But thee? whom follow? Thou wilt bring me soon
|
|
|
To that new world of light and bliss, among
|
|
|
The gods who live at ease, where I shall reign
|
|
|
At thy right hand voluptuous, as beseems
|
|
|
Thy daughter and thy darling, without end."
|
|
|
Thus saying, from her side the fatal key,
|
|
|
Sad instrument of all our woe, she took;
|
|
|
And, towards the gate rolling her bestial train,
|
|
|
Forthwith the huge portcullis high up-drew,
|
|
|
Which, but herself, not all the Stygian Powers
|
|
|
Could once have moved; then in the key-hole turns
|
|
|
Th' intricate wards, and every bolt and bar
|
|
|
Of massy iron or solid rock with ease
|
|
|
Unfastens. On a sudden open fly,
|
|
|
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
|
|
|
Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
|
|
|
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
|
|
|
Of Erebus. She opened; but to shut
|
|
|
Excelled her power: the gates wide open stood,
|
|
|
That with extended wings a bannered host,
|
|
|
Under spread ensigns marching, mibht pass through
|
|
|
With horse and chariots ranked in loose array;
|
|
|
So wide they stood, and like a furnace-mouth
|
|
|
Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame.
|
|
|
Before their eyes in sudden view appear
|
|
|
The secrets of the hoary Deep--a dark
|
|
|
Illimitable ocean, without bound,
|
|
|
Without dimension; where length, breadth, and height,
|
|
|
And time, and place, are lost; where eldest Night
|
|
|
And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold
|
|
|
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
|
|
|
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.
|
|
|
For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four champions fierce,
|
|
|
Strive here for mastery, and to battle bring
|
|
|
Their embryon atoms: they around the flag
|
|
|
Of each his faction, in their several clans,
|
|
|
Light-armed or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow,
|
|
|
Swarm populous, unnumbered as the sands
|
|
|
Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil,
|
|
|
Levied to side with warring winds, and poise
|
|
|
Their lighter wings. To whom these most adhere
|
|
|
He rules a moment: Chaos umpire sits,
|
|
|
And by decision more embroils the fray
|
|
|
By which he reigns: next him, high arbiter,
|
|
|
Chance governs all. Into this wild Abyss,
|
|
|
The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave,
|
|
|
Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,
|
|
|
But all these in their pregnant causes mixed
|
|
|
Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,
|
|
|
Unless th' Almighty Maker them ordain
|
|
|
His dark materials to create more worlds--
|
|
|
Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend
|
|
|
Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while,
|
|
|
Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith
|
|
|
He had to cross. Nor was his ear less pealed
|
|
|
With noises loud and ruinous (to compare
|
|
|
Great things with small) than when Bellona storms
|
|
|
With all her battering engines, bent to rase
|
|
|
Some capital city; or less than if this frame
|
|
|
Of Heaven were falling, and these elements
|
|
|
In mutiny had from her axle torn
|
|
|
The steadfast Earth. At last his sail-broad vans
|
|
|
He spread for flight, and, in the surging smoke
|
|
|
Uplifted, spurns the ground; thence many a league,
|
|
|
As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides
|
|
|
Audacious; but, that seat soon failing, meets
|
|
|
A vast vacuity. All unawares,
|
|
|
Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb-down he drops
|
|
|
Ten thousand fathom deep, and to this hour
|
|
|
Down had been falling, had not, by ill chance,
|
|
|
The strong rebuff of some tumultuous cloud,
|
|
|
Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him
|
|
|
As many miles aloft. That fury stayed--
|
|
|
Quenched in a boggy Syrtis, neither sea,
|
|
|
Nor good dry land--nigh foundered, on he fares,
|
|
|
Treading the crude consistence, half on foot,
|
|
|
Half flying; behoves him now both oar and sail.
|
|
|
As when a gryphon through the wilderness
|
|
|
With winged course, o'er hill or moory dale,
|
|
|
Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth
|
|
|
Had from his wakeful custody purloined
|
|
|
The guarded gold; so eagerly the Fiend
|
|
|
O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare,
|
|
|
With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way,
|
|
|
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies.
|
|
|
At length a universal hubbub wild
|
|
|
Of stunning sounds, and voices all confused,
|
|
|
Borne through the hollow dark, assaults his ear
|
|
|
With loudest vehemence. Thither he plies
|
|
|
Undaunted, to meet there whatever Power
|
|
|
Or Spirit of the nethermost Abyss
|
|
|
Might in that noise reside, of whom to ask
|
|
|
Which way the nearest coast of darkness lies
|
|
|
Bordering on light; when straight behold the throne
|
|
|
Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread
|
|
|
Wide on the wasteful Deep! With him enthroned
|
|
|
Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things,
|
|
|
The consort of his reign; and by them stood
|
|
|
Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name
|
|
|
Of Demogorgon; Rumour next, and Chance,
|
|
|
And Tumult, and Confusion, all embroiled,
|
|
|
And Discord with a thousand various mouths.
|
|
|
T' whom Satan, turning boldly, thus:--"Ye Powers
|
|
|
And Spirtis of this nethermost Abyss,
|
|
|
Chaos and ancient Night, I come no spy
|
|
|
With purpose to explore or to disturb
|
|
|
The secrets of your realm; but, by constraint
|
|
|
Wandering this darksome desert, as my way
|
|
|
Lies through your spacious empire up to light,
|
|
|
Alone and without guide, half lost, I seek,
|
|
|
What readiest path leads where your gloomy bounds
|
|
|
Confine with Heaven; or, if some other place,
|
|
|
From your dominion won, th' Ethereal King
|
|
|
Possesses lately, thither to arrive
|
|
|
I travel this profound. Direct my course:
|
|
|
Directed, no mean recompense it brings
|
|
|
To your behoof, if I that region lost,
|
|
|
All usurpation thence expelled, reduce
|
|
|
To her original darkness and your sway
|
|
|
(Which is my present journey), and once more
|
|
|
Erect the standard there of ancient Night.
|
|
|
Yours be th' advantage all, mine the revenge!"
|
|
|
Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarch old,
|
|
|
With faltering speech and visage incomposed,
|
|
|
Answered: "I know thee, stranger, who thou art-- ***
|
|
|
That mighty leading Angel, who of late
|
|
|
Made head against Heaven's King, though overthrown.
|
|
|
I saw and heard; for such a numerous host
|
|
|
Fled not in silence through the frighted Deep,
|
|
|
With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout,
|
|
|
Confusion worse confounded; and Heaven-gates
|
|
|
Poured out by millions her victorious bands,
|
|
|
Pursuing. I upon my frontiers here
|
|
|
Keep residence; if all I can will serve
|
|
|
That little which is left so to defend,
|
|
|
Encroached on still through our intestine broils
|
|
|
Weakening the sceptre of old Night: first, Hell,
|
|
|
Your dungeon, stretching far and wide beneath;
|
|
|
Now lately Heaven and Earth, another world
|
|
|
Hung o'er my realm, linked in a golden chain
|
|
|
To that side Heaven from whence your legions fell!
|
|
|
If that way be your walk, you have not far;
|
|
|
So much the nearer danger. Go, and speed;
|
|
|
Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain."
|
|
|
He ceased; and Satan stayed not to reply,
|
|
|
But, glad that now his sea should find a shore,
|
|
|
With fresh alacrity and force renewed
|
|
|
Springs upward, like a pyramid of fire,
|
|
|
Into the wild expanse, and through the shock
|
|
|
Of fighting elements, on all sides round
|
|
|
Environed, wins his way; harder beset
|
|
|
And more endangered than when Argo passed
|
|
|
Through Bosporus betwixt the justling rocks,
|
|
|
Or when Ulysses on the larboard shunned
|
|
|
Charybdis, and by th' other whirlpool steered.
|
|
|
So he with difficulty and labour hard
|
|
|
Moved on, with difficulty and labour he;
|
|
|
But, he once passed, soon after, when Man fell,
|
|
|
Strange alteration! Sin and Death amain,
|
|
|
Following his track (such was the will of Heaven)
|
|
|
Paved after him a broad and beaten way
|
|
|
Over the dark Abyss, whose boiling gulf
|
|
|
Tamely endured a bridge of wondrous length,
|
|
|
From Hell continued, reaching th' utmost orb
|
|
|
Of this frail World; by which the Spirits perverse
|
|
|
With easy intercourse pass to and fro
|
|
|
To tempt or punish mortals, except whom
|
|
|
God and good Angels guard by special grace.
|
|
|
But now at last the sacred influence
|
|
|
Of light appears, and from the walls of Heaven
|
|
|
Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night
|
|
|
A glimmering dawn. Here Nature first begins
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Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire,
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As from her outmost works, a broken foe,
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With tumult less and with less hostile din;
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That Satan with less toil, and now with ease,
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Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious light,
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And, like a weather-beaten vessel, holds
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Gladly the port, though shrouds and tackle torn;
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Or in the emptier waste, resembling air,
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Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to behold
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Far off th' empyreal Heaven, extended wide
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In circuit, undetermined square or round,
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With opal towers and battlements adorned
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Of living sapphire, once his native seat;
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And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain,
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This pendent World, in bigness as a star
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Of smallest magnitude close by the moon.
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Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge,
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Accursed, and in a cursed hour, he hies.
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Book III
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Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven firstborn,
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Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
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May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light,
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And never but in unapproached light
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Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee
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Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
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Or hear"st thou rather pure ethereal stream,
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Whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun,
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Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
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Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest ***
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The rising world of waters dark and deep,
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Won from the void and formless infinite.
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Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
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Escap'd the Stygian pool, though long detain'd
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In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
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Through utter and through middle darkness borne,
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With other notes than to the Orphean lyre
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I sung of Chaos and eternal Night;
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Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down
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The dark descent, and up to re-ascend,
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Though hard and rare: Thee I revisit safe,
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And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou
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Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain
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To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
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So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs,
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Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more
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Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt,
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Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
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Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
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Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
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That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow,
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Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget
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So were I equall'd with them in renown,
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Thy sovran command, that Man should find grace;
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Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides,
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And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old:
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Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move
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Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
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Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid
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Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year
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Seasons return; but not to me returns
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Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
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Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
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Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
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But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
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Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
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Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
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Presented with a universal blank
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Of nature's works to me expung'd and ras'd,
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And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
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So much the rather thou, celestial Light,
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Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
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Irradiate; there plant eyes, all mist from thence
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Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
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Of things invisible to mortal sight.
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Now had the Almighty Father from above,
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From the pure empyrean where he sits
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High thron'd above all highth, bent down his eye
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His own works and their works at once to view:
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About him all the Sanctities of Heaven
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Stood thick as stars, and from his sight receiv'd
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Beatitude past utterance; on his right
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The radiant image of his glory sat,
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His only son; on earth he first beheld
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Our two first parents, yet the only two
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Of mankind in the happy garden plac'd
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Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love,
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Uninterrupted joy, unrivall'd love,
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In blissful solitude; he then survey'd
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Hell and the gulf between, and Satan there
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Coasting the wall of Heaven on this side Night
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In the dun air sublime, and ready now
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To stoop with wearied wings, and willing feet,
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On the bare outside of this world, that seem'd
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Firm land imbosom'd, without firmament,
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Uncertain which, in ocean or in air.
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Him God beholding from his prospect high,
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Wherein past, present, future, he beholds,
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Thus to his only Son foreseeing spake.
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Only begotten Son, seest thou what rage
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Transports our Adversary? whom no bounds
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Prescrib'd no bars of Hell, nor all the chains
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Heap'd on him there, nor yet the main abyss
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Wide interrupt, can hold; so bent he seems
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On desperate revenge, that shall redound
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Upon his own rebellious head. And now,
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Through all restraint broke loose, he wings his way
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Not far off Heaven, in the precincts of light,
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Directly towards the new created world,
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And man there plac'd, with purpose to assay
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If him by force he can destroy, or, worse,
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By some false guile pervert; and shall pervert;
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For man will hearken to his glozing lies,
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And easily transgress the sole command,
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Sole pledge of his obedience: So will fall
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He and his faithless progeny: Whose fault?
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Whose but his own? ingrate, he had of me
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All he could have; I made him just and right,
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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Such I created all the ethereal Powers
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And Spirits, both them who stood, and them who fail'd;
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Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
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Not free, what proof could they have given sincere
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Of true allegiance, constant faith or love,
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Where only what they needs must do appear'd,
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Not what they would? what praise could they receive?
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What pleasure I from such obedience paid,
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When will and reason (reason also is choice)
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Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil'd,
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Made passive both, had serv'd necessity,
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Not me? they therefore, as to right belong$ 'd,
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So were created, nor can justly accuse
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Their Maker, or their making, or their fate,
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As if predestination over-rul'd
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Their will dispos'd by absolute decree
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Or high foreknowledge they themselves decreed
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Their own revolt, not I; if I foreknew,
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Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault,
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Which had no less proved certain unforeknown.
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So without least impulse or shadow of fate,
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Or aught by me immutably foreseen,
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They trespass, authors to themselves in all
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Both what they judge, and what they choose; for so
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I form'd them free: and free they must remain,
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Till they enthrall themselves; I else must change
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Their nature, and revoke the high decree
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Unchangeable, eternal, which ordain'd
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$THeir freedom: they themselves ordain'd their fall.
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The first sort by their own suggestion fell,
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Self-tempted, self-deprav'd: Man falls, deceiv'd
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By the other first: Man therefore shall find grace,
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The other none: In mercy and justice both,
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Through Heaven and Earth, so shall my glory excel;
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But Mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine.
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Thus while God spake, ambrosial fragrance fill'd
|
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|
All Heaven, and in the blessed Spirits elect
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|
Sense of new joy ineffable diffus'd.
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Beyond compare the Son of God was seen
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|
Most glorious; in him all his Father shone
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Substantially express'd; and in his face
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|
Divine compassion visibly appear'd,
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Love without end, and without measure grace,
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Which uttering, thus he to his Father spake.
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O Father, gracious was that word which clos'd
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Thy sovran command, that Man should find grace;
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, that Man should find grace;
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For which both Heaven and earth shall high extol
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|
Thy praises, with the innumerable sound
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|
|
Of hymns and sacred songs, wherewith thy throne
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Encompass'd shall resound thee ever blest.
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|
For should Man finally be lost, should Man,
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|
Thy creature late so lov'd, thy youngest son,
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|
Fall circumvented thus by fraud, though join'd
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With his own folly? that be from thee far,
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|
That far be from thee, Father, who art judge
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|
Of all things made, and judgest only right.
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Or shall the Adversary thus obtain
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|
His end, and frustrate thine? shall he fulfill
|
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|
His malice, and thy goodness bring to nought,
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|
Or proud return, though to his heavier doom,
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|
|
Yet with revenge accomplish'd, and to Hell
|
|
|
Draw after him the whole race of mankind,
|
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|
By him corrupted? or wilt thou thyself
|
|
|
Abolish thy creation, and unmake
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|
For him, what for thy glory thou hast made?
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|
|
So should thy goodness and thy greatness both
|
|
|
Be question'd and blasphem'd without defence.
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|
To whom the great Creator thus replied.
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|
O son, in whom my soul hath chief delight,
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Son of my bosom, Son who art alone.
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My word, my wisdom, and effectual might,
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All hast thou spoken as my thoughts are, all
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As my eternal purpose hath decreed;
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Man shall not quite be lost, but sav'd who will;
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Yet not of will in him, but grace in me
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|
Freely vouchsaf'd; once more I will renew
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|
His lapsed powers, though forfeit; and enthrall'd
|
|
|
By sin to foul exorbitant desires;
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|
Upheld by me, yet once more he shall stand
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|
|
On even ground against his mortal foe;
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|
By me upheld, that he may know how frail
|
|
|
His fallen condition is, and to me owe
|
|
|
All his deliverance, and to none but me.
|
|
|
Some I have chosen of peculiar grace,
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|
Elect above the rest; so is my will:
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The rest shall hear me call, and oft be warn'd
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|
Their sinful state, and to appease betimes
|
|
|
The incensed Deity, while offer'd grace
|
|
|
Invites; for I will clear their senses dark,
|
|
|
What may suffice, and soften stony hearts
|
|
|
To pray, repent, and bring obedience due.
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|
To prayer, repentance, and obedience due,
|
|
|
Though but endeavour'd with sincere intent,
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Mine ear shall not be slow, mine eye not shut.
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|
And I will place within them as a guide,
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My umpire Conscience; whom if they will hear,
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Light after light, well us'd, they shall attain,
|
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|
And to the end, persisting, safe arrive.
|
|
|
This my long sufferance, and my day of grace,
|
|
|
They who neglect and scorn, shall never taste;
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|
|
But hard be harden'd, blind be blinded more,
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|
That they may stumble on, and deeper fall;
|
|
|
And none but such from mercy I exclude.
|
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|
But yet all is not done; Man disobeying,
|
|
|
Disloyal, breaks his fealty, and sins
|
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|
Against the high supremacy of Heaven,
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|
Affecting God-head, and, so losing all,
|
|
|
To expiate his treason hath nought left,
|
|
|
But to destruction sacred and devote,
|
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|
He, with his whole posterity, must die,
|
|
|
Die he or justice must; unless for him
|
|
|
Some other able, and as willing, pay
|
|
|
The rigid satisfaction, death for death.
|
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|
Say, heavenly Powers, where shall we find such love?
|
|
|
Which of you will be mortal, to redeem
|
|
|
Man's mortal crime, and just the unjust to save?
|
|
|
Dwells in all Heaven charity so dear?
|
|
|
And silence was in Heaven: $ on Man's behalf
|
|
|
He ask'd, but all the heavenly quire stood mute,
|
|
|
Patron or intercessour none appear'd,
|
|
|
Much less that durst upon his own head draw
|
|
|
The deadly forfeiture, and ransom set.
|
|
|
And now without redemption all mankind
|
|
|
Must have been lost, adjudg'd to Death and Hell
|
|
|
By doom severe, had not the Son of God,
|
|
|
In whom the fulness dwells of love divine,
|
|
|
His dearest mediation thus renew'd.
|
|
|
Father, thy word is past, Man shall find grace;
|
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|
And shall grace not find means, that finds her way,
|
|
|
The speediest of thy winged messengers,
|
|
|
To visit all thy creatures, and to all
|
|
|
Comes unprevented, unimplor'd, unsought?
|
|
|
Happy for Man, so coming; he her aid
|
|
|
Can never seek, once dead in sins, and lost;
|
|
|
Atonement for himself, or offering meet,
|
|
|
Indebted and undone, hath none to bring;
|
|
|
Behold me then: me for him, life for life
|
|
|
I offer: on me let thine anger fall;
|
|
|
Account me Man; I for his sake will leave
|
|
|
Thy bosom, and this glory next to thee
|
|
|
Freely put off, and for him lastly die
|
|
|
Well pleased; on me let Death wreak all his rage.
|
|
|
Under his gloomy power I shall not long
|
|
|
Lie vanquished. Thou hast given me to possess
|
|
|
Life in myself for ever; by thee I live;
|
|
|
Though now to Death I yield, and am his due,
|
|
|
All that of me can die, yet, that debt paid,
|
|
|
$ thou wilt not leave me in the loathsome grave
|
|
|
His prey, nor suffer my unspotted soul
|
|
|
For ever with corruption there to dwell;
|
|
|
But I shall rise victorious, and subdue
|
|
|
My vanquisher, spoiled of his vaunted spoil.
|
|
|
Death his death's wound shall then receive, and stoop
|
|
|
Inglorious, of his mortal sting disarmed;
|
|
|
I through the ample air in triumph high
|
|
|
Shall lead Hell captive maugre Hell, and show
|
|
|
The powers of darkness bound. Thou, at the sight
|
|
|
Pleased, out of Heaven shalt look down and smile,
|
|
|
While, by thee raised, I ruin all my foes;
|
|
|
Death last, and with his carcase glut the grave;
|
|
|
Then, with the multitude of my redeemed,
|
|
|
Shall enter Heaven, long absent, and return,
|
|
|
Father, to see thy face, wherein no cloud
|
|
|
Of anger shall remain, but peace assured
|
|
|
And reconcilement: wrath shall be no more
|
|
|
Thenceforth, but in thy presence joy entire.
|
|
|
His words here ended; but his meek aspect
|
|
|
Silent yet spake, and breathed immortal love
|
|
|
To mortal men, above which only shone
|
|
|
Filial obedience: as a sacrifice
|
|
|
Glad to be offered, he attends the will
|
|
|
Of his great Father. Admiration seized
|
|
|
All Heaven, what this might mean, and whither tend,
|
|
|
Wondering; but soon th' Almighty thus replied.
|
|
|
O thou in Heaven and Earth the only peace
|
|
|
Found out for mankind under wrath, O thou
|
|
|
My sole complacence! Well thou know'st how dear
|
|
|
To me are all my works; nor Man the least,
|
|
|
Though last created, that for him I spare
|
|
|
Thee from my bosom and right hand, to save,
|
|
|
By losing thee a while, the whole race lost.
|
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|
|
00021053
|
|
|
Thou, therefore, whom thou only canst redeem,
|
|
|
Their nature also to thy nature join;
|
|
|
And be thyself Man among men on Earth,
|
|
|
Made flesh, when time shall be, of virgin seed,
|
|
|
By wondrous birth; be thou in Adam's room
|
|
|
The head of all mankind, though Adam's son.
|
|
|
As in him perish all men, so in thee,
|
|
|
As from a second root, shall be restored
|
|
|
As many as are restored, without thee none.
|
|
|
His crime makes guilty all his sons; thy merit,
|
|
|
Imputed, shall absolve them who renounce
|
|
|
Their own both righteous and unrighteous deeds,
|
|
|
And live in thee transplanted, and from thee
|
|
|
Receive new life. So Man, as is most just,
|
|
|
Shall satisfy for Man, be judged and die,
|
|
|
And dying rise, and rising with him raise
|
|
|
His brethren, ransomed with his own dear life.
|
|
|
So heavenly love shall outdo hellish hate,
|
|
|
Giving to death, and dying to redeem,
|
|
|
So dearly to redeem what hellish hate
|
|
|
So easily destroyed, and still destroys
|
|
|
In those who, when they may, accept not grace.
|
|
|
Nor shalt thou, by descending to assume
|
|
|
Man's nature, lessen or degrade thine own.
|
|
|
Because thou hast, though throned in highest bliss
|
|
|
Equal to God, and equally enjoying
|
|
|
God-like fruition, quitted all, to save
|
|
|
A world from utter loss, and hast been found
|
|
|
By merit more than birthright Son of God,
|
|
|
Found worthiest to be so by being good,
|
|
|
Far more than great or high; because in thee
|
|
|
Love hath abounded more than glory abounds;
|
|
|
Therefore thy humiliation shall exalt
|
|
|
With thee thy manhood also to this throne:
|
|
|
Here shalt thou sit incarnate, here shalt reign
|
|
|
Both God and Man, Son both of God and Man,
|
|
|
Anointed universal King; all power
|
|
|
I give thee; reign for ever, and assume
|
|
|
Thy merits; under thee, as head supreme,
|
|
|
Thrones, Princedoms, Powers, Dominions, I reduce:
|
|
|
All knees to thee shall bow, of them that bide
|
|
|
In Heaven, or Earth, or under Earth in Hell.
|
|
|
When thou, attended gloriously from Heaven,
|
|
|
Shalt in the sky appear, and from thee send
|
|
|
The summoning Arch-Angels to proclaim
|
|
|
Thy dread tribunal; forthwith from all winds,
|
|
|
The living, and forthwith the cited dead
|
|
|
Of all past ages, to the general doom
|
|
|
Shall hasten; such a peal shall rouse their sleep.
|
|
|
Then, all thy saints assembled, thou shalt judge
|
|
|
Bad Men and Angels; they, arraigned, shall sink
|
|
|
Beneath thy sentence; Hell, her numbers full,
|
|
|
Thenceforth shall be for ever shut. Mean while
|
|
|
The world shall burn, and from her ashes spring
|
|
|
New Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell,
|
|
|
And, after all their tribulations long,
|
|
|
See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds,
|
|
|
With joy and peace triumphing, and fair truth.
|
|
|
Then thou thy regal scepter shalt lay by,
|
|
|
For regal scepter then no more shall need,
|
|
|
God shall be all in all. But, all ye Gods,
|
|
|
Adore him, who to compass all this dies;
|
|
|
Adore the Son, and honour him as me.
|
|
|
No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all
|
|
|
The multitude of Angels, with a shout
|
|
|
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
|
|
|
As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung
|
|
|
With jubilee, and loud Hosannas filled
|
|
|
The eternal regions: Lowly reverent
|
|
|
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground
|
|
|
With solemn adoration down they cast
|
|
|
Their crowns inwove with amarant and gold;
|
|
|
Immortal amarant, a flower which once
|
|
|
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
|
|
|
Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence
|
|
|
To Heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows,
|
|
|
And flowers aloft shading the fount of life,
|
|
|
And where the river of bliss through midst of Heaven
|
|
|
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream;
|
|
|
With these that never fade the Spirits elect
|
|
|
Bind their resplendent locks inwreathed with beams;
|
|
|
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
|
|
|
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone,
|
|
|
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.
|
|
|
Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took,
|
|
|
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
|
|
|
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet
|
|
|
Of charming symphony they introduce
|
|
|
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high;
|
|
|
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
|
|
|
Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven.
|
|
|
Thee, Father, first they sung Omnipotent,
|
|
|
Immutable, Immortal, Infinite,
|
|
|
Eternal King; the Author of all being,
|
|
|
Fonntain of light, thyself invisible
|
|
|
Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sit'st
|
|
|
Throned inaccessible, but when thou shadest
|
|
|
The full blaze of thy beams, and, through a cloud
|
|
|
Drawn round about thee like a radiant shrine,
|
|
|
Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear,
|
|
|
Yet dazzle Heaven, that brightest Seraphim
|
|
|
Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes.
|
|
|
Thee next they sang of all creation first,
|
|
|
Begotten Son, Divine Similitude,
|
|
|
In whose conspicuous countenance, without cloud
|
|
|
Made visible, the Almighty Father shines,
|
|
|
Whom else no creature can behold; on thee
|
|
|
Impressed the effulgence of his glory abides,
|
|
|
Transfused on thee his ample Spirit rests.
|
|
|
He Heaven of Heavens and all the Powers therein
|
|
|
By thee created; and by thee threw down
|
|
|
The aspiring Dominations: Thou that day
|
|
|
Thy Father's dreadful thunder didst not spare,
|
|
|
Nor stop thy flaming chariot-wheels, that shook
|
|
|
Heaven's everlasting frame, while o'er the necks
|
|
|
Thou drovest of warring Angels disarrayed.
|
|
|
Back from pursuit thy Powers with loud acclaim
|
|
|
Thee only extolled, Son of thy Father's might,
|
|
|
To execute fierce vengeance on his foes,
|
|
|
Not so on Man: Him through their malice fallen,
|
|
|
Father of mercy and grace, thou didst not doom
|
|
|
So strictly, but much more to pity incline:
|
|
|
No sooner did thy dear and only Son
|
|
|
Perceive thee purposed not to doom frail Man
|
|
|
So strictly, but much more to pity inclined,
|
|
|
He to appease thy wrath, and end the strife
|
|
|
Of mercy and justice in thy face discerned,
|
|
|
Regardless of the bliss wherein he sat
|
|
|
Second to thee, offered himself to die
|
|
|
For Man's offence. O unexampled love,
|
|
|
Love no where to be found less than Divine!
|
|
|
Hail, Son of God, Saviour of Men! Thy name
|
|
|
Shall be the copious matter of my song
|
|
|
Henceforth, and never shall my heart thy praise
|
|
|
Forget, nor from thy Father's praise disjoin.
|
|
|
Thus they in Heaven, above the starry sphere,
|
|
|
Their happy hours in joy and hymning spent.
|
|
|
Mean while upon the firm opacous globe
|
|
|
Of this round world, whose first convex divides
|
|
|
The luminous inferiour orbs, enclosed
|
|
|
From Chaos, and the inroad of Darkness old,
|
|
|
Satan alighted walks: A globe far off
|
|
|
It seemed, now seems a boundless continent
|
|
|
Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of Night
|
|
|
Starless exposed, and ever-threatening storms
|
|
|
Of Chaos blustering round, inclement sky;
|
|
|
Save on that side which from the wall of Heaven,
|
|
|
Though distant far, some small reflection gains
|
|
|
Of glimmering air less vexed with tempest loud:
|
|
|
Here walked the Fiend at large in spacious field.
|
|
|
As when a vultur on Imaus bred,
|
|
|
Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds,
|
|
|
Dislodging from a region scarce of prey
|
|
|
To gorge the flesh of lambs or yeanling kids,
|
|
|
On hills where flocks are fed, flies toward the springs
|
|
|
Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams;
|
|
|
But in his way lights on the barren plains
|
|
|
Of Sericana, where Chineses drive
|
|
|
With sails and wind their cany waggons light:
|
|
|
So, on this windy sea of land, the Fiend
|
|
|
Walked up and down alone, bent on his prey;
|
|
|
Alone, for other creature in this place,
|
|
|
Living or lifeless, to be found was none;
|
|
|
None yet, but store hereafter from the earth
|
|
|
Up hither like aereal vapours flew
|
|
|
Of all things transitory and vain, when sin
|
|
|
With vanity had filled the works of men:
|
|
|
Both all things vain, and all who in vain things
|
|
|
Built their fond hopes of glory or lasting fame,
|
|
|
Or happiness in this or the other life;
|
|
|
All who have their reward on earth, the fruits
|
|
|
Of painful superstition and blind zeal,
|
|
|
Nought seeking but the praise of men, here find
|
|
|
Fit retribution, empty as their deeds;
|
|
|
All the unaccomplished works of Nature's hand,
|
|
|
Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixed,
|
|
|
Dissolved on earth, fleet hither, and in vain,
|
|
|
Till final dissolution, wander here;
|
|
|
Not in the neighbouring moon as some have dreamed;
|
|
|
Those argent fields more likely habitants,
|
|
|
Translated Saints, or middle Spirits hold
|
|
|
Betwixt the angelical and human kind.
|
|
|
Hither of ill-joined sons and daughters born
|
|
|
First from the ancient world those giants came
|
|
|
With many a vain exploit, though then renowned:
|
|
|
The builders next of Babel on the plain
|
|
|
Of Sennaar, and still with vain design,
|
|
|
New Babels, had they wherewithal, would build:
|
|
|
Others came single; he, who, to be deemed
|
|
|
A God, leaped fondly into Aetna flames,
|
|
|
Empedocles; and he, who, to enjoy
|
|
|
Plato's Elysium, leaped into the sea,
|
|
|
Cleombrotus; and many more too long,
|
|
|
Embryos, and idiots, eremites, and friars
|
|
|
White, black, and gray, with all their trumpery.
|
|
|
Here pilgrims roam, that strayed so far to seek
|
|
|
In Golgotha him dead, who lives in Heaven;
|
|
|
And they, who to be sure of Paradise,
|
|
|
Dying, put on the weeds of Dominick,
|
|
|
Or in Franciscan think to pass disguised;
|
|
|
They pass the planets seven, and pass the fixed,
|
|
|
And that crystalling sphere whose balance weighs
|
|
|
The trepidation talked, and that first moved;
|
|
|
And now Saint Peter at Heaven's wicket seems
|
|
|
To wait them with his keys, and now at foot
|
|
|
Of Heaven's ascent they lift their feet, when lo
|
|
|
A violent cross wind from either coast
|
|
|
Blows them transverse, ten thousand leagues awry
|
|
|
Into the devious air: Then might ye see
|
|
|
Cowls, hoods, and habits, with their wearers, tost
|
|
|
And fluttered into rags; then reliques, beads,
|
|
|
Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls,
|
|
|
The sport of winds: All these, upwhirled aloft,
|
|
|
Fly o'er the backside of the world far off
|
|
|
Into a Limbo large and broad, since called
|
|
|
The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown
|
|
|
Long after; now unpeopled, and untrod.
|
|
|
All this dark globe the Fiend found as he passed,
|
|
|
And long he wandered, till at last a gleam
|
|
|
Of dawning light turned thither-ward in haste
|
|
|
His travelled steps: far distant he descries
|
|
|
Ascending by degrees magnificent
|
|
|
Up to the wall of Heaven a structure high;
|
|
|
At top whereof, but far more rich, appeared
|
|
|
The work as of a kingly palace-gate,
|
|
|
With frontispiece of diamond and gold
|
|
|
Embellished; thick with sparkling orient gems
|
|
|
The portal shone, inimitable on earth
|
|
|
By model, or by shading pencil, drawn.
|
|
|
These stairs were such as whereon Jacob saw
|
|
|
Angels ascending and descending, bands
|
|
|
Of guardians bright, when he from Esau fled
|
|
|
To Padan-Aram, in the field of Luz
|
|
|
Dreaming by night under the open sky
|
|
|
And waking cried, This is the gate of Heaven.
|
|
|
Each stair mysteriously was meant, nor stood
|
|
|
There always, but drawn up to Heaven sometimes
|
|
|
Viewless; and underneath a bright sea flowed
|
|
|
Of jasper, or of liquid pearl, whereon
|
|
|
Who after came from earth, failing arrived
|
|
|
Wafted by Angels, or flew o'er the lake
|
|
|
Rapt in a chariot drawn by fiery steeds.
|
|
|
The stairs were then let down, whether to dare
|
|
|
The Fiend by easy ascent, or aggravate
|
|
|
His sad exclusion from the doors of bliss:
|
|
|
Direct against which opened from beneath,
|
|
|
Just o'er the blissful seat of Paradise,
|
|
|
A passage down to the Earth, a passage wide,
|
|
|
Wider by far than that of after-times
|
|
|
Over mount Sion, and, though that were large,
|
|
|
Over the Promised Land to God so dear;
|
|
|
By which, to visit oft those happy tribes,
|
|
|
On high behests his angels to and fro
|
|
|
Passed frequent, and his eye with choice regard
|
|
|
From Paneas, the fount of Jordan's flood,
|
|
|
To Beersaba, where the Holy Land
|
|
|
Borders on Egypt and the Arabian shore;
|
|
|
So wide the opening seemed, where bounds were set
|
|
|
To darkness, such as bound the ocean wave.
|
|
|
Satan from hence, now on the lower stair,
|
|
|
That scaled by steps of gold to Heaven-gate,
|
|
|
Looks down with wonder at the sudden view
|
|
|
Of all this world at once. As when a scout,
|
|
|
Through dark?;nd desart ways with?oeril gone
|
|
|
All?might,?;t?kast by break of cheerful dawn
|
|
|
Obtains the brow of some high-climbing hill,
|
|
|
Which to his eye discovers unaware
|
|
|
The goodly prospect of some foreign land
|
|
|
First seen, or some renowned metropolis
|
|
|
With glistering spires and pinnacles adorned,
|
|
|
Which now the rising sun gilds with his beams:
|
|
|
Such wonder seised, though after Heaven seen,
|
|
|
The Spirit malign, but much more envy seised,
|
|
|
At sight of all this world beheld so fair.
|
|
|
Round he surveys (and well might, where he stood
|
|
|
So high above the circling canopy
|
|
|
Of night's extended shade,) from eastern point
|
|
|
Of Libra to the fleecy star that bears
|
|
|
Andromeda far off Atlantick seas
|
|
|
Beyond the horizon; then from pole to pole
|
|
|
He views in breadth, and without longer pause
|
|
|
Down right into the world's first region throws
|
|
|
His flight precipitant, and winds with ease
|
|
|
Through the pure marble air his oblique way
|
|
|
Amongst innumerable stars, that shone
|
|
|
Stars distant, but nigh hand seemed other worlds;
|
|
|
Or other worlds they seemed, or happy isles,
|
|
|
Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old,
|
|
|
Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales,
|
|
|
Thrice happy isles; but who dwelt happy there
|
|
|
He staid not to inquire: Above them all
|
|
|
The golden sun, in splendour likest Heaven,
|
|
|
Allured his eye; thither his course he bends
|
|
|
Through the calm firmament, (but up or down,
|
|
|
By center, or eccentrick, hard to tell,
|
|
|
Or longitude,) where the great luminary
|
|
|
Aloof the vulgar constellations thick,
|
|
|
That from his lordly eye keep distance due,
|
|
|
Dispenses light from far; they, as they move
|
|
|
Their starry dance in numbers that compute
|
|
|
Days, months, and years, towards his all-cheering lamp
|
|
|
Turn swift their various motions, or are turned
|
|
|
By his magnetick beam, that gently warms
|
|
|
The universe, and to each inward part
|
|
|
With gentle penetration, though unseen,
|
|
|
Shoots invisible virtue even to the deep;
|
|
|
So wonderously was set his station bright.
|
|
|
There lands the Fiend, a spot like which perhaps
|
|
|
Astronomer in the sun's lucent orb
|
|
|
Through his glazed optick tube yet never saw.
|
|
|
The place he found beyond expression bright,
|
|
|
Compared with aught on earth, metal or stone;
|
|
|
Not all parts like, but all alike informed
|
|
|
With radiant light, as glowing iron with fire;
|
|
|
If metal, part seemed gold, part silver clear;
|
|
|
If stone, carbuncle most or chrysolite,
|
|
|
Ruby or topaz, to the twelve that shone
|
|
|
In Aaron's breast-plate, and a stone besides
|
|
|
Imagined rather oft than elsewhere seen,
|
|
|
That stone, or like to that which here below
|
|
|
Philosophers in vain so long have sought,
|
|
|
In vain, though by their powerful art they bind
|
|
|
Volatile Hermes, and call up unbound
|
|
|
In various shapes old Proteus from the sea,
|
|
|
Drained through a limbeck to his native form.
|
|
|
What wonder then if fields and regions here
|
|
|
Breathe forth Elixir pure, and rivers run
|
|
|
Potable gold, when with one virtuous touch
|
|
|
The arch-chemick sun, so far from us remote,
|
|
|
Produces, with terrestrial humour mixed,
|
|
|
Here in the dark so many precious things
|
|
|
Of colour glorious, and effect so rare?
|
|
|
Here matter new to gaze the Devil met
|
|
|
Undazzled; far and wide his eye commands;
|
|
|
For sight no obstacle found here, nor shade,
|
|
|
But all sun-shine, as when his beams at noon
|
|
|
Culminate from the equator, as they now
|
|
|
Shot upward still direct, whence no way round
|
|
|
Shadow from body opaque can fall; and the air,
|
|
|
No where so clear, sharpened his visual ray
|
|
|
To objects distant far, whereby he soon
|
|
|
Saw within ken a glorious Angel stand,
|
|
|
The same whom John saw also in the sun:
|
|
|
His back was turned, but not his brightness hid;
|
|
|
Of beaming sunny rays a golden tiar
|
|
|
Circled his head, nor less his locks behind
|
|
|
Illustrious on his shoulders fledge with wings
|
|
|
Lay waving round; on some great charge employed
|
|
|
He seemed, or fixed in cogitation deep.
|
|
|
Glad was the Spirit impure, as now in hope
|
|
|
To find who might direct his wandering flight
|
|
|
To Paradise, the happy seat of Man,
|
|
|
His journey's end and our beginning woe.
|
|
|
But first he casts to change his proper shape,
|
|
|
Which else might work him danger or delay:
|
|
|
And now a stripling Cherub he appears,
|
|
|
Not of the prime, yet such as in his face
|
|
|
Youth smiled celestial, and to every limb
|
|
|
Suitable grace diffused, so well he feigned:
|
|
|
Under a coronet his flowing hair
|
|
|
In curls on either cheek played; wings he wore
|
|
|
Of many a coloured plume, sprinkled with gold;
|
|
|
His habit fit for speed succinct, and held
|
|
|
Before his decent steps a silver wand.
|
|
|
He drew not nigh unheard; the Angel bright,
|
|
|
Ere he drew nigh, his radiant visage turned,
|
|
|
Admonished by his ear, and straight was known
|
|
|
The Arch-Angel Uriel, one of the seven
|
|
|
Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne,
|
|
|
Stand ready at command, and are his eyes
|
|
|
That run through all the Heavens, or down to the Earth
|
|
|
Bear his swift errands over moist and dry,
|
|
|
O'er sea and land: him Satan thus accosts.
|
|
|
Uriel, for thou of those seven Spirits that stand
|
|
|
In sight of God's high throne, gloriously bright,
|
|
|
The first art wont his great authentick will
|
|
|
Interpreter through highest Heaven to bring,
|
|
|
Where all his sons thy embassy attend;
|
|
|
And here art likeliest by supreme decree
|
|
|
Like honour to obtain, and as his eye
|
|
|
To visit oft this new creation round;
|
|
|
Unspeakable desire to see, and know
|
|
|
All these his wonderous works, but chiefly Man,
|
|
|
His chief delight and favour, him for whom
|
|
|
All these his works so wonderous he ordained,
|
|
|
Hath brought me from the quires of Cherubim
|
|
|
Alone thus wandering. Brightest Seraph, tell
|
|
|
In which of all these shining orbs hath Man
|
|
|
His fixed seat, or fixed seat hath none,
|
|
|
But all these shining orbs his choice to dwell;
|
|
|
That I may find him, and with secret gaze
|
|
|
Or open admiration him behold,
|
|
|
On whom the great Creator hath bestowed
|
|
|
Worlds, and on whom hath all these graces poured;
|
|
|
That both in him and all things, as is meet,
|
|
|
The universal Maker we may praise;
|
|
|
Who justly hath driven out his rebel foes
|
|
|
To deepest Hell, and, to repair that loss,
|
|
|
Created this new happy race of Men
|
|
|
To serve him better: Wise are all his ways.
|
|
|
So spake the false dissembler unperceived;
|
|
|
For neither Man nor Angel can discern
|
|
|
Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks
|
|
|
Invisible, except to God alone,
|
|
|
By his permissive will, through Heaven and Earth:
|
|
|
And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps
|
|
|
At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity
|
|
|
Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill
|
|
|
Where no ill seems: Which now for once beguiled
|
|
|
Uriel, though regent of the sun, and held
|
|
|
The sharpest-sighted Spirit of all in Heaven;
|
|
|
Who to the fraudulent impostor foul,
|
|
|
In his uprightness, answer thus returned.
|
|
|
Fair Angel, thy desire, which tends to know
|
|
|
The works of God, thereby to glorify
|
|
|
The great Work-master, leads to no excess
|
|
|
That reaches blame, but rather merits praise
|
|
|
The more it seems excess, that led thee hither
|
|
|
From thy empyreal mansion thus alone,
|
|
|
To witness with thine eyes what some perhaps,
|
|
|
Contented with report, hear only in Heaven:
|
|
|
For wonderful indeed are all his works,
|
|
|
Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all
|
|
|
Had in remembrance always with delight;
|
|
|
But what created mind can comprehend
|
|
|
Their number, or the wisdom infinite
|
|
|
That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep?
|
|
|
I saw when at his word the formless mass,
|
|
|
This world's material mould, came to a heap:
|
|
|
Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar
|
|
|
Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined;
|
|
|
Till at his second bidding Darkness fled,
|
|
|
Light shone, and order from disorder sprung:
|
|
|
Swift to their several quarters hasted then
|
|
|
The cumbrous elements, earth, flood, air, fire;
|
|
|
And this ethereal quintessence of Heaven
|
|
|
Flew upward, spirited with various forms,
|
|
|
That rolled orbicular, and turned to stars
|
|
|
Numberless, as thou seest, and how they move;
|
|
|
Each had his place appointed, each his course;
|
|
|
The rest in circuit walls this universe.
|
|
|
Look downward on that globe, whose hither side
|
|
|
With light from hence, though but reflected, shines;
|
|
|
That place is Earth, the seat of Man; that light
|
|
|
His day, which else, as the other hemisphere,
|
|
|
Night would invade; but there the neighbouring moon
|
|
|
So call that opposite fair star) her aid
|
|
|
Timely interposes, and her monthly round
|
|
|
Still ending, still renewing, through mid Heaven,
|
|
|
With borrowed light her countenance triform
|
|
|
Hence fills and empties to enlighten the Earth,
|
|
|
And in her pale dominion checks the night.
|
|
|
That spot, to which I point, is Paradise,
|
|
|
Adam's abode; those lofty shades, his bower.
|
|
|
Thy way thou canst not miss, me mine requires.
|
|
|
Thus said, he turned; and Satan, bowing low,
|
|
|
As to superiour Spirits is wont in Heaven,
|
|
|
Where honour due and reverence none neglects,
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Took leave, and toward the coast of earth beneath,
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Down from the ecliptick, sped with hoped success,
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Throws his steep flight in many an aery wheel;
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Nor staid, till on Niphates' top he lights.
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Book IV
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O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw
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The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
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Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
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Came furious down to be revenged on men,
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Woe to the inhabitants on earth! that now,
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While time was, our first parents had been warned
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The coming of their secret foe, and 'scaped,
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Haply so 'scaped his mortal snare: For now
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Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down,
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The tempter ere the accuser of mankind,
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To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss
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Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell:
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Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold
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Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,
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Begins his dire attempt; which nigh the birth
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Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast,
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And like a devilish engine back recoils
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Upon himself; horrour and doubt distract
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His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
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The Hell within him; for within him Hell
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He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell
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One step, no more than from himself, can fly
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By change of place: Now conscience wakes despair,
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That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory
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Of what he was, what is, and what must be
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Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.
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Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view
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Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;
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Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun,
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Which now sat high in his meridian tower:
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Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began.
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O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned,
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Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God
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Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
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Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call,
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But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
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Of Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
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That bring to my remembrance from what state
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I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
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Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
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Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King:
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Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
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From me, whom he created what I was
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In that bright eminence, and with his good
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Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
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What could be less than to afford him praise,
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The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks,
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How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
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And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
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I sdeined subjection, and thought one step higher
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Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
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The debt immense of endless gratitude,
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So burdensome still paying, still to owe,
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Forgetful what from him I still received,
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And understood not that a grateful mind
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By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
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Indebted and discharged; what burden then
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O, had his powerful destiny ordained
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Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood
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Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
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Ambition! Yet why not some other Power
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As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
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Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
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Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
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Or from without, to all temptations armed.
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Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
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Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,
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But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
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Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
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To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
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Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
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|
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
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|
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
|
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|
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
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|
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
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|
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
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|
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
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To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
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O, then, at last relent: Is there no place
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Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
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None left but by submission; and that word
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Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
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Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
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With other promises and other vaunts
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Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
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The Omnipotent. Ay me! they little know
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How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
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Under what torments inwardly I groan,
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While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
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|
With diadem and scepter high advanced,
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The lower still I fall, only supreme
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|
In misery: Such joy ambition finds.
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But say I could repent, and could obtain,
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|
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
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Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
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What feigned submission swore? Ease would recant
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Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
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For never can true reconcilement grow,
|
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|
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
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Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
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And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear
|
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|
Short intermission bought with double smart.
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This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
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From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
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All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead
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|
Mankind created, and for him this world.
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So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear;
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|
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
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Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
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|
|
Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,
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By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
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|
As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know.
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|
Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face
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|
Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair;
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|
Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed
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|
Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld.
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|
For heavenly minds from such distempers foul
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|
Are ever clear. Whereof he soon aware,
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|
Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm,
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|
Artificer of fraud; and was the first
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|
That practised falsehood under saintly show,
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|
Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge:
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|
Yet not enough had practised to deceive
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|
|
Uriel once warned; whose eye pursued him down
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|
|
The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount
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|
|
Saw him disfigured, more than could befall
|
|
|
Spirit of happy sort; his gestures fierce
|
|
|
He marked and mad demeanour, then alone,
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|
|
As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen.
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|
|
So on he fares, and to the border comes
|
|
|
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
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|
|
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,
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|
|
As with a rural mound, the champaign head
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|
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides
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|
|
Access denied; and overhead upgrew
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|
|
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
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|
Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
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|
A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend,
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|
|
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
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|
|
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
|
|
|
The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung;
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00081429
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|
Which to our general sire gave prospect large
|
|
|
Into his nether empire neighbouring round.
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|
And higher than that wall a circling row
|
|
|
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,
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|
|
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,
|
|
|
Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed:
|
|
|
On which the sun more glad impressed his beams
|
|
|
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
|
|
|
When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed
|
|
|
That landskip: And of pure now purer air
|
|
|
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
|
|
|
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
|
|
|
All sadness but despair: Now gentle gales,
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|
|
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
|
|
|
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
|
|
|
Those balmy spoils. As when to them who fail
|
|
|
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
|
|
|
Mozambick, off at sea north-east winds blow
|
|
|
Sabean odours from the spicy shore
|
|
|
Of Araby the blest; with such delay
|
|
|
Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league
|
|
|
Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles:
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|
|
So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend,
|
|
|
Who came their bane; though with them better pleased
|
|
|
Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume
|
|
|
That drove him, though enamoured, from the spouse
|
|
|
Of Tobit's son, and with a vengeance sent
|
|
|
From Media post to Egypt, there fast bound.
|
|
|
Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill
|
|
|
Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow;
|
|
|
But further way found none, so thick entwined,
|
|
|
As one continued brake, the undergrowth
|
|
|
Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed
|
|
|
All path of man or beast that passed that way.
|
|
|
One gate there only was, and that looked east
|
|
|
On the other side: which when the arch-felon saw,
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|
|
Due entrance he disdained; and, in contempt,
|
|
|
At one flight bound high over-leaped all bound
|
|
|
Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within
|
|
|
Lights on his feet. As when a prowling wolf,
|
|
|
Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey,
|
|
|
Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve
|
|
|
In hurdled cotes amid the field secure,
|
|
|
Leaps o'er the fence with ease into the fold:
|
|
|
Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash
|
|
|
Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors,
|
|
|
Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault,
|
|
|
In at the window climbs, or o'er the tiles:
|
|
|
So clomb this first grand thief into God's fold;
|
|
|
So since into his church lewd hirelings climb.
|
|
|
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life,
|
|
|
The middle tree and highest there that grew,
|
|
|
Sat like a cormorant; yet not true life
|
|
|
Thereby regained, but sat devising death
|
|
|
To them who lived; nor on the virtue thought
|
|
|
Of that life-giving plant, but only used
|
|
|
For prospect, what well used had been the pledge
|
|
|
Of immortality. So little knows
|
|
|
Any, but God alone, to value right
|
|
|
The good before him, but perverts best things
|
|
|
To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
|
|
|
Beneath him with new wonder now he views,
|
|
|
To all delight of human sense exposed,
|
|
|
In narrow room, Nature's whole wealth, yea more,
|
|
|
A Heaven on Earth: For blissful Paradise
|
|
|
Of God the garden was, by him in the east
|
|
|
Of Eden planted; Eden stretched her line
|
|
|
From Auran eastward to the royal towers
|
|
|
Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings,
|
|
|
Of where the sons of Eden long before
|
|
|
Dwelt in Telassar: In this pleasant soil
|
|
|
His far more pleasant garden God ordained;
|
|
|
Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow
|
|
|
All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;
|
|
|
And all amid them stood the tree of life,
|
|
|
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
|
|
|
Of vegetable gold; and next to life,
|
|
|
Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by,
|
|
|
Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.
|
|
|
Southward through Eden went a river large,
|
|
|
Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill
|
|
|
Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown
|
|
|
That mountain as his garden-mould high raised
|
|
|
Upon the rapid current, which, through veins
|
|
|
Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn,
|
|
|
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
|
|
|
Watered the garden; thence united fell
|
|
|
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
|
|
|
Which from his darksome passage now appears,
|
|
|
And now, divided into four main streams,
|
|
|
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
|
|
|
And country, whereof here needs no account;
|
|
|
But rather to tell how, if Art could tell,
|
|
|
How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,
|
|
|
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,
|
|
|
With mazy errour under pendant shades
|
|
|
Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed
|
|
|
Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art
|
|
|
In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon
|
|
|
Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,
|
|
|
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
|
|
|
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
|
|
|
Imbrowned the noontide bowers: Thus was this place
|
|
|
A happy rural seat of various view;
|
|
|
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
|
|
|
Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,
|
|
|
Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,
|
|
|
If true, here only, and of delicious taste:
|
|
|
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks
|
|
|
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,
|
|
|
Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap
|
|
|
Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
|
|
|
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose:
|
|
|
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
|
|
|
Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine
|
|
|
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
|
|
|
Luxuriant; mean while murmuring waters fall
|
|
|
Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake,
|
|
|
That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned
|
|
|
Her crystal mirrour holds, unite their streams.
|
|
|
The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,
|
|
|
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
|
|
|
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
|
|
|
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
|
|
|
Led on the eternal Spring. Not that fair field
|
|
|
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
|
|
|
Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis
|
|
|
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
|
|
|
To seek her through the world; nor that sweet grove
|
|
|
Of Daphne by Orontes, and the inspired
|
|
|
Castalian spring, might with this Paradise
|
|
|
Of Eden strive; nor that Nyseian isle
|
|
|
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
|
|
|
Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove,
|
|
|
Hid Amalthea, and her florid son
|
|
|
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye;
|
|
|
Nor where Abassin kings their issue guard,
|
|
|
Mount Amara, though this by some supposed
|
|
|
True Paradise under the Ethiop line
|
|
|
By Nilus' head, enclosed with shining rock,
|
|
|
A whole day's journey high, but wide remote
|
|
|
From this Assyrian garden, where the Fiend
|
|
|
Saw, undelighted, all delight, all kind
|
|
|
Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange
|
|
|
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
|
|
|
Godlike erect, with native honour clad
|
|
|
In naked majesty seemed lords of all:
|
|
|
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
|
|
|
The image of their glorious Maker shone,
|
|
|
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,
|
|
|
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,)
|
|
|
Whence true authority in men; though both
|
|
|
Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed;
|
|
|
For contemplation he and valour formed;
|
|
|
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
|
|
|
He for God only, she for God in him:
|
|
|
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
|
|
|
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
|
|
|
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
|
|
|
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:
|
|
|
She, as a veil, down to the slender waist
|
|
|
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
|
|
|
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved
|
|
|
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied
|
|
|
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
|
|
|
And by her yielded, by him best received,
|
|
|
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
|
|
|
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.
|
|
|
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed;
|
|
|
Then was not guilty shame, dishonest shame
|
|
|
Of nature's works, honour dishonourable,
|
|
|
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
|
|
|
With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure,
|
|
|
And banished from man's life his happiest life,
|
|
|
Simplicity and spotless innocence!
|
|
|
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
|
|
|
Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill:
|
|
|
So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair,
|
|
|
That ever since in love's embraces met;
|
|
|
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
|
|
|
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
|
|
|
Under a tuft of shade that on a green
|
|
|
Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain side
|
|
|
They sat them down; and, after no more toil
|
|
|
Of their sweet gardening labour than sufficed
|
|
|
To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease
|
|
|
More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite
|
|
|
More grateful, to their supper-fruits they fell,
|
|
|
Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs
|
|
|
Yielded them, side-long as they sat recline
|
|
|
On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers:
|
|
|
The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind,
|
|
|
Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream;
|
|
|
Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles
|
|
|
Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems
|
|
|
Fair couple, linked in happy nuptial league,
|
|
|
Alone as they. About them frisking played
|
|
|
All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase
|
|
|
In wood or wilderness, forest or den;
|
|
|
Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw
|
|
|
Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
|
|
|
Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
|
|
|
To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed
|
|
|
His?kithetmroboscis; close the serpent sly,
|
|
|
Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine
|
|
|
His braided train, and of his fatal guile
|
|
|
Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass
|
|
|
Couched, and now filled with pasture gazing sat,
|
|
|
Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,
|
|
|
Declined, was hasting now with prone career
|
|
|
To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale
|
|
|
Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose:
|
|
|
When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood,
|
|
|
Scarce thus at length failed speech recovered sad.
|
|
|
O Hell! what do mine eyes with grief behold!
|
|
|
Into our room of bliss thus high advanced
|
|
|
Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps,
|
|
|
Not Spirits, yet to heavenly Spirits bright
|
|
|
Little inferiour; whom my thoughts pursue
|
|
|
With wonder, and could love, so lively shines
|
|
|
In them divine resemblance, and such grace
|
|
|
The hand that formed them on their shape hath poured.
|
|
|
Ah! gentle pair, ye little think how nigh
|
|
|
Your change approaches, when all these delights
|
|
|
Will vanish, and deliver ye to woe;
|
|
|
More woe, the more your taste is now of joy;
|
|
|
Happy, but for so happy ill secured
|
|
|
Long to continue, and this high seat your Heaven
|
|
|
Ill fenced for Heaven to keep out such a foe
|
|
|
As now is entered; yet no purposed foe
|
|
|
To you, whom I could pity thus forlorn,
|
|
|
Though I unpitied: League with you I seek,
|
|
|
And mutual amity, so strait, so close,
|
|
|
That I with you must dwell, or you with me
|
|
|
Henceforth; my dwelling haply may not please,
|
|
|
Like this fair Paradise, your sense; yet such
|
|
|
Accept your Maker's work; he gave it me,
|
|
|
Which I as freely give: Hell shall unfold,
|
|
|
To entertain you two, her widest gates,
|
|
|
And send forth all her kings; there will be room,
|
|
|
Not like these narrow limits, to receive
|
|
|
Your numerous offspring; if no better place,
|
|
|
Thank him who puts me loth to this revenge
|
|
|
On you who wrong me not for him who wronged.
|
|
|
And should I at your harmless innocence
|
|
|
Melt, as I do, yet publick reason just,
|
|
|
Honour and empire with revenge enlarged,
|
|
|
By conquering this new world, compels me now
|
|
|
To do what else, though damned, I should abhor.
|
|
|
So spake the Fiend, and with necessity,
|
|
|
The tyrant's plea, excused his devilish deeds.
|
|
|
Then from his lofty stand on that high tree
|
|
|
Down he alights among the sportful herd
|
|
|
Of those four-footed kinds, himself now one,
|
|
|
Now other, as their shape served best his end
|
|
|
Nearer to view his prey, and, unespied,
|
|
|
To mark what of their state he more might learn,
|
|
|
By word or action marked. About them round
|
|
|
A lion now he stalks with fiery glare;
|
|
|
Then as a tiger, who by chance hath spied
|
|
|
In some purlieu two gentle fawns at play,
|
|
|
Straight couches close, then, rising, changes oft
|
|
|
His couchant watch, as one who chose his ground,
|
|
|
Whence rushing, he might surest seize them both,
|
|
|
Griped in each paw: when, Adam first of men
|
|
|
To first of women Eve thus moving speech,
|
|
|
Turned him, all ear to hear new utterance flow.
|
|
|
Sole partner, and sole part, of all these joys,
|
|
|
Dearer thyself than all; needs must the Power
|
|
|
That made us, and for us this ample world,
|
|
|
Be infinitely good, and of his good
|
|
|
As liberal and free as infinite;
|
|
|
That raised us from the dust, and placed us here
|
|
|
In all this happiness, who at his hand
|
|
|
Have nothing merited, nor can perform
|
|
|
Aught whereof he hath need; he who requires
|
|
|
From us no other service than to keep
|
|
|
This one, this easy charge, of all the trees
|
|
|
In Paradise that bear delicious fruit
|
|
|
So various, not to taste that only tree
|
|
|
Of knowledge, planted by the tree of life;
|
|
|
So near grows death to life, whate'er death is,
|
|
|
Some dreadful thing no doubt; for well thou knowest
|
|
|
God hath pronounced it death to taste that tree,
|
|
|
The only sign of our obedience left,
|
|
|
Among so many signs of power and rule
|
|
|
Conferred upon us, and dominion given
|
|
|
Over all other creatures that possess
|
|
|
Earth, air, and sea. Then let us not think hard
|
|
|
One easy prohibition, who enjoy
|
|
|
Free leave so large to all things else, and choice
|
|
|
Unlimited of manifold delights:
|
|
|
But let us ever praise him, and extol
|
|
|
His bounty, following our delightful task,
|
|
|
To prune these growing plants, and tend these flowers,
|
|
|
Which were it toilsome, yet with thee were sweet.
|
|
|
To whom thus Eve replied. O thou for whom
|
|
|
And from whom I was formed, flesh of thy flesh,
|
|
|
And without whom am to no end, my guide
|
|
|
And head! what thou hast said is just and right.
|
|
|
For we to him indeed all praises owe,
|
|
|
And daily thanks; I chiefly, who enjoy
|
|
|
So far the happier lot, enjoying thee
|
|
|
Pre-eminent by so much odds, while thou
|
|
|
Like consort to thyself canst no where find.
|
|
|
That day I oft remember, when from sleep
|
|
|
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
|
|
|
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
|
|
|
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
|
|
|
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
|
|
|
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
|
|
|
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
|
|
|
Pure as the expanse of Heaven; I thither went
|
|
|
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
|
|
|
On the green bank, to look into the clear
|
|
|
Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky.
|
|
|
As I bent down to look, just opposite
|
|
|
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
|
|
|
Bending to look on me: I started back,
|
|
|
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
|
|
|
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
|
|
|
Of sympathy and love: There I had fixed
|
|
|
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
|
|
|
Had not a voice thus warned me; 'What thou seest,
|
|
|
'What there thou seest, fair Creature, is thyself;
|
|
|
'With thee it came and goes: but follow me,
|
|
|
'And I will bring thee where no shadow stays
|
|
|
'Thy coming, and thy soft embraces, he
|
|
|
'Whose image thou art; him thou shalt enjoy
|
|
|
'Inseparably thine, to him shalt bear
|
|
|
'Multitudes like thyself, and thence be called
|
|
|
'Mother of human race.' What could I do,
|
|
|
But follow straight, invisibly thus led?
|
|
|
Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall,
|
|
|
Under a platane; yet methought less fair,
|
|
|
Less winning soft, less amiably mild,
|
|
|
Than that smooth watery image: Back I turned;
|
|
|
Thou following cryedst aloud, 'Return, fair Eve;
|
|
|
'Whom flyest thou? whom thou flyest, of him thou art,
|
|
|
'His flesh, his bone; to give thee being I lent
|
|
|
'Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart,
|
|
|
'Substantial life, to have thee by my side
|
|
|
'Henceforth an individual solace dear;
|
|
|
'Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim
|
|
|
'My other half:' With that thy gentle hand
|
|
|
Seised mine: I yielded;and from that time see
|
|
|
How beauty is excelled by manly grace,
|
|
|
And wisdom, which alone is truly fair.
|
|
|
So spake our general mother, and with eyes
|
|
|
Of conjugal attraction unreproved,
|
|
|
And meek surrender, half-embracing leaned
|
|
|
On our first father; half her swelling breast
|
|
|
Naked met his, under the flowing gold
|
|
|
Of her loose tresses hid: he in delight
|
|
|
Both of her beauty, and submissive charms,
|
|
|
Smiled with superiour love, as Jupiter
|
|
|
On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds
|
|
|
That shed Mayflowers; and pressed her matron lip
|
|
|
With kisses pure: Aside the Devil turned
|
|
|
For envy; yet with jealous leer malign
|
|
|
Eyed them askance, and to himself thus plained.
|
|
|
Sight hateful, sight tormenting! thus these two,
|
|
|
Imparadised in one another's arms,
|
|
|
The happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill
|
|
|
Of bliss on bliss; while I to Hell am thrust,
|
|
|
Where neither joy nor love, but fierce desire,
|
|
|
Among our other torments not the least,
|
|
|
Still unfulfilled with pain of longing pines.
|
|
|
Yet let me not forget what I have gained
|
|
|
From their own mouths: All is not theirs, it seems;
|
|
|
One fatal tree there stands, of knowledge called,
|
|
|
Forbidden them to taste: Knowledge forbidden
|
|
|
Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord
|
|
|
Envy them that? Can it be sin to know?
|
|
|
Can it be death? And do they only stand
|
|
|
By ignorance? Is that their happy state,
|
|
|
The proof of their obedience and their faith?
|
|
|
O fair foundation laid whereon to build
|
|
|
Their ruin! hence I will excite their minds
|
|
|
With more desire to know, and to reject
|
|
|
Envious commands, invented with design
|
|
|
To keep them low, whom knowledge might exalt
|
|
|
Equal with Gods: aspiring to be such,
|
|
|
They taste and die: What likelier can ensue
|
|
|
But first with narrow search I must walk round
|
|
|
This garden, and no corner leave unspied;
|
|
|
A chance but chance may lead where I may meet
|
|
|
Some wandering Spirit of Heaven by fountain side,
|
|
|
Or in thick shade retired, from him to draw
|
|
|
What further would be learned. Live while ye may,
|
|
|
Yet happy pair; enjoy, till I return,
|
|
|
Short pleasures, for long woes are to succeed!
|
|
|
So saying, his proud step he scornful turned,
|
|
|
But with sly circumspection, and began
|
|
|
Through wood, through waste, o'er hill, o'er dale, his roam
|
|
|
Mean while in utmost longitude, where Heaven
|
|
|
With earth and ocean meets, the setting sun
|
|
|
Slowly descended, and with right aspect
|
|
|
Against the eastern gate of Paradise
|
|
|
Levelled his evening rays: It was a rock
|
|
|
Of alabaster, piled up to the clouds,
|
|
|
Conspicuous far, winding with one ascent
|
|
|
Accessible from earth, one entrance high;
|
|
|
The rest was craggy cliff, that overhung
|
|
|
Still as it rose, impossible to climb.
|
|
|
Betwixt these rocky pillars Gabriel sat,
|
|
|
Chief of the angelick guards, awaiting night;
|
|
|
About him exercised heroick games
|
|
|
The unarmed youth of Heaven, but nigh at hand
|
|
|
Celestial armoury, shields, helms, and spears,
|
|
|
Hung high with diamond flaming, and with gold.
|
|
|
Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even
|
|
|
On a sun-beam, swift as a shooting star
|
|
|
In autumn thwarts the night, when vapours fired
|
|
|
Impress the air, and shows the mariner
|
|
|
From what point of his compass to beware
|
|
|
Impetuous winds: He thus began in haste.
|
|
|
Gabriel, to thee thy course by lot hath given
|
|
|
Charge and strict watch, that to this happy place
|
|
|
No evil thing approach or enter in.
|
|
|
This day at highth of noon came to my sphere
|
|
|
A Spirit, zealous, as he seemed, to know
|
|
|
More of the Almighty's works, and chiefly Man,
|
|
|
God's latest image: I described his way
|
|
|
Bent all on speed, and marked his aery gait;
|
|
|
But in the mount that lies from Eden north,
|
|
|
Where he first lighted, soon discerned his looks
|
|
|
Alien from Heaven, with passions foul obscured:
|
|
|
Mine eye pursued him still, but under shade
|
|
|
Lost sight of him: One of the banished crew,
|
|
|
I fear, hath ventured from the deep, to raise
|
|
|
New troubles; him thy care must be to find.
|
|
|
To whom the winged warriour thus returned.
|
|
|
Uriel, no wonder if thy perfect sight,
|
|
|
Amid the sun's bright circle where thou sitst,
|
|
|
See far and wide: In at this gate none pass
|
|
|
The vigilance here placed, but such as come
|
|
|
Well known from Heaven; and since meridian hour
|
|
|
No creature thence: If Spirit of other sort,
|
|
|
So minded, have o'er-leaped these earthly bounds
|
|
|
On purpose, hard thou knowest it to exclude
|
|
|
Spiritual substance with corporeal bar.
|
|
|
But if within the circuit of these walks,
|
|
|
In whatsoever shape he lurk, of whom
|
|
|
Thou tellest, by morrow dawning I shall know.
|
|
|
So promised he; and Uriel to his charge
|
|
|
Returned on that bright beam, whose point now raised
|
|
|
Bore him slope downward to the sun now fallen
|
|
|
Beneath the Azores; whether the prime orb,
|
|
|
Incredible how swift, had thither rolled
|
|
|
Diurnal, or this less volubil earth,
|
|
|
By shorter flight to the east, had left him there
|
|
|
Arraying with reflected purple and gold
|
|
|
The clouds that on his western throne attend.
|
|
|
Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray
|
|
|
Had in her sober livery all things clad;
|
|
|
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
|
|
|
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests
|
|
|
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;
|
|
|
She all night long her amorous descant sung;
|
|
|
Silence was pleased: Now glowed the firmament
|
|
|
With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led
|
|
|
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,
|
|
|
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
|
|
|
Apparent queen unveiled her peerless light,
|
|
|
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
|
|
|
When Adam thus to Eve. Fair Consort, the hour
|
|
|
Of night, and all things now retired to rest,
|
|
|
Mind us of like repose; since God hath set
|
|
|
Labour and rest, as day and night, to men
|
|
|
Successive; and the timely dew of sleep,
|
|
|
Now falling with soft slumbrous weight, inclines
|
|
|
Our eye-lids: Other creatures all day long
|
|
|
Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest;
|
|
|
Man hath his daily work of body or mind
|
|
|
Appointed, which declares his dignity,
|
|
|
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways;
|
|
|
While other animals unactive range,
|
|
|
And of their doings God takes no account.
|
|
|
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east
|
|
|
With first approach of light, we must be risen,
|
|
|
And at our pleasant labour, to reform
|
|
|
Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green,
|
|
|
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown,
|
|
|
That mock our scant manuring, and require
|
|
|
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth:
|
|
|
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,
|
|
|
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth,
|
|
|
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease;
|
|
|
Mean while, as Nature wills, night bids us rest.
|
|
|
To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned
|
|
|
My Author and Disposer, what thou bidst
|
|
|
Unargued I obey: So God ordains;
|
|
|
God is thy law, thou mine: To know no more
|
|
|
Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise.
|
|
|
With thee conversing I forget all time;
|
|
|
All seasons, and their change, all please alike.
|
|
|
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
|
|
|
With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun,
|
|
|
When first on this delightful land he spreads
|
|
|
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
|
|
|
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
|
|
|
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
|
|
|
Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night,
|
|
|
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
|
|
|
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train:
|
|
|
But neither breath of Morn, when she ascends
|
|
|
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun
|
|
|
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
|
|
|
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
|
|
|
Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night,
|
|
|
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon,
|
|
|
Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet.
|
|
|
But wherefore all night long shine these? for whom
|
|
|
This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?
|
|
|
To whom our general ancestor replied.
|
|
|
Daughter of God and Man, accomplished Eve,
|
|
|
These have their course to finish round the earth,
|
|
|
By morrow evening, and from land to land
|
|
|
In order, though to nations yet unborn,
|
|
|
Ministring light prepared, they set and rise;
|
|
|
Lest total Darkness should by night regain
|
|
|
Her old possession, and extinguish life
|
|
|
In Nature and all things; which these soft fires
|
|
|
Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat
|
|
|
Of various influence foment and warm,
|
|
|
Temper or nourish, or in part shed down
|
|
|
Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow
|
|
|
On earth, made hereby apter to receive
|
|
|
Perfection from the sun's more potent ray.
|
|
|
These then, though unbeheld in deep of night,
|
|
|
Shine not in vain; nor think, though men were none,
|
|
|
That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise:
|
|
|
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
|
|
|
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep:
|
|
|
All these with ceaseless praise his works behold
|
|
|
Both day and night: How often from the steep
|
|
|
Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard
|
|
|
Celestial voices to the midnight air,
|
|
|
Sole, or responsive each to others note,
|
|
|
Singing their great Creator? oft in bands
|
|
|
While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk,
|
|
|
With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds
|
|
|
In full harmonick number joined, their songs
|
|
|
Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.
|
|
|
Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed
|
|
|
On to their blissful bower: it was a place
|
|
|
Chosen by the sovran Planter, when he framed
|
|
|
All things to Man's delightful use; the roof
|
|
|
Of thickest covert was inwoven shade
|
|
|
Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew
|
|
|
Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side
|
|
|
Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub,
|
|
|
Fenced up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower,
|
|
|
Iris all hues, roses, and jessamin,
|
|
|
Reared high their flourished heads between, and wrought
|
|
|
Mosaick; underfoot the violet,
|
|
|
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay
|
|
|
Broidered the ground, more coloured than with stone
|
|
|
Of costliest emblem: Other creature here,
|
|
|
Bird, beast, insect, or worm, durst enter none,
|
|
|
Such was their awe of Man. In shadier bower
|
|
|
More sacred and sequestered, though but feigned,
|
|
|
Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph
|
|
|
Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess,
|
|
|
With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs,
|
|
|
Espoused Eve decked first her nuptial bed;
|
|
|
And heavenly quires the hymenaean sung,
|
|
|
What day the genial Angel to our sire
|
|
|
Brought her in naked beauty more adorned,
|
|
|
More lovely, than Pandora, whom the Gods
|
|
|
Endowed with all their gifts, and O! too like
|
|
|
In sad event, when to the unwiser son
|
|
|
Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she ensnared
|
|
|
Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged
|
|
|
On him who had stole Jove's authentick fire.
|
|
|
Thus, at their shady lodge arrived, both stood,
|
|
|
Both turned, and under open sky adored
|
|
|
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven,
|
|
|
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe,
|
|
|
And starry pole: Thou also madest the night,
|
|
|
Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day,
|
|
|
Which we, in our appointed work employed,
|
|
|
Have finished, happy in our mutual help
|
|
|
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss
|
|
|
Ordained by thee; and this delicious place
|
|
|
For us too large, where thy abundance wants
|
|
|
Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground.
|
|
|
But thou hast promised from us two a race
|
|
|
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol
|
|
|
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake,
|
|
|
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.
|
|
|
This said unanimous, and other rites
|
|
|
Observing none, but adoration pure
|
|
|
Which God likes best, into their inmost bower
|
|
|
Handed they went; and, eased the putting off
|
|
|
These troublesome disguises which we wear,
|
|
|
Straight side by side were laid; nor turned, I ween,
|
|
|
Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites
|
|
|
Mysterious of connubial love refused:
|
|
|
Whatever hypocrites austerely talk
|
|
|
Of purity, and place, and innocence,
|
|
|
Defaming as impure what God declares
|
|
|
Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.
|
|
|
Our Maker bids encrease; who bids abstain
|
|
|
But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man?
|
|
|
Hail, wedded Love, mysterious law, true source
|
|
|
Of human offspring, sole propriety
|
|
|
In Paradise of all things common else!
|
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|
By thee adulterous Lust was driven from men
|
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|
Among the bestial herds to range; by thee
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Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure,
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Relations dear, and all the charities
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|
Of father, son, and brother, first were known.
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Far be it, that I should write thee sin or blame,
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Or think thee unbefitting holiest place,
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Perpetual fountain of domestick sweets,
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Whose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced,
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Present, or past, as saints and patriarchs used.
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Here Love his golden shafts employs, here lights
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His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings,
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Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile
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|
Of harlots, loveless, joyless, unendeared,
|
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Casual fruition; nor in court-amours,
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Mixed dance, or wanton mask, or midnight ball,
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Or serenate, which the starved lover sings
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To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain.
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These, lulled by nightingales, embracing slept,
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And on their naked limbs the flowery roof
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Showered roses, which the morn repaired. Sleep on,
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Blest pair; and O!yet happiest, if ye seek
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No happier state, and know to know no more.
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|
Now had night measured with her shadowy cone
|
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Half way up hill this vast sublunar vault,
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And from their ivory port the Cherubim,
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Forth issuing at the accustomed hour, stood armed
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To their night watches in warlike parade;
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When Gabriel to his next in power thus spake.
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Uzziel, half these draw off, and coast the south
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With strictest watch; these other wheel the north;
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Our circuit meets full west. As flame they part,
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Half wheeling to the shield, half to the spear.
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From these, two strong and subtle Spirits he called
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That near him stood, and gave them thus in charge.
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Ithuriel and Zephon, with winged speed
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Search through this garden, leave unsearched no nook;
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But chiefly where those two fair creatures lodge,
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Now laid perhaps asleep, secure of harm.
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|
This evening from the sun's decline arrived,
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Who tells of some infernal Spirit seen
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Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escaped
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The bars of Hell, on errand bad no doubt:
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Such, where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring.
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So saying, on he led his radiant files,
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Dazzling the moon; these to the bower direct
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In search of whom they sought: Him there they found
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Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve,
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Assaying by his devilish art to reach
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The organs of her fancy, and with them forge
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Illusions, as he list, phantasms and dreams;
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Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint
|
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The animal spirits, that from pure blood arise
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Like gentle breaths from rivers pure, thence raise
|
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At least distempered, discontented thoughts,
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Vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires,
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Blown up with high conceits ingendering pride.
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Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear
|
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Touched lightly; for no falshood can endure
|
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|
Touch of celestial temper, but returns
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Of force to its own likeness: Up he starts
|
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Discovered and surprised. As when a spark
|
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Lights on a heap of nitrous powder, laid
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|
Fit for the tun some magazine to store
|
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|
Against a rumoured war, the smutty grain,
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With sudden blaze diffused, inflames the air;
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So started up in his own shape the Fiend.
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Back stept those two fair Angels, half amazed
|
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So sudden to behold the grisly king;
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Yet thus, unmoved with fear, accost him soon.
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|
Which of those rebel Spirits adjudged to Hell
|
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|
Comest thou, escaped thy prison? and, transformed,
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Why sat'st thou like an enemy in wait,
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Here watching at the head of these that sleep?
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Know ye not then said Satan, filled with scorn,
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Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate
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For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar:
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown,
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The lowest of your throng; or, if ye know,
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Why ask ye, and superfluous begin
|
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|
Your message, like to end as much in vain?
|
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|
To whom thus Zephon, answering scorn with scorn.
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Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same,
|
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Or undiminished brightness to be known,
|
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As when thou stoodest in Heaven upright and pure;
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|
That glory then, when thou no more wast good,
|
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Departed from thee; and thou resemblest now
|
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|
Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foul.
|
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|
But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account
|
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|
To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep
|
|
|
This place inviolable, and these from harm.
|
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|
So spake the Cherub; and his grave rebuke,
|
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|
Severe in youthful beauty, added grace
|
|
|
Invincible: Abashed the Devil stood,
|
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|
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw
|
|
|
Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw, and pined
|
|
|
His loss; but chiefly to find here observed
|
|
|
His lustre visibly impaired; yet seemed
|
|
|
Undaunted. If I must contend, said he,
|
|
|
Best with the best, the sender, not the sent,
|
|
|
Or all at once; more glory will be won,
|
|
|
Or less be lost. Thy fear, said Zephon bold,
|
|
|
Will save us trial what the least can do
|
|
|
Single against thee wicked, and thence weak.
|
|
|
The Fiend replied not, overcome with rage;
|
|
|
But, like a proud steed reined, went haughty on,
|
|
|
Champing his iron curb: To strive or fly
|
|
|
He held it vain; awe from above had quelled
|
|
|
His heart, not else dismayed. Now drew they nigh
|
|
|
The western point, where those half-rounding guards
|
|
|
Just met, and closing stood in squadron joined,
|
|
|
A waiting next command. To whom their Chief,
|
|
|
Gabriel, from the front thus called aloud.
|
|
|
O friends! I hear the tread of nimble feet
|
|
|
Hasting this way, and now by glimpse discern
|
|
|
Ithuriel and Zephon through the shade;
|
|
|
And with them comes a third of regal port,
|
|
|
But faded splendour wan; who by his gait
|
|
|
And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell,
|
|
|
Not likely to part hence without contest;
|
|
|
Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours.
|
|
|
He scarce had ended, when those two approached,
|
|
|
And brief related whom they brought, where found,
|
|
|
How busied, in what form and posture couched.
|
|
|
To whom with stern regard thus Gabriel spake.
|
|
|
Why hast thou, Satan, broke the bounds prescribed
|
|
|
To thy transgressions, and disturbed the charge
|
|
|
Of others, who approve not to transgress
|
|
|
By thy example, but have power and right
|
|
|
To question thy bold entrance on this place;
|
|
|
Employed, it seems, to violate sleep, and those
|
|
|
Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss!
|
|
|
To whom thus Satan with contemptuous brow.
|
|
|
Gabriel? thou hadst in Heaven the esteem of wise,
|
|
|
And such I held thee; but this question asked
|
|
|
Puts me in doubt. Lives there who loves his pain!
|
|
|
Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell,
|
|
|
Though thither doomed! Thou wouldst thyself, no doubt
|
|
|
And boldly venture to whatever place
|
|
|
Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change
|
|
|
Torment with ease, and soonest recompense
|
|
|
Dole with delight, which in this place I sought;
|
|
|
To thee no reason, who knowest only good,
|
|
|
But evil hast not tried: and wilt object
|
|
|
His will who bounds us! Let him surer bar
|
|
|
His iron gates, if he intends our stay
|
|
|
In that dark durance: Thus much what was asked.
|
|
|
The rest is true, they found me where they say;
|
|
|
But that implies not violence or harm.
|
|
|
Thus he in scorn. The warlike Angel moved,
|
|
|
Disdainfully half smiling, thus replied.
|
|
|
O loss of one in Heaven to judge of wise
|
|
|
Since Satan fell, whom folly overthrew,
|
|
|
And now returns him from his prison 'scaped,
|
|
|
Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise
|
|
|
Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither
|
|
|
Unlicensed from his bounds in Hell prescribed;
|
|
|
So wise he judges it to fly from pain
|
|
|
However, and to 'scape his punishment!
|
|
|
So judge thou still, presumptuous! till the wrath,
|
|
|
Which thou incurrest by flying, meet thy flight
|
|
|
Sevenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell,
|
|
|
Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain
|
|
|
Can equal anger infinite provoked.
|
|
|
But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee
|
|
|
Came not all hell broke loose? or thou than they
|
|
|
Less hardy to endure? Courageous Chief!
|
|
|
The first in flight from pain! hadst thou alleged
|
|
|
To thy deserted host this cause of flight,
|
|
|
Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive.
|
|
|
To which the Fiend thus answered, frowning stern.
|
|
|
Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain,
|
|
|
Insulting Angel! well thou knowest I stood
|
|
|
Thy fiercest, when in battle to thy aid
|
|
|
The blasting vollied thunder made all speed,
|
|
|
And seconded thy else not dreaded spear.
|
|
|
But still thy words at random, as before,
|
|
|
Argue thy inexperience what behoves
|
|
|
From hard assays and ill successes past
|
|
|
A faithful leader, not to hazard all
|
|
|
Through ways of danger by himself untried:
|
|
|
I, therefore, I alone first undertook
|
|
|
To wing the desolate abyss, and spy
|
|
|
This new created world, whereof in Hell
|
|
|
Fame is not silent, here in hope to find
|
|
|
Better abode, and my afflicted Powers
|
|
|
To settle here on earth, or in mid air;
|
|
|
Though for possession put to try once more
|
|
|
What thou and thy gay legions dare against;
|
|
|
Whose easier business were to serve their Lord
|
|
|
High up in Heaven, with songs to hymn his throne,
|
|
|
And practised distances to cringe, not fight,
|
|
|
To whom the warriour Angel soon replied.
|
|
|
To say and straight unsay, pretending first
|
|
|
Wise to fly pain, professing next the spy,
|
|
|
Argues no leader but a liear traced,
|
|
|
Satan, and couldst thou faithful add? O name,
|
|
|
O sacred name of faithfulness profaned!
|
|
|
Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew?
|
|
|
Army of Fiends, fit body to fit head.
|
|
|
Was this your discipline and faith engaged,
|
|
|
Your military obedience, to dissolve
|
|
|
Allegiance to the acknowledged Power supreme?
|
|
|
And thou, sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem
|
|
|
Patron of liberty, who more than thou
|
|
|
Once fawned, and cringed, and servily adored
|
|
|
Heaven's awful Monarch? wherefore, but in hope
|
|
|
To dispossess him, and thyself to reign?
|
|
|
But mark what I arreed thee now, Avant;
|
|
|
Fly neither whence thou fledst! If from this hour
|
|
|
Within these hallowed limits thou appear,
|
|
|
Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chained,
|
|
|
And seal thee so, as henceforth not to scorn
|
|
|
The facile gates of Hell too slightly barred.
|
|
|
So threatened he; but Satan to no threats
|
|
|
Gave heed, but waxing more in rage replied.
|
|
|
Then when I am thy captive talk of chains,
|
|
|
Proud limitary Cherub! but ere then
|
|
|
Far heavier load thyself expect to feel
|
|
|
From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King
|
|
|
Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers,
|
|
|
Us'd to the yoke, drawest his triumphant wheels
|
|
|
In progress through the road of Heaven star-paved.
|
|
|
While thus he spake, the angelick squadron bright
|
|
|
Turned fiery red, sharpening in mooned horns
|
|
|
Their phalanx, and began to hem him round
|
|
|
With ported spears, as thick as when a field
|
|
|
Of Ceres ripe for harvest waving bends
|
|
|
Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind
|
|
|
Sways them; the careful plowman doubting stands,
|
|
|
Left on the threshing floor his hopeless sheaves
|
|
|
Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan, alarmed,
|
|
|
Collecting all his might, dilated stood,
|
|
|
Like Teneriff or Atlas, unremoved:
|
|
|
His stature reached the sky, and on his crest
|
|
|
Sat Horrour plumed; nor wanted in his grasp
|
|
|
What seemed both spear and shield: Now dreadful deeds
|
|
|
Might have ensued, nor only Paradise
|
|
|
In this commotion, but the starry cope
|
|
|
Of Heaven perhaps, or all the elements
|
|
|
At least had gone to wrack, disturbed and torn
|
|
|
With violence of this conflict, had not soon
|
|
|
The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,
|
|
|
Hung forth in Heaven his golden scales, yet seen
|
|
|
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign,
|
|
|
Wherein all things created first he weighed,
|
|
|
The pendulous round earth with balanced air
|
|
|
In counterpoise, now ponders all events,
|
|
|
Battles and realms: In these he put two weights,
|
|
|
The sequel each of parting and of fight:
|
|
|
The latter quick up flew, and kicked the beam,
|
|
|
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the Fiend.
|
|
|
Satan, I know thy strength, and thou knowest mine;
|
|
|
Neither our own, but given: What folly then
|
|
|
To boast what arms can do? since thine no more
|
|
|
Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now
|
|
|
To trample thee as mire: For proof look up,
|
|
|
And read thy lot in yon celestial sign;
|
|
|
Where thou art weighed, and shown how light, how weak,
|
|
|
If thou resist. The Fiend looked up, and knew
|
|
|
His mounted scale aloft: Nor more;but fled
|
|
|
Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Book V
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
|
|
|
Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
|
|
|
When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep
|
|
|
Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred,
|
|
|
And temperate vapours bland, which the only sound
|
|
|
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
|
|
|
Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song
|
|
|
Of birds on every bough; so much the more
|
|
|
His wonder was to find unwakened Eve
|
|
|
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,
|
|
|
As through unquiet rest: He, on his side
|
|
|
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love
|
|
|
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
|
|
|
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
|
|
|
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice
|
|
|
Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
|
|
|
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus. Awake,
|
|
|
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
|
|
|
Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight!
|
|
|
Awake: The morning shines, and the fresh field
|
|
|
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
|
|
|
Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove,
|
|
|
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
|
|
|
How nature paints her colours, how the bee
|
|
|
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.
|
|
|
Such whispering waked her, but with startled eye
|
|
|
On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake.
|
|
|
O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose,
|
|
|
My glory, my perfection! glad I see
|
|
|
Thy face, and morn returned; for I this night
|
|
|
(Such night till this I never passed) have dreamed,
|
|
|
If dreamed, not, as I oft am wont, of thee,
|
|
|
Works of day past, or morrow's next design,
|
|
|
But of offence and trouble, which my mind
|
|
|
Knew never till this irksome night: Methought,
|
|
|
Close at mine ear one called me forth to walk
|
|
|
With gentle voice; I thought it thine: It said,
|
|
|
'Why sleepest thou, Eve? now is the pleasant time,
|
|
|
'The cool, the silent, save where silence yields
|
|
|
'To the night-warbling bird, that now awake
|
|
|
'Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song; now reigns
|
|
|
'Full-orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light
|
|
|
'Shadowy sets off the face of things; in vain,
|
|
|
'If none regard; Heaven wakes with all his eyes,
|
|
|
'Whom to behold but thee, Nature's desire?
|
|
|
'In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment
|
|
|
'Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze.'
|
|
|
I rose as at thy call, but found thee not;
|
|
|
To find thee I directed then my walk;
|
|
|
And on, methought, alone I passed through ways
|
|
|
That brought me on a sudden to the tree
|
|
|
Of interdicted knowledge: fair it seemed,
|
|
|
Much fairer to my fancy than by day:
|
|
|
And, as I wondering looked, beside it stood
|
|
|
One shaped and winged like one of those from Heaven
|
|
|
By us oft seen; his dewy locks distilled
|
|
|
Ambrosia; on that tree he also gazed;
|
|
|
And 'O fair plant,' said he, 'with fruit surcharged,
|
|
|
'Deigns none to ease thy load, and taste thy sweet,
|
|
|
'Nor God, nor Man? Is knowledge so despised?
|
|
|
'Or envy, or what reserve forbids to taste?
|
|
|
'Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold
|
|
|
'Longer thy offered good; why else set here?
|
|
|
This said, he paused not, but with venturous arm
|
|
|
He plucked, he tasted; me damp horrour chilled
|
|
|
At such bold words vouched with a deed so bold:
|
|
|
But he thus, overjoyed; 'O fruit divine,
|
|
|
'Sweet of thyself, but much more sweet thus cropt,
|
|
|
'Forbidden here, it seems, as only fit
|
|
|
'For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men:
|
|
|
'And why not Gods of Men; since good, the more
|
|
|
'Communicated, more abundant grows,
|
|
|
'The author not impaired, but honoured more?
|
|
|
'Here, happy creature, fair angelick Eve!
|
|
|
'Partake thou also; happy though thou art,
|
|
|
'Happier thou mayest be, worthier canst not be:
|
|
|
'Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods
|
|
|
'Thyself a Goddess, not to earth confined,
|
|
|
'But sometimes in the air, as we, sometimes
|
|
|
'Ascend to Heaven, by merit thine, and see
|
|
|
'What life the Gods live there, and such live thou!'
|
|
|
So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held,
|
|
|
Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part
|
|
|
Which he had plucked; the pleasant savoury smell
|
|
|
So quickened appetite, that I, methought,
|
|
|
Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the clouds
|
|
|
With him I flew, and underneath beheld
|
|
|
The earth outstretched immense, a prospect wide
|
|
|
And various: Wondering at my flight and change
|
|
|
To this high exaltation; suddenly
|
|
|
My guide was gone, and I, methought, sunk down,
|
|
|
And fell asleep; but O, how glad I waked
|
|
|
To find this but a dream! Thus Eve her night
|
|
|
Related, and thus Adam answered sad.
|
|
|
Best image of myself, and dearer half,
|
|
|
The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep
|
|
|
Affects me equally; nor can I like
|
|
|
This uncouth dream, of evil sprung, I fear;
|
|
|
Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none,
|
|
|
Created pure. But know that in the soul
|
|
|
Are many lesser faculties, that serve
|
|
|
Reason as chief; among these Fancy next
|
|
|
Her office holds; of all external things
|
|
|
Which the five watchful senses represent,
|
|
|
She forms imaginations, aery shapes,
|
|
|
Which Reason, joining or disjoining, frames
|
|
|
All what we affirm or what deny, and call
|
|
|
Our knowledge or opinion; then retires
|
|
|
Into her private cell, when nature rests.
|
|
|
Oft in her absence mimick Fancy wakes
|
|
|
To imitate her; but, misjoining shapes,
|
|
|
Wild work produces oft, and most in dreams;
|
|
|
Ill matching words and deeds long past or late.
|
|
|
Some such resemblances, methinks, I find
|
|
|
Of our last evening's talk, in this thy dream,
|
|
|
But with addition strange; yet be not sad.
|
|
|
Evil into the mind of God or Man
|
|
|
May come and go, so unreproved, and leave
|
|
|
No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope
|
|
|
That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream,
|
|
|
Waking thou never will consent to do.
|
|
|
Be not disheartened then, nor cloud those looks,
|
|
|
That wont to be more cheerful and serene,
|
|
|
Than when fair morning first smiles on the world;
|
|
|
And let us to our fresh employments rise
|
|
|
Among the groves, the fountains, and the flowers
|
|
|
That open now their choisest bosomed smells,
|
|
|
Reserved from night, and kept for thee in store.
|
|
|
So cheered he his fair spouse, and she was cheered;
|
|
|
But silently a gentle tear let fall
|
|
|
From either eye, and wiped them with her hair;
|
|
|
Two other precious drops that ready stood,
|
|
|
Each in their crystal sluice, he ere they fell
|
|
|
Kissed, as the gracious signs of sweet remorse
|
|
|
And pious awe, that feared to have offended.
|
|
|
So all was cleared, and to the field they haste.
|
|
|
But first, from under shady arborous roof
|
|
|
Soon as they forth were come to open sight
|
|
|
Of day-spring, and the sun, who, scarce up-risen,
|
|
|
With wheels yet hovering o'er the ocean-brim,
|
|
|
Shot parallel to the earth his dewy ray,
|
|
|
Discovering in wide landskip all the east
|
|
|
Of Paradise and Eden's happy plains,
|
|
|
Lowly they bowed adoring, and began
|
|
|
Their orisons, each morning duly paid
|
|
|
In various style; for neither various style
|
|
|
Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise
|
|
|
Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung
|
|
|
Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence
|
|
|
Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse,
|
|
|
More tuneable than needed lute or harp
|
|
|
To add more sweetness; and they thus began.
|
|
|
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
|
|
|
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,
|
|
|
Thus wonderous fair; Thyself how wonderous then!
|
|
|
Unspeakable, who sitst above these heavens
|
|
|
To us invisible, or dimly seen
|
|
|
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
|
|
|
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
|
|
|
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
|
|
|
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
|
|
|
And choral symphonies, day without night,
|
|
|
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven
|
|
|
On Earth join all ye Creatures to extol
|
|
|
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
|
|
|
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
|
|
|
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
|
|
|
Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn
|
|
|
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
|
|
|
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
|
|
|
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
|
|
|
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
|
|
|
In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest,
|
|
|
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fallest.
|
|
|
Moon, that now meetest the orient sun, now flyest,
|
|
|
With the fixed Stars, fixed in their orb that flies;
|
|
|
And ye five other wandering Fires, that move
|
|
|
In mystick dance not without song, resound
|
|
|
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
|
|
|
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth
|
|
|
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
|
|
|
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix
|
|
|
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
|
|
|
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
|
|
|
Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise
|
|
|
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
|
|
|
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
|
|
|
In honour to the world's great Author rise;
|
|
|
Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,
|
|
|
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
|
|
|
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
|
|
|
His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,
|
|
|
Breathe soft or loud; and, wave your tops, ye Pines,
|
|
|
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
|
|
|
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
|
|
|
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
|
|
|
Join voices, all ye living Souls: Ye Birds,
|
|
|
That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,
|
|
|
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
|
|
|
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
|
|
|
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
|
|
|
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
|
|
|
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
|
|
|
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
|
|
|
Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still
|
|
|
To give us only good; and if the night
|
|
|
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
|
|
|
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!
|
|
|
So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts
|
|
|
Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.
|
|
|
On to their morning's rural work they haste,
|
|
|
Among sweet dews and flowers; where any row
|
|
|
Of fruit-trees over-woody reached too far
|
|
|
Their pampered boughs, and needed hands to check
|
|
|
Fruitless embraces: or they led the vine
|
|
|
To wed her elm; she, spoused, about him twines
|
|
|
Her marriageable arms, and with him brings
|
|
|
Her dower, the adopted clusters, to adorn
|
|
|
His barren leaves. Them thus employed beheld
|
|
|
With pity Heaven's high King, and to him called
|
|
|
Raphael, the sociable Spirit, that deigned
|
|
|
To travel with Tobias, and secured
|
|
|
His marriage with the seventimes-wedded maid.
|
|
|
Raphael, said he, thou hearest what stir on Earth
|
|
|
Satan, from Hell 'scaped through the darksome gulf,
|
|
|
Hath raised in Paradise; and how disturbed
|
|
|
This night the human pair; how he designs
|
|
|
In them at once to ruin all mankind.
|
|
|
Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend
|
|
|
Converse with Adam, in what bower or shade
|
|
|
Thou findest him from the heat of noon retired,
|
|
|
To respite his day-labour with repast,
|
|
|
Or with repose; and such discourse bring on,
|
|
|
As may advise him of his happy state,
|
|
|
Happiness in his power left free to will,
|
|
|
Left to his own free will, his will though free,
|
|
|
Yet mutable; whence warn him to beware
|
|
|
He swerve not, too secure: Tell him withal
|
|
|
His danger, and from whom; what enemy,
|
|
|
Late fallen himself from Heaven, is plotting now
|
|
|
The fall of others from like state of bliss;
|
|
|
By violence? no, for that shall be withstood;
|
|
|
But by deceit and lies: This let him know,
|
|
|
Lest, wilfully transgressing, he pretend
|
|
|
Surprisal, unadmonished, unforewarned.
|
|
|
So spake the Eternal Father, and fulfilled
|
|
|
All justice: Nor delayed the winged Saint
|
|
|
After his charge received; but from among
|
|
|
Thousand celestial Ardours, where he stood
|
|
|
Veiled with his gorgeous wings, up springing light,
|
|
|
Flew through the midst of Heaven; the angelick quires,
|
|
|
On each hand parting, to his speed gave way
|
|
|
Through all the empyreal road; till, at the gate
|
|
|
Of Heaven arrived, the gate self-opened wide
|
|
|
On golden hinges turning, as by work
|
|
|
Divine the sovran Architect had framed.
|
|
|
From hence no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight,
|
|
|
Star interposed, however small he sees,
|
|
|
Not unconformed to other shining globes,
|
|
|
Earth, and the garden of God, with cedars crowned
|
|
|
Above all hills. As when by night the glass
|
|
|
Of Galileo, less assured, observes
|
|
|
Imagined lands and regions in the moon:
|
|
|
Or pilot, from amidst the Cyclades
|
|
|
Delos or Samos first appearing, kens
|
|
|
A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight
|
|
|
He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky
|
|
|
Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing
|
|
|
Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan
|
|
|
Winnows the buxom air; till, within soar
|
|
|
Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems
|
|
|
A phoenix, gazed by all as that sole bird,
|
|
|
When, to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's
|
|
|
Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies.
|
|
|
At once on the eastern cliff of Paradise
|
|
|
He lights, and to his proper shape returns
|
|
|
A Seraph winged: Six wings he wore, to shade
|
|
|
His lineaments divine; the pair that clad
|
|
|
Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast
|
|
|
With regal ornament; the middle pair
|
|
|
Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round
|
|
|
Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold
|
|
|
And colours dipt in Heaven; the third his feet
|
|
|
Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail,
|
|
|
Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood,
|
|
|
And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled
|
|
|
The circuit wide. Straight knew him all the bands
|
|
|
Of Angels under watch; and to his state,
|
|
|
And to his message high, in honour rise;
|
|
|
For on some message high they guessed him bound.
|
|
|
Their glittering tents he passed, and now is come
|
|
|
Into the blissful field, through groves of myrrh,
|
|
|
And flowering odours, cassia, nard, and balm;
|
|
|
A wilderness of sweets; for Nature here
|
|
|
Wantoned as in her prime, and played at will
|
|
|
Her virgin fancies pouring forth more sweet,
|
|
|
Wild above rule or art, enormous bliss.
|
|
|
Him through the spicy forest onward come
|
|
|
Adam discerned, as in the door he sat
|
|
|
Of his cool bower, while now the mounted sun
|
|
|
Shot down direct his fervid rays to warm
|
|
|
Earth's inmost womb, more warmth than Adam needs:
|
|
|
And Eve within, due at her hour prepared
|
|
|
For dinner savoury fruits, of taste to please
|
|
|
True appetite, and not disrelish thirst
|
|
|
Of nectarous draughts between, from milky stream,
|
|
|
Berry or grape: To whom thus Adam called.
|
|
|
Haste hither, Eve, and worth thy sight behold
|
|
|
Eastward among those trees, what glorious shape
|
|
|
Comes this way moving; seems another morn
|
|
|
Risen on mid-noon; some great behest from Heaven
|
|
|
To us perhaps he brings, and will vouchsafe
|
|
|
This day to be our guest. But go with speed,
|
|
|
And, what thy stores contain, bring forth, and pour
|
|
|
Abundance, fit to honour and receive
|
|
|
Our heavenly stranger: Well we may afford
|
|
|
Our givers their own gifts, and large bestow
|
|
|
From large bestowed, where Nature multiplies
|
|
|
Her fertile growth, and by disburthening grows
|
|
|
More fruitful, which instructs us not to spare.
|
|
|
To whom thus Eve. Adam, earth's hallowed mould,
|
|
|
Of God inspired! small store will serve, where store,
|
|
|
All seasons, ripe for use hangs on the stalk;
|
|
|
Save what by frugal storing firmness gains
|
|
|
To nourish, and superfluous moist consumes:
|
|
|
But I will haste, and from each bough and brake,
|
|
|
Each plant and juciest gourd, will pluck such choice
|
|
|
To entertain our Angel-guest, as he
|
|
|
Beholding shall confess, that here on Earth
|
|
|
God hath dispensed his bounties as in Heaven.
|
|
|
So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste
|
|
|
She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent
|
|
|
What choice to choose for delicacy best,
|
|
|
What order, so contrived as not to mix
|
|
|
Tastes, not well joined, inelegant, but bring
|
|
|
Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change;
|
|
|
Bestirs her then, and from each tender stalk
|
|
|
Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields
|
|
|
In India East or West, or middle shore
|
|
|
In Pontus or the Punick coast, or where
|
|
|
Alcinous reigned, fruit of all kinds, in coat
|
|
|
Rough, or smooth rind, or bearded husk, or shell,
|
|
|
She gathers, tribute large, and on the board
|
|
|
Heaps with unsparing hand; for drink the grape
|
|
|
She crushes, inoffensive must, and meaths
|
|
|
From many a berry, and from sweet kernels pressed
|
|
|
She tempers dulcet creams; nor these to hold
|
|
|
Wants her fit vessels pure; then strows the ground
|
|
|
With rose and odours from the shrub unfumed.
|
|
|
Mean while our primitive great sire, to meet
|
|
|
His God-like guest, walks forth, without more train
|
|
|
Accompanied than with his own complete
|
|
|
Perfections; in himself was all his state,
|
|
|
More solemn than the tedious pomp that waits
|
|
|
On princes, when their rich retinue long
|
|
|
Of horses led, and grooms besmeared with gold,
|
|
|
Dazzles the croud, and sets them all agape.
|
|
|
Nearer his presence Adam, though not awed,
|
|
|
Yet with submiss approach and reverence meek,
|
|
|
As to a superiour nature bowing low,
|
|
|
Thus said. Native of Heaven, for other place
|
|
|
None can than Heaven such glorious shape contain;
|
|
|
Since, by descending from the thrones above,
|
|
|
Those happy places thou hast deigned a while
|
|
|
To want, and honour these, vouchsafe with us
|
|
|
Two only, who yet by sovran gift possess
|
|
|
This spacious ground, in yonder shady bower
|
|
|
To rest; and what the garden choicest bears
|
|
|
To sit and taste, till this meridian heat
|
|
|
Be over, and the sun more cool decline.
|
|
|
Whom thus the angelick Virtue answered mild.
|
|
|
Adam, I therefore came; nor art thou such
|
|
|
Created, or such place hast here to dwell,
|
|
|
As may not oft invite, though Spirits of Heaven,
|
|
|
To visit thee; lead on then where thy bower
|
|
|
O'ershades; for these mid-hours, till evening rise,
|
|
|
I have at will. So to the sylvan lodge
|
|
|
They came, that like Pomona's arbour smiled,
|
|
|
With flowerets decked, and fragrant smells; but Eve,
|
|
|
Undecked save with herself, more lovely fair
|
|
|
Than Wood-Nymph, or the fairest Goddess feigned
|
|
|
Of three that in mount Ida naked strove,
|
|
|
Stood to entertain her guest from Heaven; no veil
|
|
|
She needed, virtue-proof; no thought infirm
|
|
|
Altered her cheek. On whom the Angel Hail
|
|
|
Bestowed, the holy salutation used
|
|
|
Long after to blest Mary, second Eve.
|
|
|
Hail, Mother of Mankind, whose fruitful womb
|
|
|
Shall fill the world more numerous with thy sons,
|
|
|
Than with these various fruits the trees of God
|
|
|
Have heaped this table!--Raised of grassy turf
|
|
|
Their table was, and mossy seats had round,
|
|
|
And on her ample square from side to side
|
|
|
All autumn piled, though spring and autumn here
|
|
|
Danced hand in hand. A while discourse they hold;
|
|
|
No fear lest dinner cool; when thus began
|
|
|
Our author. Heavenly stranger, please to taste
|
|
|
These bounties, which our Nourisher, from whom
|
|
|
All perfect good, unmeasured out, descends,
|
|
|
To us for food and for delight hath caused
|
|
|
The earth to yield; unsavoury food perhaps
|
|
|
To spiritual natures; only this I know,
|
|
|
That one celestial Father gives to all.
|
|
|
To whom the Angel. Therefore what he gives
|
|
|
(Whose praise be ever sung) to Man in part
|
|
|
Spiritual, may of purest Spirits be found
|
|
|
No ingrateful food: And food alike those pure
|
|
|
Intelligential substances require,
|
|
|
As doth your rational; and both contain
|
|
|
Within them every lower faculty
|
|
|
Of sense, whereby they hear, see, smell, touch, taste,
|
|
|
Tasting concoct, digest, assimilate,
|
|
|
And corporeal to incorporeal turn.
|
|
|
For know, whatever was created, needs
|
|
|
To be sustained and fed: Of elements
|
|
|
The grosser feeds the purer, earth the sea,
|
|
|
Earth and the sea feed air, the air those fires
|
|
|
Ethereal, and as lowest first the moon;
|
|
|
Whence in her visage round those spots, unpurged
|
|
|
Vapours not yet into her substance turned.
|
|
|
Nor doth the moon no nourishment exhale
|
|
|
From her moist continent to higher orbs.
|
|
|
The sun that light imparts to all, receives
|
|
|
From all his alimental recompence
|
|
|
In humid exhalations, and at even
|
|
|
Sups with the ocean. Though in Heaven the trees
|
|
|
Of life ambrosial fruitage bear, and vines
|
|
|
Yield nectar; though from off the boughs each morn
|
|
|
We brush mellifluous dews, and find the ground
|
|
|
Covered with pearly grain: Yet God hath here
|
|
|
Varied his bounty so with new delights,
|
|
|
As may compare with Heaven; and to taste
|
|
|
Think not I shall be nice. So down they sat,
|
|
|
And to their viands fell; nor seemingly
|
|
|
The Angel, nor in mist, the common gloss
|
|
|
Of Theologians; but with keen dispatch
|
|
|
Of real hunger, and concoctive heat
|
|
|
To transubstantiate: What redounds, transpires
|
|
|
Through Spirits with ease; nor wonder;if by fire
|
|
|
Of sooty coal the empirick alchemist
|
|
|
Can turn, or holds it possible to turn,
|
|
|
Metals of drossiest ore to perfect gold,
|
|
|
As from the mine. Mean while at table Eve
|
|
|
Ministered naked, and their flowing cups
|
|
|
With pleasant liquours crowned: O innocence
|
|
|
Deserving Paradise! if ever, then,
|
|
|
Then had the sons of God excuse to have been
|
|
|
Enamoured at that sight; but in those hearts
|
|
|
Love unlibidinous reigned, nor jealousy
|
|
|
Was understood, the injured lover's hell.
|
|
|
Thus when with meats and drinks they had sufficed,
|
|
|
Not burdened nature, sudden mind arose
|
|
|
In Adam, not to let the occasion pass
|
|
|
Given him by this great conference to know
|
|
|
Of things above his world, and of their being
|
|
|
Who dwell in Heaven, whose excellence he saw
|
|
|
Transcend his own so far; whose radiant forms,
|
|
|
Divine effulgence, whose high power, so far
|
|
|
Exceeded human; and his wary speech
|
|
|
Thus to the empyreal minister he framed.
|
|
|
Inhabitant with God, now know I well
|
|
|
Thy favour, in this honour done to Man;
|
|
|
Under whose lowly roof thou hast vouchsafed
|
|
|
To enter, and these earthly fruits to taste,
|
|
|
Food not of Angels, yet accepted so,
|
|
|
As that more willingly thou couldst not seem
|
|
|
At Heaven's high feasts to have fed: yet what compare
|
|
|
To whom the winged Hierarch replied.
|
|
|
O Adam, One Almighty is, from whom
|
|
|
All things proceed, and up to him return,
|
|
|
If not depraved from good, created all
|
|
|
Such to perfection, one first matter all,
|
|
|
Endued with various forms, various degrees
|
|
|
Of substance, and, in things that live, of life;
|
|
|
But more refined, more spiritous, and pure,
|
|
|
As nearer to him placed, or nearer tending
|
|
|
Each in their several active spheres assigned,
|
|
|
Till body up to spirit work, in bounds
|
|
|
Proportioned to each kind. So from the root
|
|
|
Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves
|
|
|
More aery, last the bright consummate flower
|
|
|
Spirits odorous breathes: flowers and their fruit,
|
|
|
Man's nourishment, by gradual scale sublimed,
|
|
|
To vital spirits aspire, to animal,
|
|
|
To intellectual; give both life and sense,
|
|
|
Fancy and understanding; whence the soul
|
|
|
Reason receives, and reason is her being,
|
|
|
Discursive, or intuitive; discourse
|
|
|
Is oftest yours, the latter most is ours,
|
|
|
Differing but in degree, of kind the same.
|
|
|
Wonder not then, what God for you saw good
|
|
|
If I refuse not, but convert, as you
|
|
|
To proper substance. Time may come, when Men
|
|
|
With Angels may participate, and find
|
|
|
No inconvenient diet, nor too light fare;
|
|
|
And from these corporal nutriments perhaps
|
|
|
Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit,
|
|
|
Improved by tract of time, and, winged, ascend
|
|
|
Ethereal, as we; or may, at choice,
|
|
|
Here or in heavenly Paradises dwell;
|
|
|
If ye be found obedient, and retain
|
|
|
Unalterably firm his love entire,
|
|
|
Whose progeny you are. Mean while enjoy
|
|
|
Your fill what happiness this happy state
|
|
|
Can comprehend, incapable of more.
|
|
|
To whom the patriarch of mankind replied.
|
|
|
O favourable Spirit, propitious guest,
|
|
|
Well hast thou taught the way that might direct
|
|
|
Our knowledge, and the scale of nature set
|
|
|
From center to circumference; whereon,
|
|
|
In contemplation of created things,
|
|
|
By steps we may ascend to God. But say,
|
|
|
What meant that caution joined, If ye be found
|
|
|
Obedient? Can we want obedience then
|
|
|
To him, or possibly his love desert,
|
|
|
Who formed us from the dust and placed us here
|
|
|
Full to the utmost measure of what bliss
|
|
|
Human desires can seek or apprehend?
|
|
|
To whom the Angel. Son of Heaven and Earth,
|
|
|
Attend! That thou art happy, owe to God;
|
|
|
That thou continuest such, owe to thyself,
|
|
|
That is, to thy obedience; therein stand.
|
|
|
This was that caution given thee; be advised.
|
|
|
God made thee perfect, not immutable;
|
|
|
And good he made thee, but to persevere
|
|
|
He left it in thy power; ordained thy will
|
|
|
By nature free, not over-ruled by fate
|
|
|
Inextricable, or strict necessity:
|
|
|
Our voluntary service he requires,
|
|
|
Not our necessitated; such with him
|
|
|
Finds no acceptance, nor can find; for how
|
|
|
Can hearts, not free, be tried whether they serve
|
|
|
Willing or no, who will but what they must
|
|
|
By destiny, and can no other choose?
|
|
|
Myself, and all the angelick host, that stand
|
|
|
In sight of God, enthroned, our happy state
|
|
|
Hold, as you yours, while our obedience holds;
|
|
|
On other surety none: Freely we serve,
|
|
|
Because we freely love, as in our will
|
|
|
To love or not; in this we stand or fall:
|
|
|
And some are fallen, to disobedience fallen,
|
|
|
And so from Heaven to deepest Hell; O fall
|
|
|
From what high state of bliss, into what woe!
|
|
|
To whom our great progenitor. Thy words
|
|
|
Attentive, and with more delighted ear,
|
|
|
Divine instructer, I have heard, than when
|
|
|
Cherubick songs by night from neighbouring hills
|
|
|
Aereal musick send: Nor knew I not
|
|
|
To be both will and deed created free;
|
|
|
Yet that we never shall forget to love
|
|
|
Our Maker, and obey him whose command
|
|
|
Single is yet so just, my constant thoughts
|
|
|
Assured me, and still assure: Though what thou tellest
|
|
|
Hath passed in Heaven, some doubt within me move,
|
|
|
But more desire to hear, if thou consent,
|
|
|
The full relation, which must needs be strange,
|
|
|
Worthy of sacred silence to be heard;
|
|
|
And we have yet large day, for scarce the sun
|
|
|
Hath finished half his journey, and scarce begins
|
|
|
His other half in the great zone of Heaven.
|
|
|
Thus Adam made request; and Raphael,
|
|
|
After short pause assenting, thus began.
|
|
|
High matter thou enjoinest me, O prime of men,
|
|
|
Sad task and hard: For how shall I relate
|
|
|
To human sense the invisible exploits
|
|
|
Of warring Spirits? how, without remorse,
|
|
|
The ruin of so many glorious once
|
|
|
And perfect while they stood? how last unfold
|
|
|
The secrets of another world, perhaps
|
|
|
Not lawful to reveal? yet for thy good
|
|
|
This is dispensed; and what surmounts the reach
|
|
|
Of human sense, I shall delineate so,
|
|
|
By likening spiritual to corporal forms,
|
|
|
As may express them best; though what if Earth
|
|
|
Be but a shadow of Heaven, and things therein
|
|
|
Each to other like, more than on earth is thought?
|
|
|
As yet this world was not, and Chaos wild
|
|
|
Reigned where these Heavens now roll, where Earth now rests
|
|
|
Upon her center poised; when on a day
|
|
|
(For time, though in eternity, applied
|
|
|
To motion, measures all things durable
|
|
|
By present, past, and future,) on such day
|
|
|
As Heaven's great year brings forth, the empyreal host
|
|
|
Of Angels by imperial summons called,
|
|
|
Innumerable before the Almighty's throne
|
|
|
Forthwith, from all the ends of Heaven, appeared
|
|
|
Under their Hierarchs in orders bright:
|
|
|
Ten thousand thousand ensigns high advanced,
|
|
|
Standards and gonfalons 'twixt van and rear
|
|
|
Stream in the air, and for distinction serve
|
|
|
Of hierarchies, of orders, and degrees;
|
|
|
Or in their glittering tissues bear imblazed
|
|
|
Holy memorials, acts of zeal and love
|
|
|
Recorded eminent. Thus when in orbs
|
|
|
Of circuit inexpressible they stood,
|
|
|
Orb within orb, the Father Infinite,
|
|
|
By whom in bliss imbosomed sat the Son,
|
|
|
Amidst as from a flaming mount, whose top
|
|
|
Brightness had made invisible, thus spake.
|
|
|
Hear, all ye Angels, progeny of light,
|
|
|
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers;
|
|
|
Hear my decree, which unrevoked shall stand.
|
|
|
This day I have begot whom I declare
|
|
|
My only Son, and on this holy hill
|
|
|
Him have anointed, whom ye now behold
|
|
|
At my right hand; your head I him appoint;
|
|
|
And by myself have sworn, to him shall bow
|
|
|
All knees in Heaven, and shall confess him Lord:
|
|
|
Under his great vice-gerent reign abide
|
|
|
United, as one individual soul,
|
|
|
For ever happy: Him who disobeys,
|
|
|
Me disobeys, breaks union, and that day,
|
|
|
Cast out from God and blessed vision, falls
|
|
|
Into utter darkness, deep ingulfed, his place
|
|
|
Ordained without redemption, without end.
|
|
|
So spake the Omnipotent, and with his words
|
|
|
All seemed well pleased; all seemed, but were not all.
|
|
|
That day, as other solemn days, they spent
|
|
|
In song and dance about the sacred hill;
|
|
|
Mystical dance, which yonder starry sphere
|
|
|
Of planets, and of fixed, in all her wheels
|
|
|
Resembles nearest, mazes intricate,
|
|
|
Eccentrick, intervolved, yet regular
|
|
|
Then most, when most irregular they seem;
|
|
|
And in their motions harmony divine
|
|
|
So smooths her charming tones, that God's own ear
|
|
|
Listens delighted. Evening now approached,
|
|
|
(For we have also our evening and our morn,
|
|
|
We ours for change delectable, not need;)
|
|
|
Forthwith from dance to sweet repast they turn
|
|
|
Desirous; all in circles as they stood,
|
|
|
Tables are set, and on a sudden piled
|
|
|
With Angels food, and rubied nectar flows
|
|
|
In pearl, in diamond, and massy gold,
|
|
|
Fruit of delicious vines, the growth of Heaven.
|
|
|
On flowers reposed, and with fresh flowerets crowned,
|
|
|
They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet
|
|
|
Quaff immortality and joy, secure
|
|
|
Of surfeit, where full measure only bounds
|
|
|
Excess, before the all-bounteous King, who showered
|
|
|
With copious hand, rejoicing in their joy.
|
|
|
Now when ambrosial night with clouds exhaled
|
|
|
From that high mount of God, whence light and shade
|
|
|
Spring both, the face of brightest Heaven had changed
|
|
|
To grateful twilight, (for night comes not there
|
|
|
In darker veil,) and roseat dews disposed
|
|
|
All but the unsleeping eyes of God to rest;
|
|
|
Wide over all the plain, and wider far
|
|
|
Than all this globous earth in plain outspread,
|
|
|
(Such are the courts of God) the angelick throng,
|
|
|
Dispersed in bands and files, their camp extend
|
|
|
By living streams among the trees of life,
|
|
|
Pavilions numberless, and sudden reared,
|
|
|
Celestial tabernacles, where they slept
|
|
|
Fanned with cool winds; save those, who, in their course,
|
|
|
Melodious hymns about the sovran throne
|
|
|
Alternate all night long: but not so waked
|
|
|
Satan; so call him now, his former name
|
|
|
Is heard no more in Heaven; he of the first,
|
|
|
If not the first Arch-Angel, great in power,
|
|
|
In favour and pre-eminence, yet fraught
|
|
|
With envy against the Son of God, that day
|
|
|
Honoured by his great Father, and proclaimed
|
|
|
Messiah King anointed, could not bear
|
|
|
Through pride that sight, and thought himself impaired.
|
|
|
Deep malice thence conceiving and disdain,
|
|
|
Soon as midnight brought on the dusky hour
|
|
|
Friendliest to sleep and silence, he resolved
|
|
|
With all his legions to dislodge, and leave
|
|
|
Unworshipt, unobeyed, the throne supreme,
|
|
|
Contemptuous; and his next subordinate
|
|
|
Awakening, thus to him in secret spake.
|
|
|
Sleepest thou, Companion dear? What sleep can close
|
|
|
Thy eye-lids? and rememberest what decree
|
|
|
Of yesterday, so late hath passed the lips
|
|
|
Of Heaven's Almighty. Thou to me thy thoughts
|
|
|
Wast wont, I mine to thee was wont to impart;
|
|
|
Both waking we were one; how then can now
|
|
|
Thy sleep dissent? New laws thou seest imposed;
|
|
|
New laws from him who reigns, new minds may raise
|
|
|
In us who serve, new counsels to debate
|
|
|
What doubtful may ensue: More in this place
|
|
|
To utter is not safe. Assemble thou
|
|
|
Of all those myriads which we lead the chief;
|
|
|
Tell them, that by command, ere yet dim night
|
|
|
Her shadowy cloud withdraws, I am to haste,
|
|
|
And all who under me their banners wave,
|
|
|
Homeward, with flying march, where we possess
|
|
|
The quarters of the north; there to prepare
|
|
|
Fit entertainment to receive our King,
|
|
|
The great Messiah, and his new commands,
|
|
|
Who speedily through all the hierarchies
|
|
|
Intends to pass triumphant, and give laws.
|
|
|
So spake the false Arch-Angel, and infused
|
|
|
Bad influence into the unwary breast
|
|
|
Of his associate: He together calls,
|
|
|
Or several one by one, the regent Powers,
|
|
|
Under him Regent; tells, as he was taught,
|
|
|
That the Most High commanding, now ere night,
|
|
|
Now ere dim night had disincumbered Heaven,
|
|
|
The great hierarchal standard was to move;
|
|
|
Tells the suggested cause, and casts between
|
|
|
Ambiguous words and jealousies, to sound
|
|
|
Or taint integrity: But all obeyed
|
|
|
The wonted signal, and superiour voice
|
|
|
Of their great Potentate; for great indeed
|
|
|
His name, and high was his degree in Heaven;
|
|
|
His countenance, as the morning-star that guides
|
|
|
The starry flock, allured them, and with lies
|
|
|
Drew after him the third part of Heaven's host.
|
|
|
Mean while the Eternal eye, whose sight discerns
|
|
|
Abstrusest thoughts, from forth his holy mount,
|
|
|
And from within the golden lamps that burn
|
|
|
Nightly before him, saw without their light
|
|
|
Rebellion rising; saw in whom, how spread
|
|
|
Among the sons of morn, what multitudes
|
|
|
Were banded to oppose his high decree;
|
|
|
And, smiling, to his only Son thus said.
|
|
|
Son, thou in whom my glory I behold
|
|
|
In full resplendence, Heir of all my might,
|
|
|
Nearly it now concerns us to be sure
|
|
|
Of our Omnipotence, and with what arms
|
|
|
We mean to hold what anciently we claim
|
|
|
Of deity or empire: Such a foe
|
|
|
Is rising, who intends to erect his throne
|
|
|
Equal to ours, throughout the spacious north;
|
|
|
Nor so content, hath in his thought to try
|
|
|
In battle, what our power is, or our right.
|
|
|
Let us advise, and to this hazard draw
|
|
|
With speed what force is left, and all employ
|
|
|
In our defence; lest unawares we lose
|
|
|
This our high place, our sanctuary, our hill.
|
|
|
To whom the Son with calm aspect and clear,
|
|
|
Lightning divine, ineffable, serene,
|
|
|
Made answer. Mighty Father, thou thy foes
|
|
|
Justly hast in derision, and, secure,
|
|
|
Laughest at their vain designs and tumults vain,
|
|
|
Matter to me of glory, whom their hate
|
|
|
Illustrates, when they see all regal power
|
|
|
Given me to quell their pride, and in event
|
|
|
Know whether I be dextrous to subdue
|
|
|
Thy rebels, or be found the worst in Heaven.
|
|
|
So spake the Son; but Satan, with his Powers,
|
|
|
Far was advanced on winged speed; an host
|
|
|
Innumerable as the stars of night,
|
|
|
Or stars of morning, dew-drops, which the sun
|
|
|
Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
|
|
|
Regions they passed, the mighty regencies
|
|
|
Of Seraphim, and Potentates, and Thrones,
|
|
|
In their triple degrees; regions to which
|
|
|
All thy dominion, Adam, is no more
|
|
|
Than what this garden is to all the earth,
|
|
|
And all the sea, from one entire globose
|
|
|
Stretched into longitude; which having passed,
|
|
|
At length into the limits of the north
|
|
|
They came; and Satan to his royal seat
|
|
|
High on a hill, far blazing, as a mount
|
|
|
Raised on a mount, with pyramids and towers
|
|
|
From diamond quarries hewn, and rocks of gold;
|
|
|
The palace of great Lucifer, (so call
|
|
|
That structure in the dialect of men
|
|
|
Interpreted,) which not long after, he
|
|
|
Affecting all equality with God,
|
|
|
In imitation of that mount whereon
|
|
|
Messiah was declared in sight of Heaven,
|
|
|
The Mountain of the Congregation called;
|
|
|
For thither he assembled all his train,
|
|
|
Pretending so commanded to consult
|
|
|
About the great reception of their King,
|
|
|
Thither to come, and with calumnious art
|
|
|
Of counterfeited truth thus held their ears.
|
|
|
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers;
|
|
|
If these magnifick titles yet remain
|
|
|
Not merely titular, since by decree
|
|
|
Another now hath to himself engrossed
|
|
|
All power, and us eclipsed under the name
|
|
|
Of King anointed, for whom all this haste
|
|
|
Of midnight-march, and hurried meeting here,
|
|
|
This only to consult how we may best,
|
|
|
With what may be devised of honours new,
|
|
|
Receive him coming to receive from us
|
|
|
Knee-tribute yet unpaid, prostration vile!
|
|
|
Too much to one! but double how endured,
|
|
|
To one, and to his image now proclaimed?
|
|
|
But what if better counsels might erect
|
|
|
Our minds, and teach us to cast off this yoke?
|
|
|
Will ye submit your necks, and choose to bend
|
|
|
The supple knee? Ye will not, if I trust
|
|
|
To know ye right, or if ye know yourselves
|
|
|
Natives and sons of Heaven possessed before
|
|
|
By none; and if not equal all, yet free,
|
|
|
Equally free; for orders and degrees
|
|
|
Jar not with liberty, but well consist.
|
|
|
Who can in reason then, or right, assume
|
|
|
Monarchy over such as live by right
|
|
|
His equals, if in power and splendour less,
|
|
|
In freedom equal? or can introduce
|
|
|
Law and edict on us, who without law
|
|
|
Err not? much less for this to be our Lord,
|
|
|
And look for adoration, to the abuse
|
|
|
Of those imperial titles, which assert
|
|
|
Our being ordained to govern, not to serve.
|
|
|
Thus far his bold discourse without controul
|
|
|
Had audience; when among the Seraphim
|
|
|
Abdiel, than whom none with more zeal adored
|
|
|
The Deity, and divine commands obeyed,
|
|
|
Stood up, and in a flame of zeal severe
|
|
|
The current of his fury thus opposed.
|
|
|
O argument blasphemous, false, and proud!
|
|
|
Words which no ear ever to hear in Heaven
|
|
|
Expected, least of all from thee, Ingrate,
|
|
|
In place thyself so high above thy peers.
|
|
|
Canst thou with impious obloquy condemn
|
|
|
The just decree of God, pronounced and sworn,
|
|
|
That to his only Son, by right endued
|
|
|
With regal scepter, every soul in Heaven
|
|
|
Shall bend the knee, and in that honour due
|
|
|
Confess him rightful King? unjust, thou sayest,
|
|
|
Flatly unjust, to bind with laws the free,
|
|
|
And equal over equals to let reign,
|
|
|
One over all with unsucceeded power.
|
|
|
Shalt thou give law to God? shalt thou dispute
|
|
|
With him the points of liberty, who made
|
|
|
Thee what thou art, and formed the Powers of Heaven
|
|
|
Such as he pleased, and circumscribed their being?
|
|
|
Yet, by experience taught, we know how good,
|
|
|
And of our good and of our dignity
|
|
|
How provident he is; how far from thought
|
|
|
To make us less, bent rather to exalt
|
|
|
Our happy state, under one head more near
|
|
|
United. But to grant it thee unjust,
|
|
|
That equal over equals monarch reign:
|
|
|
Thyself, though great and glorious, dost thou count,
|
|
|
Or all angelick nature joined in one,
|
|
|
Equal to him begotten Son? by whom,
|
|
|
As by his Word, the Mighty Father made
|
|
|
All things, even thee; and all the Spirits of Heaven
|
|
|
By him created in their bright degrees,
|
|
|
Crowned them with glory, and to their glory named
|
|
|
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,
|
|
|
Essential Powers; nor by his reign obscured,
|
|
|
But more illustrious made; since he the head
|
|
|
One of our number thus reduced becomes;
|
|
|
His laws our laws; all honour to him done
|
|
|
Returns our own. Cease then this impious rage,
|
|
|
And tempt not these; but hasten to appease
|
|
|
The incensed Father, and the incensed Son,
|
|
|
While pardon may be found in time besought.
|
|
|
So spake the fervent Angel; but his zeal
|
|
|
None seconded, as out of season judged,
|
|
|
Or singular and rash: Whereat rejoiced
|
|
|
The Apostate, and, more haughty, thus replied.
|
|
|
That we were formed then sayest thou? and the work
|
|
|
Of secondary hands, by task transferred
|
|
|
From Father to his Son? strange point and new!
|
|
|
Doctrine which we would know whence learned: who saw
|
|
|
When this creation was? rememberest thou
|
|
|
Thy making, while the Maker gave thee being?
|
|
|
We know no time when we were not as now;
|
|
|
Know none before us, self-begot, self-raised
|
|
|
By our own quickening power, when fatal course
|
|
|
Had circled his full orb, the birth mature
|
|
|
Of this our native Heaven, ethereal sons.
|
|
|
Our puissance is our own; our own right hand
|
|
|
Shall teach us highest deeds, by proof to try
|
|
|
Who is our equal: Then thou shalt behold
|
|
|
Whether by supplication we intend
|
|
|
Address, and to begirt the almighty throne
|
|
|
Beseeching or besieging. This report,
|
|
|
These tidings carry to the anointed King;
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And fly, ere evil intercept thy flight.
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He said; and, as the sound of waters deep,
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Hoarse murmur echoed to his words applause
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Through the infinite host; nor less for that
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The flaming Seraph fearless, though alone
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Encompassed round with foes, thus answered bold.
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O alienate from God, O Spirit accursed,
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Forsaken of all good! I see thy fall
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Determined, and thy hapless crew involved
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In this perfidious fraud, contagion spread
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Both of thy crime and punishment: Henceforth
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No more be troubled how to quit the yoke
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Of God's Messiah; those indulgent laws
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Will not be now vouchsafed; other decrees
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Against thee are gone forth without recall;
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That golden scepter, which thou didst reject,
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Is now an iron rod to bruise and break
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Thy disobedience. Well thou didst advise;
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Yet not for thy advice or threats I fly
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These wicked tents devoted, lest the wrath
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Impendent, raging into sudden flame,
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Distinguish not: For soon expect to feel
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His thunder on thy head, devouring fire.
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Then who created thee lamenting learn,
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When who can uncreate thee thou shalt know.
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So spake the Seraph Abdiel, faithful found
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Among the faithless, faithful only he;
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Among innumerable false, unmoved,
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Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,
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His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;
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Nor number, nor example, with him wrought
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To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind,
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Though single. From amidst them forth he passed,
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Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained
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Superiour, nor of violence feared aught;
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And, with retorted scorn, his back he turned
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On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.
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Book VI
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All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued,
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Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn,
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Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand
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Unbarred the gates of light. There is a cave
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Within the mount of God, fast by his throne,
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Where light and darkness in perpetual round
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Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heaven
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Grateful vicissitude, like day and night;
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Light issues forth, and at the other door
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Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour
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To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well
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Seem twilight here: And now went forth the Morn
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Such as in highest Heaven arrayed in gold
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Empyreal; from before her vanished Night,
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Shot through with orient beams; when all the plain
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Covered with thick embattled squadrons bright,
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Chariots, and flaming arms, and fiery steeds,
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Reflecting blaze on blaze, first met his view:
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War he perceived, war in procinct; and found
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Already known what he for news had thought
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To have reported: Gladly then he mixed
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Among those friendly Powers, who him received
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With joy and acclamations loud, that one,
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That of so many myriads fallen, yet one
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Returned not lost. On to the sacred hill
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They led him high applauded, and present
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Before the seat supreme; from whence a voice,
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From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard.
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Servant of God. Well done; well hast thou fought
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The better fight, who single hast maintained
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Against revolted multitudes the cause
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Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms;
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And for the testimony of truth hast borne
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Universal reproach, far worse to bear
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Than violence; for this was all thy care
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To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds
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Judged thee perverse: The easier conquest now
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Remains thee, aided by this host of friends,
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Back on thy foes more glorious to return,
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Than scorned thou didst depart; and to subdue
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By force, who reason for their law refuse,
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Right reason for their law, and for their King
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Messiah, who by right of merit reigns.
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Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince,
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And thou, in military prowess next,
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Gabriel, lead forth to battle these my sons
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Invincible; lead forth my armed Saints,
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By thousands and by millions, ranged for fight,
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Equal in number to that Godless crew
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Rebellious: Them with fire and hostile arms
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Fearless assault; and, to the brow of Heaven
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Pursuing, drive them out from God and bliss,
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Into their place of punishment, the gulf
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Of Tartarus, which ready opens wide
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His fiery Chaos to receive their fall.
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So spake the Sovran Voice, and clouds began
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To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll
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In dusky wreaths, reluctant flames, the sign
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Of wrath awaked; nor with less dread the loud
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Ethereal trumpet from on high 'gan blow:
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At which command the Powers militant,
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That stood for Heaven, in mighty quadrate joined
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Of union irresistible, moved on
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In silence their bright legions, to the sound
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Of instrumental harmony, that breathed
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Heroick ardour to adventurous deeds
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Under their God-like leaders, in the cause
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Of God and his Messiah. On they move
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Indissolubly firm; nor obvious hill,
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Nor straitening vale, nor wood, nor stream, divides
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Their perfect ranks; for high above the ground
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Their march was, and the passive air upbore
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Their nimble tread; as when the total kind
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Of birds, in orderly array on wing,
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Came summoned over Eden to receive
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Their names of thee; so over many a tract
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Of Heaven they marched, and many a province wide,
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Tenfold the length of this terrene: At last,
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Far in the horizon to the north appeared
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From skirt to skirt a fiery region, stretched
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In battailous aspect, and nearer view
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Bristled with upright beams innumerable
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Of rigid spears, and helmets thronged, and shields
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Various, with boastful argument portrayed,
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The banded Powers of Satan hasting on
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With furious expedition; for they weened
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That self-same day, by fight or by surprise,
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To win the mount of God, and on his throne
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To set the Envier of his state, the proud
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Aspirer; but their thoughts proved fond and vain
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In the mid way: Though strange to us it seemed
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At first, that Angel should with Angel war,
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And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet
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So oft in festivals of joy and love
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Unanimous, as sons of one great Sire,
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Hymning the Eternal Father: But the shout
|
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Of battle now began, and rushing sound
|
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|
Of onset ended soon each milder thought.
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High in the midst, exalted as a God,
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|
The Apostate in his sun-bright chariot sat,
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Idol of majesty divine, enclosed
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With flaming Cherubim, and golden shields;
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Then lighted from his gorgeous throne, for now
|
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|
"twixt host and host but narrow space was left,
|
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|
A dreadful interval, and front to front
|
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Presented stood in terrible array
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Of hideous length: Before the cloudy van,
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On the rough edge of battle ere it joined,
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Satan, with vast and haughty strides advanced,
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Came towering, armed in adamant and gold;
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Abdiel that sight endured not, where he stood
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Among the mightiest, bent on highest deeds,
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And thus his own undaunted heart explores.
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O Heaven! that such resemblance of the Highest
|
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Should yet remain, where faith and realty
|
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Remain not: Wherefore should not strength and might
|
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There fail where virtue fails, or weakest prove
|
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Where boldest, though to fight unconquerable?
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His puissance, trusting in the Almighty's aid,
|
|
|
I mean to try, whose reason I have tried
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Unsound and false; nor is it aught but just,
|
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That he, who in debate of truth hath won,
|
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|
Should win in arms, in both disputes alike
|
|
|
Victor; though brutish that contest and foul,
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When reason hath to deal with force, yet so
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Most reason is that reason overcome.
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So pondering, and from his armed peers
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Forth stepping opposite, half-way he met
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His daring foe, at this prevention more
|
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Incensed, and thus securely him defied.
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Proud, art thou met? thy hope was to have reached
|
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The highth of thy aspiring unopposed,
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The throne of God unguarded, and his side
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Abandoned, at the terrour of thy power
|
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Or potent tongue: Fool!not to think how vain
|
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Against the Omnipotent to rise in arms;
|
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|
Who out of smallest things could, without end,
|
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|
Have raised incessant armies to defeat
|
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Thy folly; or with solitary hand
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Reaching beyond all limit, at one blow,
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Unaided, could have finished thee, and whelmed
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Thy legions under darkness: But thou seest
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All are not of thy train; there be, who faith
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Prefer, and piety to God, though then
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To thee not visible, when I alone
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Seemed in thy world erroneous to dissent
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From all: My sect thou seest;now learn too late
|
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|
How few sometimes may know, when thousands err.
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|
Whom the grand foe, with scornful eye askance,
|
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Thus answered. Ill for thee, but in wished hour
|
|
|
Of my revenge, first sought for, thou returnest
|
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|
From flight, seditious Angel! to receive
|
|
|
Thy merited reward, the first assay
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|
Of this right hand provoked, since first that tongue,
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|
|
Inspired with contradiction, durst oppose
|
|
|
A third part of the Gods, in synod met
|
|
|
Their deities to assert; who, while they feel
|
|
|
Vigour divine within them, can allow
|
|
|
Omnipotence to none. But well thou comest
|
|
|
Before thy fellows, ambitious to win
|
|
|
From me some plume, that thy success may show
|
|
|
Destruction to the rest: This pause between,
|
|
|
(Unanswered lest thou boast) to let thee know,
|
|
|
At first I thought that Liberty and Heaven
|
|
|
To heavenly souls had been all one; but now
|
|
|
I see that most through sloth had rather serve,
|
|
|
Ministring Spirits, trained up in feast and song!
|
|
|
Such hast thou armed, the minstrelsy of Heaven,
|
|
|
Servility with freedom to contend,
|
|
|
As both their deeds compared this day shall prove.
|
|
|
To whom in brief thus Abdiel stern replied.
|
|
|
Apostate! still thou errest, nor end wilt find
|
|
|
Of erring, from the path of truth remote:
|
|
|
Unjustly thou depravest it with the name
|
|
|
Of servitude, to serve whom God ordains,
|
|
|
Or Nature: God and Nature bid the same,
|
|
|
When he who rules is worthiest, and excels
|
|
|
Them whom he governs. This is servitude,
|
|
|
To serve the unwise, or him who hath rebelled
|
|
|
Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee,
|
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|
Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled;
|
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|
Yet lewdly darest our ministring upbraid.
|
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|
Reign thou in Hell, thy kingdom; let me serve
|
|
|
In Heaven God ever blest, and his divine
|
|
|
Behests obey, worthiest to be obeyed;
|
|
|
Yet chains in Hell, not realms, expect: Mean while
|
|
|
From me returned, as erst thou saidst, from flight,
|
|
|
This greeting on thy impious crest receive.
|
|
|
So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high,
|
|
|
Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell
|
|
|
On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight,
|
|
|
Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield,
|
|
|
Such ruin intercept: Ten paces huge
|
|
|
He back recoiled; the tenth on bended knee
|
|
|
His massy spear upstaid; as if on earth
|
|
|
Winds under ground, or waters forcing way,
|
|
|
Sidelong had pushed a mountain from his seat,
|
|
|
Half sunk with all his pines. Amazement seised
|
|
|
The rebel Thrones, but greater rage, to see
|
|
|
Thus foiled their mightiest; ours joy filled, and shout,
|
|
|
Presage of victory, and fierce desire
|
|
|
Of battle: Whereat Michael bid sound
|
|
|
The Arch-Angel trumpet; through the vast of Heaven
|
|
|
It sounded, and the faithful armies rung
|
|
|
Hosanna to the Highest: Nor stood at gaze
|
|
|
The adverse legions, nor less hideous joined
|
|
|
The horrid shock. Now storming fury rose,
|
|
|
And clamour such as heard in Heaven till now
|
|
|
Was never; arms on armour clashing brayed
|
|
|
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
|
|
|
Of brazen chariots raged; dire was the noise
|
|
|
Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss
|
|
|
Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,
|
|
|
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
|
|
|
So under fiery cope together rushed
|
|
|
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
|
|
|
And inextinguishable rage. All Heaven
|
|
|
Resounded; and had Earth been then, all Earth
|
|
|
Had to her center shook. What wonder? when
|
|
|
Millions of fierce encountering Angels fought
|
|
|
On either side, the least of whom could wield
|
|
|
These elements, and arm him with the force
|
|
|
Of all their regions: How much more of power
|
|
|
Army against army numberless to raise
|
|
|
Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb,
|
|
|
Though not destroy, their happy native seat;
|
|
|
Had not the Eternal King Omnipotent,
|
|
|
From his strong hold of Heaven, high over-ruled
|
|
|
And limited their might; though numbered such
|
|
|
As each divided legion might have seemed
|
|
|
A numerous host; in strength each armed hand
|
|
|
A legion; led in fight, yet leader seemed
|
|
|
Each warriour single as in chief, expert
|
|
|
When to advance, or stand, or turn the sway
|
|
|
Of battle, open when, and when to close
|
|
|
The ridges of grim war: No thought of flight,
|
|
|
None of retreat, no unbecoming deed
|
|
|
That argued fear; each on himself relied,
|
|
|
As only in his arm the moment lay
|
|
|
Of victory: Deeds of eternal fame
|
|
|
Were done, but infinite; for wide was spread
|
|
|
That war and various; sometimes on firm ground
|
|
|
A standing fight, then, soaring on main wing,
|
|
|
Tormented all the air; all air seemed then
|
|
|
Conflicting fire. Long time in even scale
|
|
|
The battle hung; till Satan, who that day
|
|
|
Prodigious power had shown, and met in arms
|
|
|
No equal, ranging through the dire attack
|
|
|
Of fighting Seraphim confused, at length
|
|
|
Saw where the sword of Michael smote, and felled
|
|
|
Squadrons at once; with huge two-handed sway
|
|
|
Brandished aloft, the horrid edge came down
|
|
|
Wide-wasting; such destruction to withstand
|
|
|
He hasted, and opposed the rocky orb
|
|
|
Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield,
|
|
|
A vast circumference. At his approach
|
|
|
The great Arch-Angel from his warlike toil
|
|
|
Surceased, and glad, as hoping here to end
|
|
|
Intestine war in Heaven, the arch-foe subdued
|
|
|
Or captive dragged in chains, with hostile frown
|
|
|
And visage all inflamed first thus began.
|
|
|
Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt,
|
|
|
Unnamed in Heaven, now plenteous as thou seest
|
|
|
These acts of hateful strife, hateful to all,
|
|
|
Though heaviest by just measure on thyself,
|
|
|
And thy adherents: How hast thou disturbed
|
|
|
Heaven's blessed peace, and into nature brought
|
|
|
Misery, uncreated till the crime
|
|
|
Of thy rebellion! how hast thou instilled
|
|
|
Thy malice into thousands, once upright
|
|
|
And faithful, now proved false! But think not here
|
|
|
To trouble holy rest; Heaven casts thee out
|
|
|
From all her confines. Heaven, the seat of bliss,
|
|
|
Brooks not the works of violence and war.
|
|
|
Hence then, and evil go with thee along,
|
|
|
Thy offspring, to the place of evil, Hell;
|
|
|
Thou and thy wicked crew! there mingle broils,
|
|
|
Ere this avenging sword begin thy doom,
|
|
|
Or some more sudden vengeance, winged from God,
|
|
|
Precipitate thee with augmented pain.
|
|
|
So spake the Prince of Angels; to whom thus
|
|
|
The Adversary. Nor think thou with wind
|
|
|
Of aery threats to awe whom yet with deeds
|
|
|
Thou canst not. Hast thou turned the least of these
|
|
|
To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise
|
|
|
Unvanquished, easier to transact with me
|
|
|
That thou shouldst hope, imperious, and with threats
|
|
|
To chase me hence? err not, that so shall end
|
|
|
The strife which thou callest evil, but we style
|
|
|
The strife of glory; which we mean to win,
|
|
|
Or turn this Heaven itself into the Hell
|
|
|
Thou fablest; here however to dwell free,
|
|
|
If not to reign: Mean while thy utmost force,
|
|
|
And join him named Almighty to thy aid,
|
|
|
I fly not, but have sought thee far and nigh.
|
|
|
They ended parle, and both addressed for fight
|
|
|
Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue
|
|
|
Of Angels, can relate, or to what things
|
|
|
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift
|
|
|
Human imagination to such highth
|
|
|
Of Godlike power? for likest Gods they seemed,
|
|
|
Stood they or moved, in stature, motion, arms,
|
|
|
Fit to decide the empire of great Heaven.
|
|
|
Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air
|
|
|
Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields
|
|
|
Blazed opposite, while Expectation stood
|
|
|
In horrour: From each hand with speed retired,
|
|
|
Where erst was thickest fight, the angelick throng,
|
|
|
And left large field, unsafe within the wind
|
|
|
Of such commotion; such as, to set forth
|
|
|
Great things by small, if, nature's concord broke,
|
|
|
Among the constellations war were sprung,
|
|
|
Two planets, rushing from aspect malign
|
|
|
Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky
|
|
|
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.
|
|
|
Together both with next to almighty arm
|
|
|
Up-lifted imminent, one stroke they aimed
|
|
|
That might determine, and not need repeat,
|
|
|
As not of power at once; nor odds appeared
|
|
|
In might or swift prevention: But the sword
|
|
|
Of Michael from the armoury of God
|
|
|
Was given him tempered so, that neither keen
|
|
|
Nor solid might resist that edge: it met
|
|
|
The sword of Satan, with steep force to smite
|
|
|
Descending, and in half cut sheer; nor staid,
|
|
|
But with swift wheel reverse, deep entering, shared
|
|
|
All his right side: Then Satan first knew pain,
|
|
|
And writhed him to and fro convolved; so sore
|
|
|
The griding sword with discontinuous wound
|
|
|
Passed through him: But the ethereal substance closed,
|
|
|
Not long divisible; and from the gash
|
|
|
A stream of necturous humour issuing flowed
|
|
|
Sanguine, such as celestial Spirits may bleed,
|
|
|
And all his armour stained, ere while so bright.
|
|
|
Forthwith on all sides to his aid was run
|
|
|
By Angels many and strong, who interposed
|
|
|
Defence, while others bore him on their shields
|
|
|
Back to his chariot, where it stood retired
|
|
|
From off the files of war: There they him laid
|
|
|
Gnashing for anguish, and despite, and shame,
|
|
|
To find himself not matchless, and his pride
|
|
|
Humbled by such rebuke, so far beneath
|
|
|
His confidence to equal God in power.
|
|
|
Yet soon he healed; for Spirits that live throughout
|
|
|
Vital in every part, not as frail man
|
|
|
In entrails, heart of head, liver or reins,
|
|
|
Cannot but by annihilating die;
|
|
|
Nor in their liquid texture mortal wound
|
|
|
Receive, no more than can the fluid air:
|
|
|
All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear,
|
|
|
All intellect, all sense; and, as they please,
|
|
|
They limb themselves, and colour, shape, or size
|
|
|
Assume, as?kikes them best, condense or rare.
|
|
|
Mean while in other parts like deeds deserved
|
|
|
Memorial, where the might of Gabriel fought,
|
|
|
And with fierce ensigns pierced the deep array
|
|
|
Of Moloch, furious king; who him defied,
|
|
|
And at his chariot-wheels to drag him bound
|
|
|
Threatened, nor from the Holy One of Heaven
|
|
|
Refrained his tongue blasphemous; but anon
|
|
|
Down cloven to the waist, with shattered arms
|
|
|
And uncouth pain fled bellowing. On each wing
|
|
|
Uriel, and Raphael, his vaunting foe,
|
|
|
Though huge, and in a rock of diamond armed,
|
|
|
Vanquished Adramelech, and Asmadai,
|
|
|
Two potent Thrones, that to be less than Gods
|
|
|
Disdained, but meaner thoughts learned in their flight,
|
|
|
Mangled with ghastly wounds through plate and mail.
|
|
|
Nor stood unmindful Abdiel to annoy
|
|
|
The atheist crew, but with redoubled blow
|
|
|
Ariel, and Arioch, and the violence
|
|
|
Of Ramiel scorched and blasted, overthrew.
|
|
|
I might relate of thousands, and their names
|
|
|
Eternize here on earth; but those elect
|
|
|
Angels, contented with their fame in Heaven,
|
|
|
Seek not the praise of men: The other sort,
|
|
|
In might though wonderous and in acts of war,
|
|
|
Nor of renown less eager, yet by doom
|
|
|
Cancelled from Heaven and sacred memory,
|
|
|
Nameless in dark oblivion let them dwell.
|
|
|
For strength from truth divided, and from just,
|
|
|
Illaudable, nought merits but dispraise
|
|
|
And ignominy; yet to glory aspires
|
|
|
Vain-glorious, and through infamy seeks fame:
|
|
|
Therefore eternal silence be their doom.
|
|
|
And now, their mightiest quelled, the battle swerved,
|
|
|
With many an inroad gored; deformed rout
|
|
|
Entered, and foul disorder; all the ground
|
|
|
With shivered armour strown, and on a heap
|
|
|
Chariot and charioteer lay overturned,
|
|
|
And fiery-foaming steeds; what stood, recoiled
|
|
|
O'er-wearied, through the faint Satanick host
|
|
|
Defensive scarce, or with pale fear surprised,
|
|
|
Then first with fear surprised, and sense of pain,
|
|
|
Fled ignominious, to such evil brought
|
|
|
By sin of disobedience; till that hour
|
|
|
Not liable to fear, or flight, or pain.
|
|
|
Far otherwise the inviolable Saints,
|
|
|
In cubick phalanx firm, advanced entire,
|
|
|
Invulnerable, impenetrably armed;
|
|
|
Such high advantages their innocence
|
|
|
Gave them above their foes; not to have sinned,
|
|
|
Not to have disobeyed; in fight they stood
|
|
|
Unwearied, unobnoxious to be pained
|
|
|
By wound, though from their place by violence moved,
|
|
|
Now Night her course began, and, over Heaven
|
|
|
Inducing darkness, grateful truce imposed,
|
|
|
And silence on the odious din of war:
|
|
|
Under her cloudy covert both retired,
|
|
|
Victor and vanquished: On the foughten field
|
|
|
Michael and his Angels prevalent
|
|
|
Encamping, placed in guard their watches round,
|
|
|
Cherubick waving fires: On the other part,
|
|
|
Satan with his rebellious disappeared,
|
|
|
Far in the dark dislodged; and, void of rest,
|
|
|
His potentates to council called by night;
|
|
|
And in the midst thus undismayed began.
|
|
|
O now in danger tried, now known in arms
|
|
|
Not to be overpowered, Companions dear,
|
|
|
Found worthy not of liberty alone,
|
|
|
Too mean pretence! but what we more affect,
|
|
|
Honour, dominion, glory, and renown;
|
|
|
Who have sustained one day in doubtful fight,
|
|
|
(And if one day, why not eternal days?)
|
|
|
What Heaven's Lord had powerfullest to send
|
|
|
Against us from about his throne, and judged
|
|
|
Sufficient to subdue us to his will,
|
|
|
But proves not so: Then fallible, it seems,
|
|
|
Of future we may deem him, though till now
|
|
|
Omniscient thought. True is, less firmly armed,
|
|
|
Some disadvantage we endured and pain,
|
|
|
Till now not known, but, known, as soon contemned;
|
|
|
Since now we find this our empyreal form
|
|
|
Incapable of mortal injury,
|
|
|
Imperishable, and, though pierced with wound,
|
|
|
Soon closing, and by native vigour healed.
|
|
|
Of evil then so small as easy think
|
|
|
The remedy; perhaps more valid arms,
|
|
|
Weapons more violent, when next we meet,
|
|
|
May serve to better us, and worse our foes,
|
|
|
Or equal what between us made the odds,
|
|
|
In nature none: If other hidden cause
|
|
|
Left them superiour, while we can preserve
|
|
|
Unhurt our minds, and understanding sound,
|
|
|
Due search and consultation will disclose.
|
|
|
He sat; and in the assembly next upstood
|
|
|
Nisroch, of Principalities the prime;
|
|
|
As one he stood escaped from cruel fight,
|
|
|
Sore toiled, his riven arms to havock hewn,
|
|
|
And cloudy in aspect thus answering spake.
|
|
|
Deliverer from new Lords, leader to free
|
|
|
Enjoyment of our right as Gods; yet hard
|
|
|
For Gods, and too unequal work we find,
|
|
|
Against unequal arms to fight in pain,
|
|
|
Against unpained, impassive; from which evil
|
|
|
Ruin must needs ensue; for what avails
|
|
|
Valour or strength, though matchless, quelled with pain
|
|
|
Which all subdues, and makes remiss the hands
|
|
|
Of mightiest? Sense of pleasure we may well
|
|
|
Spare out of life perhaps, and not repine,
|
|
|
But live content, which is the calmest life:
|
|
|
But pain is perfect misery, the worst
|
|
|
Of evils, and, excessive, overturns
|
|
|
All patience. He, who therefore can invent
|
|
|
With what more forcible we may offend
|
|
|
Our yet unwounded enemies, or arm
|
|
|
Ourselves with like defence, to me deserves
|
|
|
No less than for deliverance what we owe.
|
|
|
Whereto with look composed Satan replied.
|
|
|
Not uninvented that, which thou aright
|
|
|
Believest so main to our success, I bring.
|
|
|
Which of us who beholds the bright surface
|
|
|
Of this ethereous mould whereon we stand,
|
|
|
This continent of spacious Heaven, adorned
|
|
|
With plant, fruit, flower ambrosial, gems, and gold;
|
|
|
Whose eye so superficially surveys
|
|
|
These things, as not to mind from whence they grow
|
|
|
Deep under ground, materials dark and crude,
|
|
|
Of spiritous and fiery spume, till touched
|
|
|
With Heaven's ray, and tempered, they shoot forth
|
|
|
So beauteous, opening to the ambient light?
|
|
|
These in their dark nativity the deep
|
|
|
Shall yield us, pregnant with infernal flame;
|
|
|
Which, into hollow engines, long and round,
|
|
|
Thick rammed, at the other bore with touch of fire
|
|
|
Dilated and infuriate, shall send forth
|
|
|
From far, with thundering noise, among our foes
|
|
|
Such implements of mischief, as shall dash
|
|
|
To pieces, and o'erwhelm whatever stands
|
|
|
Adverse, that they shall fear we have disarmed
|
|
|
The Thunderer of his only dreaded bolt.
|
|
|
Nor long shall be our labour; yet ere dawn,
|
|
|
Effect shall end our wish. Mean while revive;
|
|
|
Abandon fear; to strength and counsel joined
|
|
|
Think nothing hard, much less to be despaired.
|
|
|
He ended, and his words their drooping cheer
|
|
|
Enlightened, and their languished hope revived.
|
|
|
The invention all admired, and each, how he
|
|
|
To be the inventer missed; so easy it seemed
|
|
|
Once found, which yet unfound most would have thought
|
|
|
Impossible: Yet, haply, of thy race
|
|
|
In future days, if malice should abound,
|
|
|
Some one intent on mischief, or inspired
|
|
|
With devilish machination, might devise
|
|
|
Like instrument to plague the sons of men
|
|
|
For sin, on war and mutual slaughter bent.
|
|
|
Forthwith from council to the work they flew;
|
|
|
None arguing stood; innumerable hands
|
|
|
Were ready; in a moment up they turned
|
|
|
Wide the celestial soil, and saw beneath
|
|
|
The originals of nature in their crude
|
|
|
Conception; sulphurous and nitrous foam
|
|
|
They found, they mingled, and, with subtle art,
|
|
|
Concocted and adusted they reduced
|
|
|
To blackest grain, and into store conveyed:
|
|
|
Part hidden veins digged up (nor hath this earth
|
|
|
Entrails unlike) of mineral and stone,
|
|
|
Whereof to found their engines and their balls
|
|
|
Of missive ruin; part incentive reed
|
|
|
Provide, pernicious with one touch to fire.
|
|
|
So all ere day-spring, under conscious night,
|
|
|
Secret they finished, and in order set,
|
|
|
With silent circumspection, unespied.
|
|
|
Now when fair morn orient in Heaven appeared,
|
|
|
Up rose the victor-Angels, and to arms
|
|
|
The matin trumpet sung: In arms they stood
|
|
|
Of golden panoply, refulgent host,
|
|
|
Soon banded; others from the dawning hills
|
|
|
Look round, and scouts each coast light-armed scour,
|
|
|
Each quarter to descry the distant foe,
|
|
|
Where lodged, or whither fled, or if for fight,
|
|
|
In motion or in halt: Him soon they met
|
|
|
Under spread ensigns moving nigh, in slow
|
|
|
But firm battalion; back with speediest sail
|
|
|
Zophiel, of Cherubim the swiftest wing,
|
|
|
Came flying, and in mid air aloud thus cried.
|
|
|
Arm, Warriours, arm for fight; the foe at hand,
|
|
|
Whom fled we thought, will save us long pursuit
|
|
|
This day; fear not his flight;so thick a cloud
|
|
|
He comes, and settled in his face I see
|
|
|
Sad resolution, and secure: Let each
|
|
|
His adamantine coat gird well, and each
|
|
|
Fit well his helm, gripe fast his orbed shield,
|
|
|
Borne even or high; for this day will pour down,
|
|
|
If I conjecture aught, no drizzling shower,
|
|
|
But rattling storm of arrows barbed with fire.
|
|
|
So warned he them, aware themselves, and soon
|
|
|
In order, quit of all impediment;
|
|
|
Instant without disturb they took alarm,
|
|
|
And onward moved embattled: When behold!
|
|
|
Not distant far with heavy pace the foe
|
|
|
Approaching gross and huge, in hollow cube
|
|
|
Training his devilish enginery, impaled
|
|
|
On every side with shadowing squadrons deep,
|
|
|
To hide the fraud. At interview both stood
|
|
|
A while; but suddenly at head appeared
|
|
|
Satan, and thus was heard commanding loud.
|
|
|
Vanguard, to right and left the front unfold;
|
|
|
That all may see who hate us, how we seek
|
|
|
Peace and composure, and with open breast
|
|
|
Stand ready to receive them, if they like
|
|
|
Our overture; and turn not back perverse:
|
|
|
But that I doubt; however witness, Heaven!
|
|
|
Heaven, witness thou anon! while we discharge
|
|
|
Freely our part: ye, who appointed stand
|
|
|
Do as you have in charge, and briefly touch
|
|
|
What we propound, and loud that all may hear!
|
|
|
So scoffing in ambiguous words, he scarce
|
|
|
Had ended; when to right and left the front
|
|
|
Divided, and to either flank retired:
|
|
|
Which to our eyes discovered, new and strange,
|
|
|
A triple mounted row of pillars laid
|
|
|
On wheels (for like to pillars most they seemed,
|
|
|
Or hollowed bodies made of oak or fir,
|
|
|
With branches lopt, in wood or mountain felled,)
|
|
|
Brass, iron, stony mould, had not their mouths
|
|
|
With hideous orifice gaped on us wide,
|
|
|
Portending hollow truce: At each behind
|
|
|
A Seraph stood, and in his hand a reed
|
|
|
Stood waving tipt with fire; while we, suspense,
|
|
|
Collected stood within our thoughts amused,
|
|
|
Not long; for sudden all at once their reeds
|
|
|
Put forth, and to a narrow vent applied
|
|
|
With nicest touch. Immediate in a flame,
|
|
|
But soon obscured with smoke, all Heaven appeared,
|
|
|
From those deep-throated engines belched, whose roar
|
|
|
Embowelled with outrageous noise the air,
|
|
|
And all her entrails tore, disgorging foul
|
|
|
Their devilish glut, chained thunderbolts and hail
|
|
|
Of iron globes; which, on the victor host
|
|
|
Levelled, with such impetuous fury smote,
|
|
|
That, whom they hit, none on their feet might stand,
|
|
|
Though standing else as rocks, but down they fell
|
|
|
By thousands, Angel on Arch-Angel rolled;
|
|
|
The sooner for their arms; unarmed, they might
|
|
|
Have easily, as Spirits, evaded swift
|
|
|
By quick contraction or remove; but now
|
|
|
Foul dissipation followed, and forced rout;
|
|
|
Nor served it to relax their serried files.
|
|
|
What should they do? if on they rushed, repulse
|
|
|
Repeated, and indecent overthrow
|
|
|
Doubled, would render them yet more despised,
|
|
|
And to their foes a laughter; for in view
|
|
|
Stood ranked of Seraphim another row,
|
|
|
In posture to displode their second tire
|
|
|
Of thunder: Back defeated to return
|
|
|
They worse abhorred. Satan beheld their plight,
|
|
|
And to his mates thus in derision called.
|
|
|
O Friends! why come not on these victors proud
|
|
|
Ere while they fierce were coming; and when we,
|
|
|
To entertain them fair with open front
|
|
|
And breast, (what could we more?) propounded terms
|
|
|
Of composition, straight they changed their minds,
|
|
|
Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell,
|
|
|
As they would dance; yet for a dance they seemed
|
|
|
Somewhat extravagant and wild; perhaps
|
|
|
For joy of offered peace: But I suppose,
|
|
|
If our proposals once again were heard,
|
|
|
We should compel them to a quick result.
|
|
|
To whom thus Belial, in like gamesome mood.
|
|
|
Leader! the terms we sent were terms of weight,
|
|
|
Of hard contents, and full of force urged home;
|
|
|
Such as we might perceive amused them all,
|
|
|
And stumbled many: Who receives them right,
|
|
|
Had need from head to foot well understand;
|
|
|
Not understood, this gift they have besides,
|
|
|
They show us when our foes walk not upright.
|
|
|
So they among themselves in pleasant vein
|
|
|
Stood scoffing, hightened in their thoughts beyond
|
|
|
All doubt of victory: Eternal Might
|
|
|
To match with their inventions they presumed
|
|
|
So easy, and of his thunder made a scorn,
|
|
|
And all his host derided, while they stood
|
|
|
A while in trouble: But they stood not long;
|
|
|
Rage prompted them at length, and found them arms
|
|
|
Against such hellish mischief fit to oppose.
|
|
|
Forthwith (behold the excellence, the power,
|
|
|
Which God hath in his mighty Angels placed!)
|
|
|
Their arms away they threw, and to the hills
|
|
|
(For Earth hath this variety from Heaven
|
|
|
Of pleasure situate in hill and dale,)
|
|
|
Light as the lightning glimpse they ran, they flew;
|
|
|
From their foundations loosening to and fro,
|
|
|
They plucked the seated hills, with all their load,
|
|
|
Rocks, waters, woods, and by the shaggy tops
|
|
|
Up-lifting bore them in their hands: Amaze,
|
|
|
Be sure, and terrour, seized the rebel host,
|
|
|
When coming towards them so dread they saw
|
|
|
The bottom of the mountains upward turned;
|
|
|
Till on those cursed engines' triple-row
|
|
|
They saw them whelmed, and all their confidence
|
|
|
Under the weight of mountains buried deep;
|
|
|
Themselves invaded next, and on their heads
|
|
|
Main promontories flung, which in the air
|
|
|
Came shadowing, and oppressed whole legions armed;
|
|
|
Their armour helped their harm, crushed in and bruised
|
|
|
Into their substance pent, which wrought them pain
|
|
|
Implacable, and many a dolorous groan;
|
|
|
Long struggling underneath, ere they could wind
|
|
|
Out of such prison, though Spirits of purest light,
|
|
|
Purest at first, now gross by sinning grown.
|
|
|
The rest, in imitation, to like arms
|
|
|
Betook them, and the neighbouring hills uptore:
|
|
|
So hills amid the air encountered hills,
|
|
|
Hurled to and fro with jaculation dire;
|
|
|
That under ground they fought in dismal shade;
|
|
|
Infernal noise! war seemed a civil game
|
|
|
To this uproar; horrid confusion heaped
|
|
|
Upon confusion rose: And now all Heaven
|
|
|
Had gone to wrack, with ruin overspread;
|
|
|
Had not the Almighty Father, where he sits
|
|
|
Shrined in his sanctuary of Heaven secure,
|
|
|
Consulting on the sum of things, foreseen
|
|
|
This tumult, and permitted all, advised:
|
|
|
That his great purpose he might so fulfil,
|
|
|
To honour his anointed Son avenged
|
|
|
Upon his enemies, and to declare
|
|
|
All power on him transferred: Whence to his Son,
|
|
|
The Assessour of his throne, he thus began.
|
|
|
Effulgence of my glory, Son beloved,
|
|
|
Son, in whose face invisible is beheld
|
|
|
Visibly, what by Deity I am;
|
|
|
And in whose hand what by decree I do,
|
|
|
Second Omnipotence! two days are past,
|
|
|
Two days, as we compute the days of Heaven,
|
|
|
Since Michael and his Powers went forth to tame
|
|
|
These disobedient: Sore hath been their fight,
|
|
|
As likeliest was, when two such foes met armed;
|
|
|
For to themselves I left them; and thou knowest,
|
|
|
Equal in their creation they were formed,
|
|
|
Save what sin hath impaired; which yet hath wrought
|
|
|
Insensibly, for I suspend their doom;
|
|
|
Whence in perpetual fight they needs must last
|
|
|
Endless, and no solution will be found:
|
|
|
War wearied hath performed what war can do,
|
|
|
And to disordered rage let loose the reins
|
|
|
With mountains, as with weapons, armed; which makes
|
|
|
Wild work in Heaven, and dangerous to the main.
|
|
|
Two days are therefore past, the third is thine;
|
|
|
For thee I have ordained it; and thus far
|
|
|
Have suffered, that the glory may be thine
|
|
|
Of ending this great war, since none but Thou
|
|
|
Can end it. Into thee such virtue and grace
|
|
|
Immense I have transfused, that all may know
|
|
|
In Heaven and Hell thy power above compare;
|
|
|
And, this perverse commotion governed thus,
|
|
|
To manifest thee worthiest to be Heir
|
|
|
Of all things; to be Heir, and to be King
|
|
|
By sacred unction, thy deserved right.
|
|
|
Go then, Thou Mightiest, in thy Father's might;
|
|
|
Ascend my chariot, guide the rapid wheels
|
|
|
That shake Heaven's basis, bring forth all my war,
|
|
|
My bow and thunder, my almighty arms
|
|
|
Gird on, and sword upon thy puissant thigh;
|
|
|
Pursue these sons of darkness, drive them out
|
|
|
From all Heaven's bounds into the utter deep:
|
|
|
There let them learn, as likes them, to despise
|
|
|
God, and Messiah his anointed King.
|
|
|
He said, and on his Son with rays direct
|
|
|
Shone full; he all his Father full expressed
|
|
|
Ineffably into his face received;
|
|
|
And thus the Filial Godhead answering spake.
|
|
|
O Father, O Supreme of heavenly Thrones,
|
|
|
First, Highest, Holiest, Best; thou always seek'st
|
|
|
To glorify thy Son, I always thee,
|
|
|
As is most just: This I my glory account,
|
|
|
My exaltation, and my whole delight,
|
|
|
That thou, in me well pleased, declarest thy will
|
|
|
Fulfilled, which to fulfil is all my bliss.
|
|
|
Scepter and power, thy giving, I assume,
|
|
|
And gladlier shall resign, when in the end
|
|
|
Thou shalt be all in all, and I in thee
|
|
|
For ever; and in me all whom thou lovest:
|
|
|
But whom thou hatest, I hate, and can put on
|
|
|
Thy terrours, as I put thy mildness on,
|
|
|
Image of thee in all things; and shall soon,
|
|
|
Armed with thy might, rid Heaven of these rebelled;
|
|
|
To their prepared ill mansion driven down,
|
|
|
To chains of darkness, and the undying worm;
|
|
|
That from thy just obedience could revolt,
|
|
|
Whom to obey is happiness entire.
|
|
|
Then shall thy Saints unmixed, and from the impure
|
|
|
Far separate, circling thy holy mount,
|
|
|
Unfeigned Halleluiahs to thee sing,
|
|
|
Hymns of high praise, and I among them Chief.
|
|
|
So said, he, o'er his scepter bowing, rose
|
|
|
From the right hand of Glory where he sat;
|
|
|
And the third sacred morn began to shine,
|
|
|
Dawning through Heaven. Forth rushed with whirlwind sound
|
|
|
The chariot of Paternal Deity,
|
|
|
Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel undrawn,
|
|
|
Itself instinct with Spirit, but convoyed
|
|
|
By four Cherubick shapes; four faces each
|
|
|
Had wonderous; as with stars, their bodies all
|
|
|
And wings were set with eyes; with eyes the wheels
|
|
|
Of beryl, and careering fires between;
|
|
|
Over their heads a crystal firmament,
|
|
|
Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure
|
|
|
Amber, and colours of the showery arch.
|
|
|
He, in celestial panoply all armed
|
|
|
Of radiant Urim, work divinely wrought,
|
|
|
Ascended; at his right hand Victory
|
|
|
Sat eagle-winged; beside him hung his bow
|
|
|
And quiver with three-bolted thunder stored;
|
|
|
And from about him fierce effusion rolled
|
|
|
Of smoke, and bickering flame, and sparkles dire:
|
|
|
Attended with ten thousand thousand Saints,
|
|
|
He onward came; far off his coming shone;
|
|
|
And twenty thousand (I their number heard)
|
|
|
Chariots of God, half on each hand, were seen;
|
|
|
He on the wings of Cherub rode sublime
|
|
|
On the crystalline sky, in sapphire throned,
|
|
|
Illustrious far and wide; but by his own
|
|
|
First seen: Them unexpected joy surprised,
|
|
|
When the great ensign of Messiah blazed
|
|
|
Aloft by Angels borne, his sign in Heaven;
|
|
|
Under whose conduct Michael soon reduced
|
|
|
His army, circumfused on either wing,
|
|
|
Under their Head imbodied all in one.
|
|
|
Before him Power Divine his way prepared;
|
|
|
At his command the uprooted hills retired
|
|
|
Each to his place; they heard his voice, and went
|
|
|
Obsequious; Heaven his wonted face renewed,
|
|
|
And with fresh flowerets hill and valley smiled.
|
|
|
This saw his hapless foes, but stood obdured,
|
|
|
And to rebellious fight rallied their Powers,
|
|
|
Insensate, hope conceiving from despair.
|
|
|
In heavenly Spirits could such perverseness dwell?
|
|
|
But to convince the proud what signs avail,
|
|
|
Or wonders move the obdurate to relent?
|
|
|
They, hardened more by what might most reclaim,
|
|
|
Grieving to see his glory, at the sight
|
|
|
Took envy; and, aspiring to his highth,
|
|
|
Stood re-embattled fierce, by force or fraud
|
|
|
Weening to prosper, and at length prevail
|
|
|
Against God and Messiah, or to fall
|
|
|
In universal ruin last; and now
|
|
|
To final battle drew, disdaining flight,
|
|
|
Or faint retreat; when the great Son of God
|
|
|
To all his host on either hand thus spake.
|
|
|
Stand still in bright array, ye Saints; here stand,
|
|
|
Ye Angels armed; this day from battle rest:
|
|
|
Faithful hath been your warfare, and of God
|
|
|
Accepted, fearless in his righteous cause;
|
|
|
And as ye have received, so have ye done,
|
|
|
Invincibly: But of this cursed crew
|
|
|
The punishment to other hand belongs;
|
|
|
Vengeance is his, or whose he sole appoints:
|
|
|
Number to this day's work is not ordained,
|
|
|
Nor multitude; stand only, and behold
|
|
|
God's indignation on these godless poured
|
|
|
By me; not you, but me, they have despised,
|
|
|
Yet envied; against me is all their rage,
|
|
|
Because the Father, to whom in Heaven s'preme
|
|
|
Kingdom, and power, and glory appertains,
|
|
|
Hath honoured me, according to his will.
|
|
|
Therefore to me their doom he hath assigned;
|
|
|
That they may have their wish, to try with me
|
|
|
In battle which the stronger proves; they all,
|
|
|
Or I alone against them; since by strength
|
|
|
They measure all, of other excellence
|
|
|
Not emulous, nor care who them excels;
|
|
|
Nor other strife with them do I vouchsafe.
|
|
|
So spake the Son, and into terrour changed
|
|
|
His countenance too severe to be beheld,
|
|
|
And full of wrath bent on his enemies.
|
|
|
At once the Four spread out their starry wings
|
|
|
With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs
|
|
|
Of his fierce chariot rolled, as with the sound
|
|
|
Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host.
|
|
|
He on his impious foes right onward drove,
|
|
|
Gloomy as night; under his burning wheels
|
|
|
The stedfast empyrean shook throughout,
|
|
|
All but the throne itself of God. Full soon
|
|
|
Among them he arrived; in his right hand
|
|
|
Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent
|
|
|
Before him, such as in their souls infixed
|
|
|
Plagues: They, astonished, all resistance lost,
|
|
|
All courage; down their idle weapons dropt:
|
|
|
O'er shields, and helms, and helmed heads he rode
|
|
|
Of Thrones and mighty Seraphim prostrate,
|
|
|
That wished the mountains now might be again
|
|
|
Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire.
|
|
|
Nor less on either side tempestuous fell
|
|
|
His arrows, from the fourfold-visaged Four
|
|
|
Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels
|
|
|
Distinct alike with multitude of eyes;
|
|
|
One Spirit in them ruled; and every eye
|
|
|
Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire
|
|
|
Among the accursed, that withered all their strength,
|
|
|
And of their wonted vigour left them drained,
|
|
|
Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen.
|
|
|
Yet half his strength he put not forth, but checked
|
|
|
His thunder in mid volley; for he meant
|
|
|
Not to destroy, but root them out of Heaven:
|
|
|
The overthrown he raised, and as a herd
|
|
|
Of goats or timorous flock together thronged
|
|
|
Drove them before him thunder-struck, pursued
|
|
|
With terrours, and with furies, to the bounds
|
|
|
And crystal wall of Heaven; which, opening wide,
|
|
|
Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosed
|
|
|
Into the wasteful deep: The monstrous sight
|
|
|
Struck them with horrour backward, but far worse
|
|
|
Urged them behind: Headlong themselves they threw
|
|
|
Down from the verge of Heaven; eternal wrath
|
|
|
Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.
|
|
|
Hell heard the unsufferable noise, Hell saw
|
|
|
Heaven ruining from Heaven, and would have fled
|
|
|
Affrighted; but strict Fate had cast too deep
|
|
|
Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound.
|
|
|
Nine days they fell: Confounded Chaos roared,
|
|
|
And felt tenfold confusion in their fall
|
|
|
Through his wild anarchy, so huge a rout
|
|
|
Incumbered him with ruin: Hell at last
|
|
|
Yawning received them whole, and on them closed;
|
|
|
Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire
|
|
|
Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain.
|
|
|
Disburdened Heaven rejoiced, and soon repaired
|
|
|
Her mural breach, returning whence it rolled.
|
|
|
Sole victor, from the expulsion of his foes,
|
|
|
Messiah his triumphal chariot turned:
|
|
|
To meet him all his Saints, who silent stood
|
|
|
Eye-witnesses of his almighty acts,
|
|
|
With jubilee advanced; and, as they went,
|
|
|
Shaded with branching palm, each Order bright,
|
|
|
Sung triumph, and him sung victorious King,
|
|
|
Son, Heir, and Lord, to him dominion given,
|
|
|
Worthiest to reign: He, celebrated, rode
|
|
|
Triumphant through mid Heaven, into the courts
|
|
|
And temple of his Mighty Father throned
|
|
|
On high; who into glory him received,
|
|
|
Where now he sits at the right hand of bliss.
|
|
|
Thus, measuring things in Heaven by things on Earth,
|
|
|
At thy request, and that thou mayest beware
|
|
|
By what is past, to thee I have revealed
|
|
|
What might have else to human race been hid;
|
|
|
The discord which befel, and war in Heaven
|
|
|
Among the angelick Powers, and the deep fall
|
|
|
Of those too high aspiring, who rebelled
|
|
|
With Satan; he who envies now thy state,
|
|
|
Who now is plotting how he may seduce
|
|
|
Thee also from obedience, that, with him
|
|
|
Bereaved of happiness, thou mayest partake
|
|
|
His punishment, eternal misery;
|
|
|
Which would be all his solace and revenge,
|
|
|
As a despite done against the Most High,
|
|
|
Thee once to gain companion of his woe.
|
|
|
But listen not to his temptations, warn
|
|
|
Thy weaker; let it profit thee to have heard,
|
|
|
By terrible example, the reward
|
|
|
Of disobedience; firm they might have stood,
|
|
|
Yet fell; remember, and fear to transgress.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Book VII
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
|
|
|
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
|
|
|
Following, above the Olympian hill I soar,
|
|
|
Above the flight of Pegasean wing!
|
|
|
The meaning, not the name, I call: for thou
|
|
|
Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top
|
|
|
Of old Olympus dwellest; but, heavenly-born,
|
|
|
Before the hills appeared, or fountain flowed,
|
|
|
Thou with eternal Wisdom didst converse,
|
|
|
Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play
|
|
|
In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased
|
|
|
With thy celestial song. Up led by thee
|
|
|
Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
|
|
|
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air,
|
|
|
Thy tempering: with like safety guided down
|
|
|
Return me to my native element:
|
|
|
Lest from this flying steed unreined, (as once
|
|
|
Bellerophon, though from a lower clime,)
|
|
|
Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall,
|
|
|
Erroneous there to wander, and forlorn.
|
|
|
Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound
|
|
|
Within the visible diurnal sphere;
|
|
|
Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole,
|
|
|
More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged
|
|
|
To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days,
|
|
|
On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues;
|
|
|
In darkness, and with dangers compassed round,
|
|
|
And solitude; yet not alone, while thou
|
|
|
Visitest my slumbers nightly, or when morn
|
|
|
Purples the east: still govern thou my song,
|
|
|
Urania, and fit audience find, though few.
|
|
|
But drive far off the barbarous dissonance
|
|
|
Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race
|
|
|
Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard
|
|
|
In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears
|
|
|
To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned
|
|
|
Both harp and voice; nor could the Muse defend
|
|
|
Her son. So fail not thou, who thee implores:
|
|
|
For thou art heavenly, she an empty dream.
|
|
|
Say, Goddess, what ensued when Raphael,
|
|
|
The affable Arch-Angel, had forewarned
|
|
|
Adam, by dire example, to beware
|
|
|
Apostasy, by what befel in Heaven
|
|
|
To those apostates; lest the like befall
|
|
|
In Paradise to Adam or his race,
|
|
|
Charged not to touch the interdicted tree,
|
|
|
If they transgress, and slight that sole command,
|
|
|
So easily obeyed amid the choice
|
|
|
Of all tastes else to please their appetite,
|
|
|
Though wandering. He, with his consorted Eve,
|
|
|
The story heard attentive, and was filled
|
|
|
With admiration and deep muse, to hear
|
|
|
Of things so high and strange; things, to their thought
|
|
|
So unimaginable, as hate in Heaven,
|
|
|
And war so near the peace of God in bliss,
|
|
|
With such confusion: but the evil, soon
|
|
|
Driven back, redounded as a flood on those
|
|
|
From whom it sprung; impossible to mix
|
|
|
With blessedness. Whence Adam soon repealed
|
|
|
The doubts that in his heart arose: and now
|
|
|
Led on, yet sinless, with desire to know
|
|
|
What nearer might concern him, how this world
|
|
|
Of Heaven and Earth conspicuous first began;
|
|
|
When, and whereof created; for what cause;
|
|
|
What within Eden, or without, was done
|
|
|
Before his memory; as one whose drouth
|
|
|
Yet scarce allayed still eyes the current stream,
|
|
|
Whose liquid murmur heard new thirst excites,
|
|
|
Proceeded thus to ask his heavenly guest.
|
|
|
Great things, and full of wonder in our ears,
|
|
|
Far differing from this world, thou hast revealed,
|
|
|
Divine interpreter! by favour sent
|
|
|
Down from the empyrean, to forewarn
|
|
|
Us timely of what might else have been our loss,
|
|
|
Unknown, which human knowledge could not reach;
|
|
|
For which to the infinitely Good we owe
|
|
|
Immortal thanks, and his admonishment
|
|
|
Receive, with solemn purpose to observe
|
|
|
Immutably his sovran will, the end
|
|
|
Of what we are. But since thou hast vouchsafed
|
|
|
Gently, for our instruction, to impart
|
|
|
Things above earthly thought, which yet concerned
|
|
|
Our knowing, as to highest wisdom seemed,
|
|
|
Deign to descend now lower, and relate
|
|
|
What may no less perhaps avail us known,
|
|
|
How first began this Heaven which we behold
|
|
|
Distant so high, with moving fires adorned
|
|
|
Innumerable; and this which yields or fills
|
|
|
All space, the ambient air wide interfused
|
|
|
Embracing round this floried Earth; what cause
|
|
|
Moved the Creator, in his holy rest
|
|
|
Through all eternity, so late to build
|
|
|
In Chaos; and the work begun, how soon
|
|
|
Absolved; if unforbid thou mayest unfold
|
|
|
What we, not to explore the secrets ask
|
|
|
Of his eternal empire, but the more
|
|
|
To magnify his works, the more we know.
|
|
|
And the great light of day yet wants to run
|
|
|
Much of his race though steep; suspense in Heaven,
|
|
|
Held by thy voice, thy potent voice, he hears,
|
|
|
And longer will delay to hear thee tell
|
|
|
His generation, and the rising birth
|
|
|
Of Nature from the unapparent Deep:
|
|
|
Or if the star of evening and the moon
|
|
|
Haste to thy audience, Night with her will bring,
|
|
|
Silence; and Sleep, listening to thee, will watch;
|
|
|
Or we can bid his absence, till thy song
|
|
|
End, and dismiss thee ere the morning shine.
|
|
|
Thus Adam his illustrious guest besought:
|
|
|
And thus the Godlike Angel answered mild.
|
|
|
This also thy request, with caution asked,
|
|
|
Obtain; though to recount almighty works
|
|
|
What words or tongue of Seraph can suffice,
|
|
|
Or heart of man suffice to comprehend?
|
|
|
Yet what thou canst attain, which best may serve
|
|
|
To glorify the Maker, and infer
|
|
|
Thee also happier, shall not be withheld
|
|
|
Thy hearing; such commission from above
|
|
|
I have received, to answer thy desire
|
|
|
Of knowledge within bounds; beyond, abstain
|
|
|
To ask; nor let thine own inventions hope
|
|
|
Things not revealed, which the invisible King,
|
|
|
Only Omniscient, hath suppressed in night;
|
|
|
To none communicable in Earth or Heaven:
|
|
|
Enough is left besides to search and know.
|
|
|
But knowledge is as food, and needs no less
|
|
|
Her temperance over appetite, to know
|
|
|
In measure what the mind may well contain;
|
|
|
Oppresses else with surfeit, and soon turns
|
|
|
Wisdom to folly, as nourishment to wind.
|
|
|
Know then, that, after Lucifer from Heaven
|
|
|
(So call him, brighter once amidst the host
|
|
|
Of Angels, than that star the stars among,)
|
|
|
Fell with his flaming legions through the deep
|
|
|
Into his place, and the great Son returned
|
|
|
Victorious with his Saints, the Omnipotent
|
|
|
Eternal Father from his throne beheld
|
|
|
Their multitude, and to his Son thus spake.
|
|
|
At least our envious Foe hath failed, who thought
|
|
|
All like himself rebellious, by whose aid
|
|
|
This inaccessible high strength, the seat
|
|
|
Of Deity supreme, us dispossessed,
|
|
|
He trusted to have seised, and into fraud
|
|
|
Drew many, whom their place knows here no more:
|
|
|
Yet far the greater part have kept, I see,
|
|
|
Their station; Heaven, yet populous, retains
|
|
|
Number sufficient to possess her realms
|
|
|
Though wide, and this high temple to frequent
|
|
|
With ministeries due, and solemn rites:
|
|
|
But, lest his heart exalt him in the harm
|
|
|
Already done, to have dispeopled Heaven,
|
|
|
My damage fondly deemed, I can repair
|
|
|
That detriment, if such it be to lose
|
|
|
Self-lost; and in a moment will create
|
|
|
Another world, out of one man a race
|
|
|
Of men innumerable, there to dwell,
|
|
|
Not here; till, by degrees of merit raised,
|
|
|
They open to themselves at length the way
|
|
|
Up hither, under long obedience tried;
|
|
|
And Earth be changed to Heaven, and Heaven to Earth,
|
|
|
One kingdom, joy and union without end.
|
|
|
Mean while inhabit lax, ye Powers of Heaven;
|
|
|
And thou my Word, begotten Son, by thee
|
|
|
This I perform; speak thou, and be it done!
|
|
|
My overshadowing Spirit and Might with thee
|
|
|
I send along; ride forth, and bid the Deep
|
|
|
Within appointed bounds be Heaven and Earth;
|
|
|
Boundless the Deep, because I Am who fill
|
|
|
Infinitude, nor vacuous the space.
|
|
|
Though I, uncircumscribed myself, retire,
|
|
|
And put not forth my goodness, which is free
|
|
|
To act or not, Necessity and Chance
|
|
|
Approach not me, and what I will is Fate.
|
|
|
So spake the Almighty, and to what he spake
|
|
|
His Word, the Filial Godhead, gave effect.
|
|
|
Immediate are the acts of God, more swift
|
|
|
Than time or motion, but to human ears
|
|
|
Cannot without process of speech be told,
|
|
|
So told as earthly notion can receive.
|
|
|
Great triumph and rejoicing was in Heaven,
|
|
|
When such was heard declared the Almighty's will;
|
|
|
Glory they sung to the Most High, good will
|
|
|
To future men, and in their dwellings peace;
|
|
|
Glory to Him, whose just avenging ire
|
|
|
Had driven out the ungodly from his sight
|
|
|
And the habitations of the just; to Him
|
|
|
Glory and praise, whose wisdom had ordained
|
|
|
Good out of evil to create; instead
|
|
|
Of Spirits malign, a better race to bring
|
|
|
Into their vacant room, and thence diffuse
|
|
|
His good to worlds and ages infinite.
|
|
|
So sang the Hierarchies: Mean while the Son
|
|
|
On his great expedition now appeared,
|
|
|
Girt with Omnipotence, with radiance crowned
|
|
|
Of Majesty Divine; sapience and love
|
|
|
Immense, and all his Father in him shone.
|
|
|
About his chariot numberless were poured
|
|
|
Cherub, and Seraph, Potentates, and Thrones,
|
|
|
And Virtues, winged Spirits, and chariots winged
|
|
|
From the armoury of God; where stand of old
|
|
|
Myriads, between two brazen mountains lodged
|
|
|
Against a solemn day, harnessed at hand,
|
|
|
Celestial equipage; and now came forth
|
|
|
Spontaneous, for within them Spirit lived,
|
|
|
Attendant on their Lord: Heaven opened wide
|
|
|
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound
|
|
|
On golden hinges moving, to let forth
|
|
|
The King of Glory, in his powerful Word
|
|
|
And Spirit, coming to create new worlds.
|
|
|
On heavenly ground they stood; and from the shore
|
|
|
They viewed the vast immeasurable abyss
|
|
|
Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild,
|
|
|
Up from the bottom turned by furious winds
|
|
|
And surging waves, as mountains, to assault
|
|
|
Heaven's highth, and with the center mix the pole.
|
|
|
Silence, ye troubled Waves, and thou Deep, peace,
|
|
|
Said then the Omnifick Word; your discord end!
|
|
|
Nor staid; but, on the wings of Cherubim
|
|
|
Uplifted, in paternal glory rode
|
|
|
Far into Chaos, and the world unborn;
|
|
|
For Chaos heard his voice: Him all his train
|
|
|
Followed in bright procession, to behold
|
|
|
Creation, and the wonders of his might.
|
|
|
Then staid the fervid wheels, and in his hand
|
|
|
He took the golden compasses, prepared
|
|
|
In God's eternal store, to circumscribe
|
|
|
This universe, and all created things:
|
|
|
One foot he centered, and the other turned
|
|
|
Round through the vast profundity obscure;
|
|
|
And said, Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds,
|
|
|
This be thy just circumference, O World!
|
|
|
Thus God the Heaven created, thus the Earth,
|
|
|
Matter unformed and void: Darkness profound
|
|
|
Covered the abyss: but on the watery calm
|
|
|
His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread,
|
|
|
And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth
|
|
|
Throughout the fluid mass; but downward purged
|
|
|
The black tartareous cold infernal dregs,
|
|
|
Adverse to life: then founded, then conglobed
|
|
|
Like things to like; the rest to several place
|
|
|
Disparted, and between spun out the air;
|
|
|
And Earth self-balanced on her center hung.
|
|
|
Let there be light, said God; and forthwith Light
|
|
|
Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure,
|
|
|
Sprung from the deep; and from her native east
|
|
|
To journey through the aery gloom began,
|
|
|
Sphered in a radiant cloud, for yet the sun
|
|
|
Was not; she in a cloudy tabernacle
|
|
|
Sojourned the while. God saw the light was good;
|
|
|
And light from darkness by the hemisphere
|
|
|
Divided: light the Day, and darkness Night,
|
|
|
He named. Thus was the first day even and morn:
|
|
|
Nor past uncelebrated, nor unsung
|
|
|
By the celestial quires, when orient light
|
|
|
Exhaling first from darkness they beheld;
|
|
|
Birth-day of Heaven and Earth; with joy and shout
|
|
|
The hollow universal orb they filled,
|
|
|
And touched their golden harps, and hymning praised
|
|
|
God and his works; Creator him they sung,
|
|
|
Both when first evening was, and when first morn.
|
|
|
Again, God said, Let there be firmament
|
|
|
Amid the waters, and let it divide
|
|
|
The waters from the waters; and God made
|
|
|
The firmament, expanse of liquid, pure,
|
|
|
Transparent, elemental air, diffused
|
|
|
In circuit to the uttermost convex
|
|
|
Of this great round; partition firm and sure,
|
|
|
The waters underneath from those above
|
|
|
Dividing: for as earth, so he the world
|
|
|
Built on circumfluous waters calm, in wide
|
|
|
Crystalline ocean, and the loud misrule
|
|
|
Of Chaos far removed; lest fierce extremes
|
|
|
Contiguous might distemper the whole frame:
|
|
|
And Heaven he named the Firmament: So even
|
|
|
And morning chorus sung the second day.
|
|
|
The Earth was formed, but in the womb as yet
|
|
|
Of waters, embryon immature involved,
|
|
|
Appeared not: over all the face of Earth
|
|
|
Main ocean flowed, not idle; but, with warm
|
|
|
Prolifick humour softening all her globe,
|
|
|
Fermented the great mother to conceive,
|
|
|
Satiate with genial moisture; when God said,
|
|
|
Be gathered now ye waters under Heaven
|
|
|
Into one place, and let dry land appear.
|
|
|
Immediately the mountains huge appear
|
|
|
Emergent, and their broad bare backs upheave
|
|
|
Into the clouds; their tops ascend the sky:
|
|
|
So high as heaved the tumid hills, so low
|
|
|
Down sunk a hollow bottom broad and deep,
|
|
|
Capacious bed of waters: Thither they
|
|
|
Hasted with glad precipitance, uprolled,
|
|
|
As drops on dust conglobing from the dry:
|
|
|
Part rise in crystal wall, or ridge direct,
|
|
|
For haste; such flight the great command impressed
|
|
|
On the swift floods: As armies at the call
|
|
|
Of trumpet (for of armies thou hast heard)
|
|
|
Troop to their standard; so the watery throng,
|
|
|
Wave rolling after wave, where way they found,
|
|
|
If steep, with torrent rapture, if through plain,
|
|
|
Soft-ebbing; nor withstood them rock or hill;
|
|
|
But they, or under ground, or circuit wide
|
|
|
With serpent errour wandering, found their way,
|
|
|
And on the washy oose deep channels wore;
|
|
|
Easy, ere God had bid the ground be dry,
|
|
|
All but within those banks, where rivers now
|
|
|
Stream, and perpetual draw their humid train.
|
|
|
The dry land, Earth; and the great receptacle
|
|
|
Of congregated waters, he called Seas:
|
|
|
And saw that it was good; and said, Let the Earth
|
|
|
Put forth the verdant grass, herb yielding seed,
|
|
|
And fruit-tree yielding fruit after her kind,
|
|
|
Whose seed is in herself upon the Earth.
|
|
|
He scarce had said, when the bare Earth, till then
|
|
|
Desart and bare, unsightly, unadorned,
|
|
|
Brought forth the tender grass, whose verdure clad
|
|
|
Her universal face with pleasant green;
|
|
|
Then herbs of every leaf, that sudden flowered
|
|
|
Opening their various colours, and made gay
|
|
|
Her bosom, smelling sweet: and, these scarce blown,
|
|
|
Forth flourished thick the clustering vine, forth crept
|
|
|
The swelling gourd, up stood the corny reed
|
|
|
Embattled in her field, and the humble shrub,
|
|
|
And bush with frizzled hair implicit: Last
|
|
|
Rose, as in dance, the stately trees, and spread
|
|
|
Their branches hung with copious fruit, or gemmed
|
|
|
Their blossoms: With high woods the hills were crowned;
|
|
|
With tufts the valleys, and each fountain side;
|
|
|
With borders long the rivers: that Earth now
|
|
|
Seemed like to Heaven, a seat where Gods might dwell,
|
|
|
Or wander with delight, and love to haunt
|
|
|
Her sacred shades: though God had yet not rained
|
|
|
Upon the Earth, and man to till the ground
|
|
|
None was; but from the Earth a dewy mist
|
|
|
Went up, and watered all the ground, and each
|
|
|
Plant of the field; which, ere it was in the Earth,
|
|
|
God made, and every herb, before it grew
|
|
|
On the green stem: God saw that it was good:
|
|
|
So even and morn recorded the third day.
|
|
|
Again the Almighty spake, Let there be lights
|
|
|
High in the expanse of Heaven, to divide
|
|
|
The day from night; and let them be for signs,
|
|
|
For seasons, and for days, and circling years;
|
|
|
And let them be for lights, as I ordain
|
|
|
Their office in the firmament of Heaven,
|
|
|
To give light on the Earth; and it was so.
|
|
|
And God made two great lights, great for their use
|
|
|
To Man, the greater to have rule by day,
|
|
|
The less by night, altern; and made the stars,
|
|
|
And set them in the firmament of Heaven
|
|
|
To illuminate the Earth, and rule the day
|
|
|
In their vicissitude, and rule the night,
|
|
|
And light from darkness to divide. God saw,
|
|
|
Surveying his great work, that it was good:
|
|
|
For of celestial bodies first the sun
|
|
|
A mighty sphere he framed, unlightsome first,
|
|
|
Though of ethereal mould: then formed the moon
|
|
|
Globose, and every magnitude of stars,
|
|
|
And sowed with stars the Heaven, thick as a field:
|
|
|
Of light by far the greater part he took,
|
|
|
Transplanted from her cloudy shrine, and placed
|
|
|
In the sun's orb, made porous to receive
|
|
|
And drink the liquid light; firm to retain
|
|
|
Her gathered beams, great palace now of light.
|
|
|
Hither, as to their fountain, other stars
|
|
|
Repairing, in their golden urns draw light,
|
|
|
And hence the morning-planet gilds her horns;
|
|
|
By tincture or reflection they augment
|
|
|
Their small peculiar, though from human sight
|
|
|
So far remote, with diminution seen,
|
|
|
First in his east the glorious lamp was seen,
|
|
|
Regent of day, and all the horizon round
|
|
|
Invested with bright rays, jocund to run
|
|
|
His longitude through Heaven's high road; the gray
|
|
|
Dawn, and the Pleiades, before him danced,
|
|
|
Shedding sweet influence: Less bright the moon,
|
|
|
But opposite in levelled west was set,
|
|
|
His mirrour, with full face borrowing her light
|
|
|
From him; for other light she needed none
|
|
|
In that aspect, and still that distance keeps
|
|
|
Till night; then in the east her turn she shines,
|
|
|
Revolved on Heaven's great axle, and her reign
|
|
|
With thousand lesser lights dividual holds,
|
|
|
With thousand thousand stars, that then appeared
|
|
|
Spangling the hemisphere: Then first adorned
|
|
|
With their bright luminaries that set and rose,
|
|
|
Glad evening and glad morn crowned the fourth day.
|
|
|
And God said, Let the waters generate
|
|
|
Reptile with spawn abundant, living soul:
|
|
|
And let fowl fly above the Earth, with wings
|
|
|
Displayed on the open firmament of Heaven.
|
|
|
And God created the great whales, and each
|
|
|
Soul living, each that crept, which plenteously
|
|
|
The waters generated by their kinds;
|
|
|
And every bird of wing after his kind;
|
|
|
And saw that it was good, and blessed them, saying.
|
|
|
Be fruitful, multiply, and in the seas,
|
|
|
And lakes, and running streams, the waters fill;
|
|
|
And let the fowl be multiplied, on the Earth.
|
|
|
Forthwith the sounds and seas, each creek and bay,
|
|
|
With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals
|
|
|
Of fish that with their fins, and shining scales,
|
|
|
Glide under the green wave, in sculls that oft
|
|
|
Bank the mid sea: part single, or with mate,
|
|
|
Graze the sea-weed their pasture, and through groves
|
|
|
Of coral stray; or, sporting with quick glance,
|
|
|
Show to the sun their waved coats dropt with gold;
|
|
|
Or, in their pearly shells at ease, attend
|
|
|
Moist nutriment; or under rocks their food
|
|
|
In jointed armour watch: on smooth the seal
|
|
|
And bended dolphins play: part huge of bulk
|
|
|
Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait,
|
|
|
Tempest the ocean: there leviathan,
|
|
|
Hugest of living creatures, on the deep
|
|
|
Stretched like a promontory sleeps or swims,
|
|
|
And seems a moving land; and at his gills
|
|
|
Draws in, and at his trunk spouts out, a sea.
|
|
|
Mean while the tepid caves, and fens, and shores,
|
|
|
Their brood as numerous hatch, from the egg that soon
|
|
|
Bursting with kindly rupture forth disclosed
|
|
|
Their callow young; but feathered soon and fledge
|
|
|
They summed their pens; and, soaring the air sublime,
|
|
|
With clang despised the ground, under a cloud
|
|
|
In prospect; there the eagle and the stork
|
|
|
On cliffs and cedar tops their eyries build:
|
|
|
Part loosely wing the region, part more wise
|
|
|
In common, ranged in figure, wedge their way,
|
|
|
Intelligent of seasons, and set forth
|
|
|
Their aery caravan, high over seas
|
|
|
Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing
|
|
|
Easing their flight; so steers the prudent crane
|
|
|
Her annual voyage, borne on winds; the air
|
|
|
Floats as they pass, fanned with unnumbered plumes:
|
|
|
From branch to branch the smaller birds with song
|
|
|
Solaced the woods, and spread their painted wings
|
|
|
Till even; nor then the solemn nightingale
|
|
|
Ceased warbling, but all night tun'd her soft lays:
|
|
|
Others, on silver lakes and rivers, bathed
|
|
|
Their downy breast; the swan with arched neck,
|
|
|
Between her white wings mantling proudly, rows
|
|
|
Her state with oary feet; yet oft they quit
|
|
|
The dank, and, rising on stiff pennons, tower
|
|
|
The mid aereal sky: Others on ground
|
|
|
Walked firm; the crested cock whose clarion sounds
|
|
|
The silent hours, and the other whose gay train
|
|
|
Adorns him, coloured with the florid hue
|
|
|
Of rainbows and starry eyes. The waters thus
|
|
|
With fish replenished, and the air with fowl,
|
|
|
Evening and morn solemnized the fifth day.
|
|
|
The sixth, and of creation last, arose
|
|
|
With evening harps and matin; when God said,
|
|
|
Let the Earth bring forth soul living in her kind,
|
|
|
Cattle, and creeping things, and beast of the Earth,
|
|
|
Each in their kind. The Earth obeyed, and straight
|
|
|
Opening her fertile womb teemed at a birth
|
|
|
Innumerous living creatures, perfect forms,
|
|
|
Limbed and full grown: Out of the ground up rose,
|
|
|
As from his lair, the wild beast where he wons
|
|
|
In forest wild, in thicket, brake, or den;
|
|
|
Among the trees in pairs they rose, they walked:
|
|
|
The cattle in the fields and meadows green:
|
|
|
Those rare and solitary, these in flocks
|
|
|
Pasturing at once, and in broad herds upsprung.
|
|
|
The grassy clods now calved; now half appeared
|
|
|
The tawny lion, pawing to get free
|
|
|
His hinder parts, then springs as broke from bonds,
|
|
|
And rampant shakes his brinded mane; the ounce,
|
|
|
The libbard, and the tiger, as the mole
|
|
|
Rising, the crumbled earth above them threw
|
|
|
In hillocks: The swift stag from under ground
|
|
|
Bore up his branching head: Scarce from his mould
|
|
|
Behemoth biggest born of earth upheaved
|
|
|
His vastness: Fleeced the flocks and bleating rose,
|
|
|
As plants: Ambiguous between sea and land
|
|
|
The river-horse, and scaly crocodile.
|
|
|
At once came forth whatever creeps the ground,
|
|
|
Insect or worm: those waved their limber fans
|
|
|
For wings, and smallest lineaments exact
|
|
|
In all the liveries decked of summer's pride
|
|
|
With spots of gold and purple, azure and green:
|
|
|
These, as a line, their long dimension drew,
|
|
|
Streaking the ground with sinuous trace; not all
|
|
|
Minims of nature; some of serpent-kind,
|
|
|
Wonderous in length and corpulence, involved
|
|
|
Their snaky folds, and added wings. First crept
|
|
|
The parsimonious emmet, provident
|
|
|
Of future; in small room large heart enclosed;
|
|
|
Pattern of just equality perhaps
|
|
|
Hereafter, joined in her popular tribes
|
|
|
Of commonalty: Swarming next appeared
|
|
|
The female bee, that feeds her husband drone
|
|
|
Deliciously, and builds her waxen cells
|
|
|
With honey stored: The rest are numberless,
|
|
|
And thou their natures knowest, and gavest them names,
|
|
|
Needless to thee repeated; nor unknown
|
|
|
The serpent, subtlest beast of all the field,
|
|
|
Of huge extent sometimes, with brazen eyes
|
|
|
And hairy mane terrifick, though to thee
|
|
|
Not noxious, but obedient at thy call.
|
|
|
Now Heaven in all her glory shone, and rolled
|
|
|
Her motions, as the great first Mover's hand
|
|
|
First wheeled their course: Earth in her rich attire
|
|
|
Consummate lovely smiled; air, water, earth,
|
|
|
By fowl, fish, beast, was flown, was swum, was walked,
|
|
|
Frequent; and of the sixth day yet remained:
|
|
|
There wanted yet the master-work, the end
|
|
|
Of all yet done; a creature, who, not prone
|
|
|
And brute as other creatures, but endued
|
|
|
With sanctity of reason, might erect
|
|
|
His stature, and upright with front serene
|
|
|
Govern the rest, self-knowing; and from thence
|
|
|
Magnanimous to correspond with Heaven,
|
|
|
But grateful to acknowledge whence his good
|
|
|
Descends, thither with heart, and voice, and eyes
|
|
|
Directed in devotion, to adore
|
|
|
And worship God Supreme, who made him chief
|
|
|
Of all his works: therefore the Omnipotent
|
|
|
Eternal Father (for where is not he
|
|
|
Present?) thus to his Son audibly spake.
|
|
|
Let us make now Man in our image, Man
|
|
|
In our similitude, and let them rule
|
|
|
Over the fish and fowl of sea and air,
|
|
|
Beast of the field, and over all the Earth,
|
|
|
And every creeping thing that creeps the ground.
|
|
|
This said, he formed thee, Adam, thee, O Man,
|
|
|
Dust of the ground, and in thy nostrils breathed
|
|
|
The breath of life; in his own image he
|
|
|
Created thee, in the image of God
|
|
|
Express; and thou becamest a living soul.
|
|
|
Male he created thee; but thy consort
|
|
|
Female, for race; then blessed mankind, and said,
|
|
|
Be fruitful, multiply, and fill the Earth;
|
|
|
Subdue it, and throughout dominion hold
|
|
|
Over fish of the sea, and fowl of the air,
|
|
|
And every living thing that moves on the Earth.
|
|
|
Wherever thus created, for no place
|
|
|
Is yet distinct by name, thence, as thou knowest,
|
|
|
He brought thee into this delicious grove,
|
|
|
This garden, planted with the trees of God,
|
|
|
Delectable both to behold and taste;
|
|
|
And freely all their pleasant fruit for food
|
|
|
Gave thee; all sorts are here that all the Earth yields,
|
|
|
Variety without end; but of the tree,
|
|
|
Which, tasted, works knowledge of good and evil,
|
|
|
Thou mayest not; in the day thou eatest, thou diest;
|
|
|
Death is the penalty imposed; beware,
|
|
|
And govern well thy appetite; lest Sin
|
|
|
Surprise thee, and her black attendant Death.
|
|
|
Here finished he, and all that he had made
|
|
|
Viewed, and behold all was entirely good;
|
|
|
So even and morn accomplished the sixth day:
|
|
|
Yet not till the Creator from his work
|
|
|
Desisting, though unwearied, up returned,
|
|
|
Up to the Heaven of Heavens, his high abode;
|
|
|
Thence to behold this new created world,
|
|
|
The addition of his empire, how it showed
|
|
|
In prospect from his throne, how good, how fair,
|
|
|
Answering his great idea. Up he rode
|
|
|
Followed with acclamation, and the sound
|
|
|
Symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tuned
|
|
|
Angelick harmonies: The earth, the air
|
|
|
Resounded, (thou rememberest, for thou heardst,)
|
|
|
The heavens and all the constellations rung,
|
|
|
The planets in their station listening stood,
|
|
|
While the bright pomp ascended jubilant.
|
|
|
Open, ye everlasting gates! they sung,
|
|
|
Open, ye Heavens! your living doors;let in
|
|
|
The great Creator from his work returned
|
|
|
Magnificent, his six days work, a World;
|
|
|
Open, and henceforth oft; for God will deign
|
|
|
To visit oft the dwellings of just men,
|
|
|
Delighted; and with frequent intercourse
|
|
|
Thither will send his winged messengers
|
|
|
On errands of supernal grace. So sung
|
|
|
The glorious train ascending: He through Heaven,
|
|
|
That opened wide her blazing portals, led
|
|
|
To God's eternal house direct the way;
|
|
|
A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold
|
|
|
And pavement stars, as stars to thee appear,
|
|
|
Seen in the galaxy, that milky way,
|
|
|
Which nightly, as a circling zone, thou seest
|
|
|
Powdered with stars. And now on Earth the seventh
|
|
|
Evening arose in Eden, for the sun
|
|
|
Was set, and twilight from the east came on,
|
|
|
Forerunning night; when at the holy mount
|
|
|
Of Heaven's high-seated top, the imperial throne
|
|
|
Of Godhead, fixed for ever firm and sure,
|
|
|
The Filial Power arrived, and sat him down
|
|
|
With his great Father; for he also went
|
|
|
Invisible, yet staid, (such privilege
|
|
|
Hath Omnipresence) and the work ordained,
|
|
|
Author and End of all things; and, from work
|
|
|
Now resting, blessed and hallowed the seventh day,
|
|
|
As resting on that day from all his work,
|
|
|
But not in silence holy kept: the harp
|
|
|
Had work and rested not; the solemn pipe,
|
|
|
And dulcimer, all organs of sweet stop,
|
|
|
All sounds on fret by string or golden wire,
|
|
|
Tempered soft tunings, intermixed with voice
|
|
|
Choral or unison: of incense clouds,
|
|
|
Fuming from golden censers, hid the mount.
|
|
|
Creation and the six days acts they sung:
|
|
|
Great are thy works, Jehovah! infinite
|
|
|
Thy power! what thought can measure thee, or tongue
|
|
|
Relate thee! Greater now in thy return
|
|
|
Than from the giant Angels: Thee that day
|
|
|
Thy thunders magnified; but to create
|
|
|
Is greater than created to destroy.
|
|
|
Who can impair thee, Mighty King, or bound
|
|
|
Thy empire! Easily the proud attempt
|
|
|
Of Spirits apostate, and their counsels vain,
|
|
|
Thou hast repelled; while impiously they thought
|
|
|
Thee to diminish, and from thee withdraw
|
|
|
The number of thy worshippers. Who seeks
|
|
|
To lessen thee, against his purpose serves
|
|
|
To manifest the more thy might: his evil
|
|
|
Thou usest, and from thence createst more good.
|
|
|
Witness this new-made world, another Heaven
|
|
|
From Heaven-gate not far, founded in view
|
|
|
On the clear hyaline, the glassy sea;
|
|
|
Of amplitude almost immense, with stars
|
|
|
Numerous, and every star perhaps a world
|
|
|
Of destined habitation; but thou knowest
|
|
|
Their seasons: among these the seat of Men,
|
|
|
Earth, with her nether ocean circumfused,
|
|
|
Their pleasant dwelling-place. Thrice happy Men,
|
|
|
And sons of Men, whom God hath thus advanced!
|
|
|
Created in his image, there to dwell
|
|
|
And worship him; and in reward to rule
|
|
|
Over his works, on earth, in sea, or air,
|
|
|
And multiply a race of worshippers
|
|
|
Holy and just: Thrice happy, if they know
|
|
|
Their happiness, and persevere upright!
|
|
|
So sung they, and the empyrean rung
|
|
|
With halleluiahs: Thus was sabbath kept.
|
|
|
And thy request think now fulfilled, that asked
|
|
|
How first this world and face of things began,
|
|
|
And what before thy memory was done
|
|
|
From the beginning; that posterity,
|
|
|
Informed by thee, might know: If else thou seekest
|
|
|
Aught, not surpassing human measure, say.
|
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|
Book VIII
|
|
|
|
|
|
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|
|
The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear
|
|
|
So charming left his voice, that he a while
|
|
|
Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear;
|
|
|
Then, as new waked, thus gratefully replied.
|
|
|
What thanks sufficient, or what recompence
|
|
|
Equal, have I to render thee, divine
|
|
|
Historian, who thus largely hast allayed
|
|
|
The thirst I had of knowledge, and vouchsafed
|
|
|
This friendly condescension to relate
|
|
|
Things, else by me unsearchable; now heard
|
|
|
With wonder, but delight, and, as is due,
|
|
|
With glory attributed to the high
|
|
|
Creator! Something yet of doubt remains,
|
|
|
Which only thy solution can resolve.
|
|
|
When I behold this goodly frame, this world,
|
|
|
Of Heaven and Earth consisting; and compute
|
|
|
Their magnitudes; this Earth, a spot, a grain,
|
|
|
An atom, with the firmament compared
|
|
|
And all her numbered stars, that seem to roll
|
|
|
Spaces incomprehensible, (for such
|
|
|
Their distance argues, and their swift return
|
|
|
Diurnal,) merely to officiate light
|
|
|
Round this opacous Earth, this punctual spot,
|
|
|
One day and night; in all her vast survey
|
|
|
Useless besides; reasoning I oft admire,
|
|
|
How Nature wise and frugal could commit
|
|
|
Such disproportions, with superfluous hand
|
|
|
So many nobler bodies to create,
|
|
|
Greater so manifold, to this one use,
|
|
|
For aught appears, and on their orbs impose
|
|
|
Such restless revolution day by day
|
|
|
Repeated; while the sedentary Earth,
|
|
|
That better might with far less compass move,
|
|
|
Served by more noble than herself, attains
|
|
|
Her end without least motion, and receives,
|
|
|
As tribute, such a sumless journey brought
|
|
|
Of incorporeal speed, her warmth and light;
|
|
|
Speed, to describe whose swiftness number fails.
|
|
|
So spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed
|
|
|
Entering on studious thoughts abstruse; which Eve
|
|
|
Perceiving, where she sat retired in sight,
|
|
|
With lowliness majestick from her seat,
|
|
|
And grace that won who saw to wish her stay,
|
|
|
Rose, and went forth among her fruits and flowers,
|
|
|
To visit how they prospered, bud and bloom,
|
|
|
Her nursery; they at her coming sprung,
|
|
|
And, touched by her fair tendance, gladlier grew.
|
|
|
Yet went she not, as not with such discourse
|
|
|
Delighted, or not capable her ear
|
|
|
Of what was high: such pleasure she reserved,
|
|
|
Adam relating, she sole auditress;
|
|
|
Her husband the relater she preferred
|
|
|
Before the Angel, and of him to ask
|
|
|
Chose rather; he, she knew, would intermix
|
|
|
Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute
|
|
|
With conjugal caresses: from his lip
|
|
|
Not words alone pleased her. O! when meet now
|
|
|
Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
|
|
|
With Goddess-like demeanour forth she went,
|
|
|
Not unattended; for on her, as Queen,
|
|
|
A pomp of winning Graces waited still,
|
|
|
And from about her shot darts of desire
|
|
|
Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight.
|
|
|
And Raphael now, to Adam's doubt proposed,
|
|
|
Benevolent and facile thus replied.
|
|
|
To ask or search, I blame thee not; for Heaven
|
|
|
Is as the book of God before thee set,
|
|
|
Wherein to read his wonderous works, and learn
|
|
|
His seasons, hours, or days, or months, or years:
|
|
|
This to attain, whether Heaven move or Earth,
|
|
|
Imports not, if thou reckon right; the rest
|
|
|
From Man or Angel the great Architect
|
|
|
Did wisely to conceal, and not divulge
|
|
|
His secrets to be scanned by them who ought
|
|
|
Rather admire; or, if they list to try
|
|
|
Conjecture, he his fabrick of the Heavens
|
|
|
Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move
|
|
|
His laughter at their quaint opinions wide
|
|
|
Hereafter; when they come to model Heaven
|
|
|
And calculate the stars, how they will wield
|
|
|
The mighty frame; how build, unbuild, contrive
|
|
|
To save appearances; how gird the sphere
|
|
|
With centrick and eccentrick scribbled o'er,
|
|
|
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb:
|
|
|
Already by thy reasoning this I guess,
|
|
|
Who art to lead thy offspring, and supposest
|
|
|
That bodies bright and greater should not serve
|
|
|
The less not bright, nor Heaven such journeys run,
|
|
|
Earth sitting still, when she alone receives
|
|
|
The benefit: Consider first, that great
|
|
|
Or bright infers not excellence: the Earth
|
|
|
Though, in comparison of Heaven, so small,
|
|
|
Nor glistering, may of solid good contain
|
|
|
More plenty than the sun that barren shines;
|
|
|
Whose virtue on itself works no effect,
|
|
|
But in the fruitful Earth; there first received,
|
|
|
His beams, unactive else, their vigour find.
|
|
|
Yet not to Earth are those bright luminaries
|
|
|
Officious; but to thee, Earth's habitant.
|
|
|
And for the Heaven's wide circuit, let it speak
|
|
|
The Maker's high magnificence, who built
|
|
|
So spacious, and his line stretched out so far;
|
|
|
That Man may know he dwells not in his own;
|
|
|
An edifice too large for him to fill,
|
|
|
Lodged in a small partition; and the rest
|
|
|
Ordained for uses to his Lord best known.
|
|
|
The swiftness of those circles attribute,
|
|
|
Though numberless, to his Omnipotence,
|
|
|
That to corporeal substances could add
|
|
|
Speed almost spiritual: Me thou thinkest not slow,
|
|
|
Who since the morning-hour set out from Heaven
|
|
|
Where God resides, and ere mid-day arrived
|
|
|
In Eden; distance inexpressible
|
|
|
By numbers that have name. But this I urge,
|
|
|
Admitting motion in the Heavens, to show
|
|
|
Invalid that which thee to doubt it moved;
|
|
|
Not that I so affirm, though so it seem
|
|
|
To thee who hast thy dwelling here on Earth.
|
|
|
God, to remove his ways from human sense,
|
|
|
Placed Heaven from Earth so far, that earthly sight,
|
|
|
If it presume, might err in things too high,
|
|
|
And no advantage gain. What if the sun
|
|
|
Be center to the world; and other stars,
|
|
|
By his attractive virtue and their own
|
|
|
Incited, dance about him various rounds?
|
|
|
Their wandering course now high, now low, then hid,
|
|
|
Progressive, retrograde, or standing still,
|
|
|
In six thou seest; and what if seventh to these
|
|
|
The planet earth, so stedfast though she seem,
|
|
|
Insensibly three different motions move?
|
|
|
Which else to several spheres thou must ascribe,
|
|
|
Moved contrary with thwart obliquities;
|
|
|
Or save the sun his labour, and that swift
|
|
|
Nocturnal and diurnal rhomb supposed,
|
|
|
Invisible else above all stars, the wheel
|
|
|
Of day and night; which needs not thy belief,
|
|
|
If earth, industrious of herself, fetch day
|
|
|
Travelling east, and with her part averse
|
|
|
From the sun's beam meet night, her other part
|
|
|
Still luminous by his ray. What if that light,
|
|
|
Sent from her through the wide transpicuous air,
|
|
|
To the terrestrial moon be as a star,
|
|
|
Enlightening her by day, as she by night
|
|
|
This earth? reciprocal, if land be there,
|
|
|
Fields and inhabitants: Her spots thou seest
|
|
|
As clouds, and clouds may rain, and rain produce
|
|
|
Fruits in her softened soil for some to eat
|
|
|
Allotted there; and other suns perhaps,
|
|
|
With their attendant moons, thou wilt descry,
|
|
|
Communicating male and female light;
|
|
|
Which two great sexes animate the world,
|
|
|
Stored in each orb perhaps with some that live.
|
|
|
For such vast room in Nature unpossessed
|
|
|
By living soul, desart and desolate,
|
|
|
Only to shine, yet scarce to contribute
|
|
|
Each orb a glimpse of light, conveyed so far
|
|
|
Down to this habitable, which returns
|
|
|
Light back to them, is obvious to dispute.
|
|
|
But whether thus these things, or whether not;
|
|
|
But whether the sun, predominant in Heaven,
|
|
|
Rise on the earth; or earth rise on the sun;
|
|
|
He from the east his flaming road begin;
|
|
|
Or she from west her silent course advance,
|
|
|
With inoffensive pace that spinning sleeps
|
|
|
On her soft axle, while she paces even,
|
|
|
And bears thee soft with the smooth hair along;
|
|
|
Sollicit not thy thoughts with matters hid;
|
|
|
Leave them to God above; him serve, and fear!
|
|
|
Of other creatures, as him pleases best,
|
|
|
Wherever placed, let him dispose; joy thou
|
|
|
In what he gives to thee, this Paradise
|
|
|
And thy fair Eve; Heaven is for thee too high
|
|
|
To know what passes there; be lowly wise:
|
|
|
Think only what concerns thee, and thy being;
|
|
|
Dream not of other worlds, what creatures there
|
|
|
Live, in what state, condition, or degree;
|
|
|
Contented that thus far hath been revealed
|
|
|
Not of Earth only, but of highest Heaven.
|
|
|
To whom thus Adam, cleared of doubt, replied.
|
|
|
How fully hast thou satisfied me, pure
|
|
|
Intelligence of Heaven, Angel serene!
|
|
|
And, freed from intricacies, taught to live
|
|
|
The easiest way; nor with perplexing thoughts
|
|
|
To interrupt the sweet of life, from which
|
|
|
God hath bid dwell far off all anxious cares,
|
|
|
And not molest us; unless we ourselves
|
|
|
Seek them with wandering thoughts, and notions vain.
|
|
|
But apt the mind or fancy is to rove
|
|
|
Unchecked, and of her roving is no end;
|
|
|
Till warned, or by experience taught, she learn,
|
|
|
That, not to know at large of things remote
|
|
|
From use, obscure and subtle; but, to know
|
|
|
That which before us lies in daily life,
|
|
|
Is the prime wisdom: What is more, is fume,
|
|
|
Or emptiness, or fond impertinence:
|
|
|
And renders us, in things that most concern,
|
|
|
Unpractised, unprepared, and still to seek.
|
|
|
Therefore from this high pitch let us descend
|
|
|
A lower flight, and speak of things at hand
|
|
|
Useful; whence, haply, mention may arise
|
|
|
Of something not unseasonable to ask,
|
|
|
By sufferance, and thy wonted favour, deigned.
|
|
|
Thee I have heard relating what was done
|
|
|
Ere my remembrance: now, hear me relate
|
|
|
My story, which perhaps thou hast not heard;
|
|
|
And day is not yet spent; till then thou seest
|
|
|
How subtly to detain thee I devise;
|
|
|
Inviting thee to hear while I relate;
|
|
|
Fond! were it not in hope of thy reply:
|
|
|
For, while I sit with thee, I seem in Heaven;
|
|
|
And sweeter thy discourse is to my ear
|
|
|
Than fruits of palm-tree pleasantest to thirst
|
|
|
And hunger both, from labour, at the hour
|
|
|
Of sweet repast; they satiate, and soon fill,
|
|
|
Though pleasant; but thy words, with grace divine
|
|
|
Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety.
|
|
|
To whom thus Raphael answered heavenly meek.
|
|
|
Nor are thy lips ungraceful, Sire of men,
|
|
|
Nor tongue ineloquent; for God on thee
|
|
|
Abundantly his gifts hath also poured
|
|
|
Inward and outward both, his image fair:
|
|
|
Speaking, or mute, all comeliness and grace
|
|
|
Attends thee; and each word, each motion, forms;
|
|
|
Nor less think we in Heaven of thee on Earth
|
|
|
Than of our fellow-servant, and inquire
|
|
|
Gladly into the ways of God with Man:
|
|
|
For God, we see, hath honoured thee, and set
|
|
|
On Man his equal love: Say therefore on;
|
|
|
For I that day was absent, as befel,
|
|
|
Bound on a voyage uncouth and obscure,
|
|
|
Far on excursion toward the gates of Hell;
|
|
|
Squared in full legion (such command we had)
|
|
|
To see that none thence issued forth a spy,
|
|
|
Or enemy, while God was in his work;
|
|
|
Lest he, incensed at such eruption bold,
|
|
|
Destruction with creation might have mixed.
|
|
|
Not that they durst without his leave attempt;
|
|
|
But us he sends upon his high behests
|
|
|
For state, as Sovran King; and to inure
|
|
|
Our prompt obedience. Fast we found, fast shut,
|
|
|
The dismal gates, and barricadoed strong;
|
|
|
But long ere our approaching heard within
|
|
|
Noise, other than the sound of dance or song,
|
|
|
Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage.
|
|
|
Glad we returned up to the coasts of light
|
|
|
Ere sabbath-evening: so we had in charge.
|
|
|
But thy relation now; for I attend,
|
|
|
Pleased with thy words no less than thou with mine.
|
|
|
So spake the Godlike Power, and thus our Sire.
|
|
|
For Man to tell how human life began
|
|
|
Is hard; for who himself beginning knew
|
|
|
Desire with thee still longer to converse
|
|
|
Induced me. As new waked from soundest sleep,
|
|
|
Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid,
|
|
|
In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun
|
|
|
Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed.
|
|
|
Straight toward Heaven my wondering eyes I turned,
|
|
|
And gazed a while the ample sky; till, raised
|
|
|
By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung,
|
|
|
As thitherward endeavouring, and upright
|
|
|
Stood on my feet: about me round I saw
|
|
|
Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains,
|
|
|
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these,
|
|
|
Creatures that lived and moved, and walked, or flew;
|
|
|
Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled;
|
|
|
With fragrance and with joy my heart o'erflowed.
|
|
|
Myself I then perused, and limb by limb
|
|
|
Surveyed, and sometimes went, and sometimes ran
|
|
|
With supple joints, as lively vigour led:
|
|
|
But who I was, or where, or from what cause,
|
|
|
Knew not; to speak I tried, and forthwith spake;
|
|
|
My tongue obeyed, and readily could name
|
|
|
Whate'er I saw. Thou Sun, said I, fair light,
|
|
|
And thou enlightened Earth, so fresh and gay,
|
|
|
Ye Hills, and Dales, ye Rivers, Woods, and Plains,
|
|
|
And ye that live and move, fair Creatures, tell,
|
|
|
Tell, if ye saw, how I came thus, how here?--
|
|
|
Not of myself;--by some great Maker then,
|
|
|
In goodness and in power pre-eminent:
|
|
|
Tell me, how may I know him, how adore,
|
|
|
From whom I have that thus I move and live,
|
|
|
And feel that I am happier than I know.--
|
|
|
While thus I called, and strayed I knew not whither,
|
|
|
From where I first drew air, and first beheld
|
|
|
This happy light; when, answer none returned,
|
|
|
On a green shady bank, profuse of flowers,
|
|
|
Pensive I sat me down: There gentle sleep
|
|
|
First found me, and with soft oppression seised
|
|
|
My droused sense, untroubled, though I thought
|
|
|
I then was passing to my former state
|
|
|
Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve:
|
|
|
When suddenly stood at my head a dream,
|
|
|
Whose inward apparition gently moved
|
|
|
My fancy to believe I yet had being,
|
|
|
And lived: One came, methought, of shape divine,
|
|
|
And said, 'Thy mansion wants thee, Adam; rise,
|
|
|
'First Man, of men innumerable ordained
|
|
|
'First Father! called by thee, I come thy guide
|
|
|
'To the garden of bliss, thy seat prepared.'
|
|
|
So saying, by the hand he took me raised,
|
|
|
And over fields and waters, as in air
|
|
|
Smooth-sliding without step, last led me up
|
|
|
A woody mountain; whose high top was plain,
|
|
|
A circuit wide, enclosed, with goodliest trees
|
|
|
Planted, with walks, and bowers; that what I saw
|
|
|
Of Earth before scarce pleasant seemed. Each tree,
|
|
|
Loaden with fairest fruit that hung to the eye
|
|
|
Tempting, stirred in me sudden appetite
|
|
|
To pluck and eat; whereat I waked, and found
|
|
|
Before mine eyes all real, as the dream
|
|
|
Had lively shadowed: Here had new begun
|
|
|
My wandering, had not he, who was my guide
|
|
|
Up hither, from among the trees appeared,
|
|
|
Presence Divine. Rejoicing, but with awe,
|
|
|
In adoration at his feet I fell
|
|
|
Submiss: He reared me, and 'Whom thou soughtest I am,'
|
|
|
Said mildly, 'Author of all this thou seest
|
|
|
'Above, or round about thee, or beneath.
|
|
|
'This Paradise I give thee, count it thine
|
|
|
'To till and keep, and of the fruit to eat:
|
|
|
'Of every tree that in the garden grows
|
|
|
'Eat freely with glad heart; fear here no dearth:
|
|
|
'But of the tree whose operation brings
|
|
|
'Knowledge of good and ill, which I have set
|
|
|
'The pledge of thy obedience and thy faith,
|
|
|
'Amid the garden by the tree of life,
|
|
|
'Remember what I warn thee, shun to taste,
|
|
|
'And shun the bitter consequence: for know,
|
|
|
'The day thou eatest thereof, my sole command
|
|
|
'Transgressed, inevitably thou shalt die,
|
|
|
'From that day mortal; and this happy state
|
|
|
'Shalt lose, expelled from hence into a world
|
|
|
'Of woe and sorrow.' Sternly he pronounced
|
|
|
The rigid interdiction, which resounds
|
|
|
Yet dreadful in mine ear, though in my choice
|
|
|
Not to incur; but soon his clear aspect
|
|
|
Returned, and gracious purpose thus renewed.
|
|
|
'Not only these fair bounds, but all the Earth
|
|
|
'To thee and to thy race I give; as lords
|
|
|
'Possess it, and all things that therein live,
|
|
|
'Or live in sea, or air; beast, fish, and fowl.
|
|
|
'In sign whereof, each bird and beast behold
|
|
|
'After their kinds; I bring them to receive
|
|
|
'From thee their names, and pay thee fealty
|
|
|
'With low subjection; understand the same
|
|
|
'Of fish within their watery residence,
|
|
|
'Not hither summoned, since they cannot change
|
|
|
'Their element, to draw the thinner air.'
|
|
|
As thus he spake, each bird and beast behold
|
|
|
Approaching two and two; these cowering low
|
|
|
With blandishment; each bird stooped on his wing.
|
|
|
I named them, as they passed, and understood
|
|
|
Their nature, with such knowledge God endued
|
|
|
My sudden apprehension: But in these
|
|
|
I found not what methought I wanted still;
|
|
|
And to the heavenly Vision thus presumed.
|
|
|
O, by what name, for thou above all these,
|
|
|
Above mankind, or aught than mankind higher,
|
|
|
Surpassest far my naming; how may I
|
|
|
Adore thee, Author of this universe,
|
|
|
And all this good to man? for whose well being
|
|
|
So amply, and with hands so liberal,
|
|
|
Thou hast provided all things: But with me
|
|
|
I see not who partakes. In solitude
|
|
|
What happiness, who can enjoy alone,
|
|
|
Or, all enjoying, what contentment find?
|
|
|
Thus I presumptuous; and the Vision bright,
|
|
|
As with a smile more brightened, thus replied.
|
|
|
What callest thou solitude? Is not the Earth
|
|
|
With various living creatures, and the air
|
|
|
Replenished, and all these at thy command
|
|
|
To come and play before thee? Knowest thou not
|
|
|
Their language and their ways? They also know,
|
|
|
And reason not contemptibly: With these
|
|
|
Find pastime, and bear rule; thy realm is large.
|
|
|
So spake the Universal Lord, and seemed
|
|
|
So ordering: I, with leave of speech implored,
|
|
|
And humble deprecation, thus replied.
|
|
|
Let not my words offend thee, Heavenly Power;
|
|
|
My Maker, be propitious while I speak.
|
|
|
Hast thou not made me here thy substitute,
|
|
|
And these inferiour far beneath me set?
|
|
|
Among unequals what society
|
|
|
Can sort, what harmony, or true delight?
|
|
|
Which must be mutual, in proportion due
|
|
|
Given and received; but, in disparity
|
|
|
The one intense, the other still remiss,
|
|
|
Cannot well suit with either, but soon prove
|
|
|
Tedious alike: Of fellowship I speak
|
|
|
Such as I seek, fit to participate
|
|
|
All rational delight: wherein the brute
|
|
|
Cannot be human consort: They rejoice
|
|
|
Each with their kind, lion with lioness;
|
|
|
So fitly them in pairs thou hast combined:
|
|
|
Much less can bird with beast, or fish with fowl
|
|
|
So well converse, nor with the ox the ape;
|
|
|
Worse then can man with beast, and least of all.
|
|
|
Whereto the Almighty answered, not displeased.
|
|
|
A nice and subtle happiness, I see,
|
|
|
Thou to thyself proposest, in the choice
|
|
|
Of thy associates, Adam! and wilt taste
|
|
|
No pleasure, though in pleasure, solitary.
|
|
|
What thinkest thou then of me, and this my state?
|
|
|
Seem I to thee sufficiently possessed
|
|
|
Of happiness, or not? who am alone
|
|
|
From all eternity; for none I know
|
|
|
Second to me or like, equal much less.
|
|
|
How have I then with whom to hold converse,
|
|
|
Save with the creatures which I made, and those
|
|
|
To me inferiour, infinite descents
|
|
|
Beneath what other creatures are to thee?
|
|
|
He ceased; I lowly answered. To attain
|
|
|
The highth and depth of thy eternal ways
|
|
|
All human thoughts come short, Supreme of things!
|
|
|
Thou in thyself art perfect, and in thee
|
|
|
Is no deficience found: Not so is Man,
|
|
|
But in degree; the cause of his desire
|
|
|
By conversation with his like to help
|
|
|
Or solace his defects. No need that thou
|
|
|
Shouldst propagate, already Infinite;
|
|
|
And through all numbers absolute, though One:
|
|
|
But Man by number is to manifest
|
|
|
His single imperfection, and beget
|
|
|
Like of his like, his image multiplied,
|
|
|
In unity defective; which requires
|
|
|
Collateral love, and dearest amity.
|
|
|
Thou in thy secresy although alone,
|
|
|
Best with thyself accompanied, seekest not
|
|
|
Social communication; yet, so pleased,
|
|
|
Canst raise thy creature to what highth thou wilt
|
|
|
Of union or communion, deified:
|
|
|
I, by conversing, cannot these erect
|
|
|
From prone; nor in their ways complacence find.
|
|
|
Thus I emboldened spake, and freedom used
|
|
|
Permissive, and acceptance found; which gained
|
|
|
This answer from the gracious Voice Divine.
|
|
|
Thus far to try thee, Adam, I was pleased;
|
|
|
And find thee knowing, not of beasts alone,
|
|
|
Which thou hast rightly named, but of thyself;
|
|
|
Expressing well the spirit within thee free,
|
|
|
My image, not imparted to the brute;
|
|
|
Whose fellowship therefore unmeet for thee
|
|
|
Good reason was thou freely shouldst dislike;
|
|
|
And be so minded still: I, ere thou spakest,
|
|
|
Knew it not good for Man to be alone;
|
|
|
And no such company as then thou sawest
|
|
|
Intended thee; for trial only brought,
|
|
|
To see how thou couldest judge of fit and meet:
|
|
|
What next I bring shall please thee, be assured,
|
|
|
Thy likeness, thy fit help, thy other self,
|
|
|
Thy wish exactly to thy heart's desire.
|
|
|
He ended, or I heard no more; for now
|
|
|
My earthly by his heavenly overpowered,
|
|
|
Which it had long stood under, strained to the highth
|
|
|
In that celestial colloquy sublime,
|
|
|
As with an object that excels the sense
|
|
|
Dazzled and spent, sunk down; and sought repair
|
|
|
Of sleep, which instantly fell on me, called
|
|
|
By Nature as in aid, and closed mine eyes.
|
|
|
Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell
|
|
|
Of fancy, my internal sight; by which,
|
|
|
Abstract as in a trance, methought I saw,
|
|
|
Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape
|
|
|
Still glorious before whom awake I stood:
|
|
|
Who stooping opened my left side, and took
|
|
|
From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm,
|
|
|
And life-blood streaming fresh; wide was the wound,
|
|
|
But suddenly with flesh filled up and healed:
|
|
|
The rib he formed and fashioned with his hands;
|
|
|
Under his forming hands a creature grew,
|
|
|
Man-like, but different sex; so lovely fair,
|
|
|
That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now
|
|
|
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained
|
|
|
And in her looks; which from that time infused
|
|
|
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before,
|
|
|
And into all things from her air inspired
|
|
|
The spirit of love and amorous delight.
|
|
|
She disappeared, and left me dark; I waked
|
|
|
To find her, or for ever to deplore
|
|
|
Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure:
|
|
|
When out of hope, behold her, not far off,
|
|
|
Such as I saw her in my dream, adorned
|
|
|
With what all Earth or Heaven could bestow
|
|
|
To make her amiable: On she came,
|
|
|
Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen,
|
|
|
And guided by his voice; nor uninformed
|
|
|
Of nuptial sanctity, and marriage rites:
|
|
|
Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye,
|
|
|
In every gesture dignity and love.
|
|
|
I, overjoyed, could not forbear aloud.
|
|
|
This turn hath made amends; thou hast fulfilled
|
|
|
Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign,
|
|
|
Giver of all things fair! but fairest this
|
|
|
Of all thy gifts! nor enviest. I now see
|
|
|
Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself
|
|
|
Before me: Woman is her name;of Man
|
|
|
Extracted: for this cause he shall forego
|
|
|
Father and mother, and to his wife adhere;
|
|
|
And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one soul.
|
|
|
She heard me thus; and though divinely brought,
|
|
|
Yet innocence, and virgin modesty,
|
|
|
Her virtue, and the conscience of her worth,
|
|
|
That would be wooed, and not unsought be won,
|
|
|
Not obvious, not obtrusive, but, retired,
|
|
|
The more desirable; or, to say all,
|
|
|
Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought,
|
|
|
Wrought in her so, that, seeing me, she turned:
|
|
|
I followed her; she what was honour knew,
|
|
|
And with obsequious majesty approved
|
|
|
My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower
|
|
|
I led her blushing like the morn: All Heaven,
|
|
|
And happy constellations, on that hour
|
|
|
Shed their selectest influence; the Earth
|
|
|
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill;
|
|
|
Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs
|
|
|
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings
|
|
|
Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub,
|
|
|
Disporting, till the amorous bird of night
|
|
|
Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening-star
|
|
|
On his hill top, to light the bridal lamp.
|
|
|
Thus have I told thee all my state, and brought
|
|
|
My story to the sum of earthly bliss,
|
|
|
Which I enjoy; and must confess to find
|
|
|
In all things else delight indeed, but such
|
|
|
As, used or not, works in the mind no change,
|
|
|
Nor vehement desire; these delicacies
|
|
|
I mean of taste, sight, smell, herbs, fruits, and flowers,
|
|
|
Walks, and the melody of birds: but here
|
|
|
Far otherwise, transported I behold,
|
|
|
Transported touch; here passion first I felt,
|
|
|
Commotion strange! in all enjoyments else
|
|
|
Superiour and unmoved; here only weak
|
|
|
Against the charm of Beauty's powerful glance.
|
|
|
Or Nature failed in me, and left some part
|
|
|
Not proof enough such object to sustain;
|
|
|
Or, from my side subducting, took perhaps
|
|
|
More than enough; at least on her bestowed
|
|
|
Too much of ornament, in outward show
|
|
|
Elaborate, of inward less exact.
|
|
|
For well I understand in the prime end
|
|
|
Of Nature her the inferiour, in the mind
|
|
|
And inward faculties, which most excel;
|
|
|
In outward also her resembling less
|
|
|
His image who made both, and less expressing
|
|
|
The character of that dominion given
|
|
|
O'er other creatures: Yet when I approach
|
|
|
Her loveliness, so absolute she seems
|
|
|
And in herself complete, so well to know
|
|
|
Her own, that what she wills to do or say,
|
|
|
Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best:
|
|
|
All higher knowledge in her presence falls
|
|
|
Degraded; Wisdom in discourse with her
|
|
|
Loses discountenanced, and like Folly shows;
|
|
|
Authority and Reason on her wait,
|
|
|
As one intended first, not after made
|
|
|
Occasionally; and, to consummate all,
|
|
|
Greatness of mind and Nobleness their seat
|
|
|
Build in her loveliest, and create an awe
|
|
|
About her, as a guard angelick placed.
|
|
|
To whom the Angel with contracted brow.
|
|
|
Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part;
|
|
|
Do thou but thine; and be not diffident
|
|
|
Of Wisdom; she deserts thee not, if thou
|
|
|
Dismiss not her, when most thou needest her nigh,
|
|
|
By attributing overmuch to things
|
|
|
Less excellent, as thou thyself perceivest.
|
|
|
For, what admirest thou, what transports thee so,
|
|
|
An outside? fair, no doubt, and worthy well
|
|
|
Thy cherishing, thy honouring, and thy love;
|
|
|
Not thy subjection: Weigh with her thyself;
|
|
|
Then value: Oft-times nothing profits more
|
|
|
Than self-esteem, grounded on just and right
|
|
|
Well managed; of that skill the more thou knowest,
|
|
|
The more she will acknowledge thee her head,
|
|
|
And to realities yield all her shows:
|
|
|
Made so adorn for thy delight the more,
|
|
|
So awful, that with honour thou mayest love
|
|
|
Thy mate, who sees when thou art seen least wise.
|
|
|
But if the sense of touch, whereby mankind
|
|
|
Is propagated, seem such dear delight
|
|
|
Beyond all other; think the same vouchsafed
|
|
|
To cattle and each beast; which would not be
|
|
|
To them made common and divulged, if aught
|
|
|
Therein enjoyed were worthy to subdue
|
|
|
The soul of man, or passion in him move.
|
|
|
What higher in her society thou findest
|
|
|
Attractive, human, rational, love still;
|
|
|
In loving thou dost well, in passion not,
|
|
|
Wherein true love consists not: Love refines
|
|
|
The thoughts, and heart enlarges; hath his seat
|
|
|
In reason, and is judicious; is the scale
|
|
|
By which to heavenly love thou mayest ascend,
|
|
|
Not sunk in carnal pleasure; for which cause,
|
|
|
Among the beasts no mate for thee was found.
|
|
|
To whom thus, half abashed, Adam replied.
|
|
|
Neither her outside formed so fair, nor aught
|
|
|
In procreation common to all kinds,
|
|
|
(Though higher of the genial bed by far,
|
|
|
And with mysterious reverence I deem,)
|
|
|
So much delights me, as those graceful acts,
|
|
|
Those thousand decencies, that daily flow
|
|
|
From all her words and actions mixed with love
|
|
|
And sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned
|
|
|
Union of mind, or in us both one soul;
|
|
|
Harmony to behold in wedded pair
|
|
|
More grateful than harmonious sound to the ear.
|
|
|
Yet these subject not; I to thee disclose
|
|
|
What inward thence I feel, not therefore foiled,
|
|
|
Who meet with various objects, from the sense
|
|
|
Variously representing; yet, still free,
|
|
|
Approve the best, and follow what I approve.
|
|
|
To love, thou blamest me not; for Love, thou sayest,
|
|
|
Leads up to Heaven, is both the way and guide;
|
|
|
Bear with me then, if lawful what I ask:
|
|
|
Love not the heavenly Spirits, and how their love
|
|
|
Express they? by looks only? or do they mix
|
|
|
Irradiance, virtual or immediate touch?
|
|
|
To whom the Angel, with a smile that glowed
|
|
|
Celestial rosy red, Love's proper hue,
|
|
|
Answered. Let it suffice thee that thou knowest
|
|
|
Us happy, and without love no happiness.
|
|
|
Whatever pure thou in the body enjoyest,
|
|
|
(And pure thou wert created) we enjoy
|
|
|
In eminence; and obstacle find none
|
|
|
Of membrane, joint, or limb, exclusive bars;
|
|
|
Easier than air with air, if Spirits embrace,
|
|
|
Total they mix, union of pure with pure
|
|
|
Desiring, nor restrained conveyance need,
|
|
|
As flesh to mix with flesh, or soul with soul.
|
|
|
But I can now no more; the parting sun
|
|
|
Beyond the Earth's green Cape and verdant Isles
|
|
|
Hesperian sets, my signal to depart.
|
|
|
Be strong, live happy, and love! But, first of all,
|
|
|
Him, whom to love is to obey, and keep
|
|
|
His great command; take heed lest passion sway
|
|
|
Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will
|
|
|
Would not admit: thine, and of all thy sons,
|
|
|
The weal or woe in thee is placed; beware!
|
|
|
I in thy persevering shall rejoice,
|
|
|
And all the Blest: Stand fast;to stand or fall
|
|
|
Free in thine own arbitrement it lies.
|
|
|
Perfect within, no outward aid require;
|
|
|
And all temptation to transgress repel.
|
|
|
So saying, he arose; whom Adam thus
|
|
|
Followed with benediction. Since to part,
|
|
|
Go, heavenly guest, ethereal Messenger,
|
|
|
Sent from whose sovran goodness I adore!
|
|
|
Gentle to me and affable hath been
|
|
|
Thy condescension, and shall be honoured ever
|
|
|
With grateful memory: Thou to mankind
|
|
|
Be good and friendly still, and oft return!
|
|
|
So parted they; the Angel up to Heaven
|
|
|
From the thick shade, and Adam to his bower.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Book IX
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
|
|
|
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us'd,
|
|
|
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
|
|
|
Rural repast; permitting him the while
|
|
|
Venial discourse unblam'd. I now must change
|
|
|
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
|
|
|
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
|
|
|
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
|
|
|
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
|
|
|
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
|
|
|
That brought into this world a world of woe,
|
|
|
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
|
|
|
Death's harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
|
|
|
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
|
|
|
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
|
|
|
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
|
|
|
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous'd;
|
|
|
Or Neptune's ire, or Juno's, that so long
|
|
|
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea's son:
|
|
|
|
|
|
00482129
|
|
|
If answerable style I can obtain
|
|
|
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
|
|
|
Her nightly visitation unimplor'd,
|
|
|
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
|
|
|
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
|
|
|
Since first this subject for heroick song
|
|
|
Pleas'd me long choosing, and beginning late;
|
|
|
Not sedulous by nature to indite
|
|
|
Wars, hitherto the only argument
|
|
|
Heroick deem'd chief mastery to dissect
|
|
|
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
|
|
|
In battles feign'd; the better fortitude
|
|
|
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
|
|
|
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
|
|
|
Or tilting furniture, imblazon'd shields,
|
|
|
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
|
|
|
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
|
|
|
At joust and tournament; then marshall'd feast
|
|
|
Serv'd up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
|
|
|
The skill of artifice or office mean,
|
|
|
Not that which justly gives heroick name
|
|
|
To person, or to poem. Me, of these
|
|
|
Nor skill'd nor studious, higher argument
|
|
|
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
|
|
|
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
|
|
|
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
|
|
|
Depress'd; and much they may, if all be mine,
|
|
|
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
|
|
|
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
|
|
|
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
|
|
|
Twilight upon the earth, short arbiter
|
|
|
"twixt day and night, and now from end to end
|
|
|
Night's hemisphere had veil'd the horizon round:
|
|
|
When satan, who late fled before the threats
|
|
|
Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv'd
|
|
|
In meditated fraud and malice, bent
|
|
|
On Man's destruction, maugre what might hap
|
|
|
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned
|
|
|
From compassing the earth; cautious of day,
|
|
|
Since Uriel, regent of the sun, descried
|
|
|
His entrance, and foreworned the Cherubim
|
|
|
That kept their watch; thence full of anguish driven,
|
|
|
The space of seven continued nights he rode
|
|
|
With darkness; thrice the equinoctial line
|
|
|
He circled; four times crossed the car of night
|
|
|
From pole to pole, traversing each colure;
|
|
|
On the eighth returned; and, on the coast averse
|
|
|
From entrance or Cherubick watch, by stealth
|
|
|
Found unsuspected way. There was a place,
|
|
|
Now not, though sin, not time, first wrought the change,
|
|
|
Where Tigris, at the foot of Paradise,
|
|
|
Into a gulf shot under ground, till part
|
|
|
Rose up a fountain by the tree of life:
|
|
|
In with the river sunk, and with it rose
|
|
|
Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought
|
|
|
Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,
|
|
|
From Eden over Pontus and the pool
|
|
|
Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;
|
|
|
Downward as far antarctick; and in length,
|
|
|
West from Orontes to the ocean barred
|
|
|
At Darien ; thence to the land where flows
|
|
|
Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed
|
|
|
With narrow search; and with inspection deep
|
|
|
Considered every creature, which of all
|
|
|
Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found
|
|
|
The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.
|
|
|
Him after long debate, irresolute
|
|
|
Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose
|
|
|
Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom
|
|
|
To enter, and his dark suggestions hide
|
|
|
From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake
|
|
|
Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,
|
|
|
As from his wit and native subtlety
|
|
|
Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed,
|
|
|
Doubt might beget of diabolick power
|
|
|
Active within, beyond the sense of brute.
|
|
|
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief
|
|
|
His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
|
|
|
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built
|
|
|
With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
|
|
|
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred
|
|
|
For what God, after better, worse would build?
|
|
|
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens
|
|
|
That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps,
|
|
|
Light above light, for thee alone, as seems,
|
|
|
In thee concentring all their precious beams
|
|
|
Of sacred influence! As God in Heaven
|
|
|
Is center, yet extends to all; so thou,
|
|
|
Centring, receivest from all those orbs: in thee,
|
|
|
Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears
|
|
|
Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth
|
|
|
Of creatures animate with gradual life
|
|
|
Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man.
|
|
|
With what delight could I have walked thee round,
|
|
|
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
|
|
|
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
|
|
|
Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned,
|
|
|
Rocks, dens, and caves! But I in none of these
|
|
|
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
|
|
|
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
|
|
|
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
|
|
|
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
|
|
|
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
|
|
|
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
|
|
|
To dwell, unless by mastering Heaven's Supreme;
|
|
|
Nor hope to be myself less miserable
|
|
|
By what I seek, but others to make such
|
|
|
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
|
|
|
For only in destroying I find ease
|
|
|
To my relentless thoughts; and, him destroyed,
|
|
|
Or won to what may work his utter loss,
|
|
|
For whom all this was made, all this will soon
|
|
|
Follow, as to him linked in weal or woe;
|
|
|
In woe then; that destruction wide may range:
|
|
|
To me shall be the glory sole among
|
|
|
The infernal Powers, in one day to have marred
|
|
|
What he, Almighty styled, six nights and days
|
|
|
Continued making; and who knows how long
|
|
|
Before had been contriving? though perhaps
|
|
|
Not longer than since I, in one night, freed
|
|
|
From servitude inglorious well nigh half
|
|
|
The angelick name, and thinner left the throng
|
|
|
Of his adorers: He, to be avenged,
|
|
|
And to repair his numbers thus impaired,
|
|
|
Whether such virtue spent of old now failed
|
|
|
More Angels to create, if they at least
|
|
|
Are his created, or, to spite us more,
|
|
|
Determined to advance into our room
|
|
|
A creature formed of earth, and him endow,
|
|
|
Exalted from so base original,
|
|
|
With heavenly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed,
|
|
|
He effected; Man he made, and for him built
|
|
|
Magnificent this world, and earth his seat,
|
|
|
Him lord pronounced; and, O indignity!
|
|
|
Subjected to his service angel-wings,
|
|
|
And flaming ministers to watch and tend
|
|
|
Their earthly charge: Of these the vigilance
|
|
|
I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist
|
|
|
Of midnight vapour glide obscure, and pry
|
|
|
In every bush and brake, where hap may find
|
|
|
The serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds
|
|
|
To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.
|
|
|
O foul descent! that I, who erst contended
|
|
|
With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained
|
|
|
Into a beast; and, mixed with bestial slime,
|
|
|
This essence to incarnate and imbrute,
|
|
|
That to the highth of Deity aspired!
|
|
|
But what will not ambition and revenge
|
|
|
Descend to? Who aspires, must down as low
|
|
|
As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last,
|
|
|
To basest things. Revenge, at first though sweet,
|
|
|
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils:
|
|
|
Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed,
|
|
|
Since higher I fall short, on him who next
|
|
|
Provokes my envy, this new favourite
|
|
|
Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite,
|
|
|
Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised
|
|
|
From dust: Spite then with spite is best repaid.
|
|
|
So saying, through each thicket dank or dry,
|
|
|
Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on
|
|
|
His midnight-search, where soonest he might find
|
|
|
The serpent; him fast-sleeping soon he found
|
|
|
In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled,
|
|
|
His head the midst, well stored with subtile wiles:
|
|
|
Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den,
|
|
|
Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb,
|
|
|
Fearless unfeared he slept: in at his mouth
|
|
|
The Devil entered; and his brutal sense,
|
|
|
In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired
|
|
|
With act intelligential; but his sleep
|
|
|
Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.
|
|
|
Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
|
|
|
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed
|
|
|
Their morning incense, when all things, that breathe,
|
|
|
From the Earth's great altar send up silent praise
|
|
|
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
|
|
|
With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
|
|
|
And joined their vocal worship to the quire
|
|
|
Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake
|
|
|
The season prime for sweetest scents and airs:
|
|
|
Then commune, how that day they best may ply
|
|
|
Their growing work: for much their work out-grew
|
|
|
The hands' dispatch of two gardening so wide,
|
|
|
And Eve first to her husband thus began.
|
|
|
Adam, well may we labour still to dress
|
|
|
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower,
|
|
|
Our pleasant task enjoined; but, till more hands
|
|
|
Aid us, the work under our labour grows,
|
|
|
Luxurious by restraint; what we by day
|
|
|
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
|
|
|
One night or two with wanton growth derides
|
|
|
Tending to wild. Thou therefore now advise,
|
|
|
Or bear what to my mind first thoughts present:
|
|
|
Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
|
|
|
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
|
|
|
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
|
|
|
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
|
|
|
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
|
|
|
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
|
|
|
For, while so near each other thus all day
|
|
|
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
|
|
|
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
|
|
|
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
|
|
|
Our day's work, brought to little, though begun
|
|
|
Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned?
|
|
|
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
|
|
|
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond
|
|
|
Compare above all living creatures dear!
|
|
|
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed,
|
|
|
How we might best fulfil the work which here
|
|
|
God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass
|
|
|
Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found
|
|
|
In woman, than to study houshold good,
|
|
|
And good works in her husband to promote.
|
|
|
Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
|
|
|
Labour, as to debar us when we need
|
|
|
Refreshment, whether food, or talk between,
|
|
|
Food of the mind, or this sweet intercourse
|
|
|
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow,
|
|
|
To brute denied, and are of love the food;
|
|
|
Love, not the lowest end of human life.
|
|
|
For not to irksome toil, but to delight,
|
|
|
He made us, and delight to reason joined.
|
|
|
These paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands
|
|
|
Will keep from wilderness with ease, as wide
|
|
|
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
|
|
|
Assist us; But, if much converse perhaps
|
|
|
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield:
|
|
|
For solitude sometimes is best society,
|
|
|
And short retirement urges sweet return.
|
|
|
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
|
|
|
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
|
|
|
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
|
|
|
Envying our happiness, and of his own
|
|
|
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
|
|
|
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
|
|
|
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
|
|
|
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
|
|
|
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
|
|
|
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
|
|
|
Whether his first design be to withdraw
|
|
|
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
|
|
|
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
|
|
|
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
|
|
|
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
|
|
|
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
|
|
|
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
|
|
|
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
|
|
|
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
|
|
|
To whom the virgin majesty of Eve,
|
|
|
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
|
|
|
With sweet austere composure thus replied.
|
|
|
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth's Lord!
|
|
|
That such an enemy we have, who seeks
|
|
|
Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,
|
|
|
And from the parting Angel over-heard,
|
|
|
As in a shady nook I stood behind,
|
|
|
Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
|
|
|
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
|
|
|
To God or thee, because we have a foe
|
|
|
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
|
|
|
His violence thou fearest not, being such
|
|
|
As we, not capable of death or pain,
|
|
|
Can either not receive, or can repel.
|
|
|
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
|
|
|
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
|
|
|
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
|
|
|
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
|
|
|
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
|
|
|
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
|
|
|
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
|
|
|
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire:
|
|
|
Not diffident of thee do I dissuade
|
|
|
Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid
|
|
|
The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
|
|
|
For he who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
|
|
|
The tempted with dishonour foul; supposed
|
|
|
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
|
|
|
Against temptation: Thou thyself with scorn
|
|
|
And anger wouldst resent the offered wrong,
|
|
|
Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,
|
|
|
If such affront I labour to avert
|
|
|
From thee alone, which on us both at once
|
|
|
The enemy, though bold, will hardly dare;
|
|
|
Or daring, first on me the assault shall light.
|
|
|
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn;
|
|
|
Subtle he needs must be, who could seduce
|
|
|
Angels; nor think superfluous other's aid.
|
|
|
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive
|
|
|
Access in every virtue; in thy sight
|
|
|
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
|
|
|
Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
|
|
|
Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
|
|
|
Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
|
|
|
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel
|
|
|
When I am present, and thy trial choose
|
|
|
With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
|
|
|
So spake domestick Adam in his care
|
|
|
And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought
|
|
|
Less attributed to her faith sincere,
|
|
|
Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
|
|
|
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
|
|
|
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe,
|
|
|
Subtle or violent, we not endued
|
|
|
Single with like defence, wherever met;
|
|
|
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
|
|
|
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
|
|
|
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
|
|
|
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
|
|
|
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
|
|
|
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
|
|
|
By us? who rather double honour gain
|
|
|
From his surmise proved false; find peace within,
|
|
|
Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
|
|
|
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
|
|
|
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
|
|
|
Let us not then suspect our happy state
|
|
|
Left so imperfect by the Maker wise,
|
|
|
As not secure to single or combined.
|
|
|
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
|
|
|
And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
|
|
|
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
|
|
|
O Woman, best are all things as the will
|
|
|
Of God ordained them: His creating hand
|
|
|
Nothing imperfect or deficient left
|
|
|
Of all that he created, much less Man,
|
|
|
Or aught that might his happy state secure,
|
|
|
Secure from outward force; within himself
|
|
|
The danger lies, yet lies within his power:
|
|
|
Against his will he can receive no harm.
|
|
|
But God left free the will; for what obeys
|
|
|
Reason, is free; and Reason he made right,
|
|
|
But bid her well be ware, and still erect;
|
|
|
Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised,
|
|
|
She dictate false; and mis-inform the will
|
|
|
To do what God expressly hath forbid.
|
|
|
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
|
|
|
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
|
|
|
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
|
|
|
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
|
|
|
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
|
|
|
And fall into deception unaware,
|
|
|
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
|
|
|
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
|
|
|
Were better, and most likely if from me
|
|
|
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
|
|
|
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
|
|
|
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
|
|
|
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
|
|
|
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
|
|
|
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
|
|
|
Go; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more;
|
|
|
Go in thy native innocence, rely
|
|
|
On what thou hast of virtue; summon all!
|
|
|
For God towards thee hath done his part, do thine.
|
|
|
So spake the patriarch of mankind; but Eve
|
|
|
Persisted; yet submiss, though last, replied.
|
|
|
With thy permission then, and thus forewarned
|
|
|
Chiefly by what thy own last reasoning words
|
|
|
Touched only; that our trial, when least sought,
|
|
|
May find us both perhaps far less prepared,
|
|
|
The willinger I go, nor much expect
|
|
|
A foe so proud will first the weaker seek;
|
|
|
So bent, the more shall shame him his repulse.
|
|
|
Thus saying, from her husband's hand her hand
|
|
|
Soft she withdrew; and, like a Wood-Nymph light,
|
|
|
Oread or Dryad, or of Delia's train,
|
|
|
Betook her to the groves; but Delia's self
|
|
|
In gait surpassed, and Goddess-like deport,
|
|
|
Though not as she with bow and quiver armed,
|
|
|
But with such gardening tools as Art yet rude,
|
|
|
Guiltless of fire, had formed, or Angels brought.
|
|
|
To Pales, or Pomona, thus adorned,
|
|
|
Likest she seemed, Pomona when she fled
|
|
|
Vertumnus, or to Ceres in her prime,
|
|
|
Yet virgin of Proserpina from Jove.
|
|
|
Her long with ardent look his eye pursued
|
|
|
Delighted, but desiring more her stay.
|
|
|
Oft he to her his charge of quick return
|
|
|
Repeated; she to him as oft engaged
|
|
|
To be returned by noon amid the bower,
|
|
|
And all things in best order to invite
|
|
|
Noontide repast, or afternoon's repose.
|
|
|
O much deceived, much failing, hapless Eve,
|
|
|
Of thy presumed return! event perverse!
|
|
|
Thou never from that hour in Paradise
|
|
|
Foundst either sweet repast, or sound repose;
|
|
|
Such ambush, hid among sweet flowers and shades,
|
|
|
Waited with hellish rancour imminent
|
|
|
To intercept thy way, or send thee back
|
|
|
Despoiled of innocence, of faith, of bliss!
|
|
|
For now, and since first break of dawn, the Fiend,
|
|
|
Mere serpent in appearance, forth was come;
|
|
|
And on his quest, where likeliest he might find
|
|
|
The only two of mankind, but in them
|
|
|
The whole included race, his purposed prey.
|
|
|
In bower and field he sought, where any tuft
|
|
|
Of grove or garden-plot more pleasant lay,
|
|
|
Their tendance, or plantation for delight;
|
|
|
By fountain or by shady rivulet
|
|
|
He sought them both, but wished his hap might find
|
|
|
Eve separate; he wished, but not with hope
|
|
|
Of what so seldom chanced; when to his wish,
|
|
|
Beyond his hope, Eve separate he spies,
|
|
|
Veiled in a cloud of fragrance, where she stood,
|
|
|
Half spied, so thick the roses blushing round
|
|
|
About her glowed, oft stooping to support
|
|
|
Each flower of slender stalk, whose head, though gay
|
|
|
Carnation, purple, azure, or specked with gold,
|
|
|
Hung drooping unsustained; them she upstays
|
|
|
Gently with myrtle band, mindless the while
|
|
|
Herself, though fairest unsupported flower,
|
|
|
From her best prop so far, and storm so nigh.
|
|
|
Nearer he drew, and many a walk traversed
|
|
|
Of stateliest covert, cedar, pine, or palm;
|
|
|
Then voluble and bold, now hid, now seen,
|
|
|
Among thick-woven arborets, and flowers
|
|
|
Imbordered on each bank, the hand of Eve:
|
|
|
Spot more delicious than those gardens feigned
|
|
|
Or of revived Adonis, or renowned
|
|
|
Alcinous, host of old Laertes' son;
|
|
|
Or that, not mystick, where the sapient king
|
|
|
Held dalliance with his fair Egyptian spouse.
|
|
|
Much he the place admired, the person more.
|
|
|
As one who long in populous city pent,
|
|
|
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air,
|
|
|
Forth issuing on a summer's morn, to breathe
|
|
|
Among the pleasant villages and farms
|
|
|
Adjoined, from each thing met conceives delight;
|
|
|
The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine,
|
|
|
Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound;
|
|
|
If chance, with nymph-like step, fair virgin pass,
|
|
|
What pleasing seemed, for her now pleases more;
|
|
|
She most, and in her look sums all delight:
|
|
|
Such pleasure took the Serpent to behold
|
|
|
This flowery plat, the sweet recess of Eve
|
|
|
Thus early, thus alone: Her heavenly form
|
|
|
Angelick, but more soft, and feminine,
|
|
|
Her graceful innocence, her every air
|
|
|
Of gesture, or least action, overawed
|
|
|
His malice, and with rapine sweet bereaved
|
|
|
His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought:
|
|
|
That space the Evil-one abstracted stood
|
|
|
From his own evil, and for the time remained
|
|
|
Stupidly good; of enmity disarmed,
|
|
|
Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge:
|
|
|
But the hot Hell that always in him burns,
|
|
|
Though in mid Heaven, soon ended his delight,
|
|
|
And tortures him now more, the more he sees
|
|
|
Of pleasure, not for him ordained: then soon
|
|
|
Fierce hate he recollects, and all his thoughts
|
|
|
Of mischief, gratulating, thus excites.
|
|
|
Thoughts, whither have ye led me! with what sweet
|
|
|
Compulsion thus transported, to forget
|
|
|
What hither brought us! hate, not love;nor hope
|
|
|
Of Paradise for Hell, hope here to taste
|
|
|
Of pleasure; but all pleasure to destroy,
|
|
|
Save what is in destroying; other joy
|
|
|
To me is lost. Then, let me not let pass
|
|
|
Occasion which now smiles; behold alone
|
|
|
The woman, opportune to all attempts,
|
|
|
Her husband, for I view far round, not nigh,
|
|
|
Whose higher intellectual more I shun,
|
|
|
And strength, of courage haughty, and of limb
|
|
|
Heroick built, though of terrestrial mould;
|
|
|
Foe not informidable! exempt from wound,
|
|
|
I not; so much hath Hell debased, and pain
|
|
|
Enfeebled me, to what I was in Heaven.
|
|
|
She fair, divinely fair, fit love for Gods!
|
|
|
Not terrible, though terrour be in love
|
|
|
And beauty, not approached by stronger hate,
|
|
|
Hate stronger, under show of love well feigned;
|
|
|
The way which to her ruin now I tend.
|
|
|
So spake the enemy of mankind, enclosed
|
|
|
In serpent, inmate bad! and toward Eve
|
|
|
Addressed his way: not with indented wave,
|
|
|
Prone on the ground, as since; but on his rear,
|
|
|
Circular base of rising folds, that towered
|
|
|
Fold above fold, a surging maze! his head
|
|
|
Crested aloft, and carbuncle his eyes;
|
|
|
With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect
|
|
|
Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass
|
|
|
Floated redundant: pleasing was his shape
|
|
|
And lovely; never since of serpent-kind
|
|
|
Lovelier, not those that in Illyria changed,
|
|
|
Hermione and Cadmus, or the god
|
|
|
In Epidaurus; nor to which transformed
|
|
|
Ammonian Jove, or Capitoline, was seen;
|
|
|
He with Olympias; this with her who bore
|
|
|
Scipio, the highth of Rome. With tract oblique
|
|
|
At first, as one who sought access, but feared
|
|
|
To interrupt, side-long he works his way.
|
|
|
As when a ship, by skilful steersmen wrought
|
|
|
Nigh river's mouth or foreland, where the wind
|
|
|
Veers oft, as oft so steers, and shifts her sail:
|
|
|
So varied he, and of his tortuous train
|
|
|
Curled many a wanton wreath in sight of Eve,
|
|
|
To lure her eye; she, busied, heard the sound
|
|
|
Of rusling leaves, but minded not, as used
|
|
|
To such disport before her through the field,
|
|
|
From every beast; more duteous at her call,
|
|
|
Than at Circean call the herd disguised.
|
|
|
He, bolder now, uncalled before her stood,
|
|
|
But as in gaze admiring: oft he bowed
|
|
|
His turret crest, and sleek enamelled neck,
|
|
|
Fawning; and licked the ground whereon she trod.
|
|
|
His gentle dumb expression turned at length
|
|
|
The eye of Eve to mark his play; he, glad
|
|
|
Of her attention gained, with serpent-tongue
|
|
|
Organick, or impulse of vocal air,
|
|
|
His fraudulent temptation thus began.
|
|
|
Wonder not, sovran Mistress, if perhaps
|
|
|
Thou canst, who art sole wonder! much less arm
|
|
|
Thy looks, the Heaven of mildness, with disdain,
|
|
|
Displeased that I approach thee thus, and gaze
|
|
|
Insatiate; I thus single;nor have feared
|
|
|
Thy awful brow, more awful thus retired.
|
|
|
Fairest resemblance of thy Maker fair,
|
|
|
Thee all things living gaze on, all things thine
|
|
|
By gift, and thy celestial beauty adore
|
|
|
With ravishment beheld! there best beheld,
|
|
|
Where universally admired; but here
|
|
|
In this enclosure wild, these beasts among,
|
|
|
Beholders rude, and shallow to discern
|
|
|
Half what in thee is fair, one man except,
|
|
|
Who sees thee? and what is one? who should be seen
|
|
|
A Goddess among Gods, adored and served
|
|
|
By Angels numberless, thy daily train.
|
|
|
So glozed the Tempter, and his proem tuned:
|
|
|
Into the heart of Eve his words made way,
|
|
|
Though at the voice much marvelling; at length,
|
|
|
Not unamazed, she thus in answer spake.
|
|
|
What may this mean? language of man pronounced
|
|
|
By tongue of brute, and human sense expressed?
|
|
|
The first, at least, of these I thought denied
|
|
|
To beasts; whom God, on their creation-day,
|
|
|
Created mute to all articulate sound:
|
|
|
The latter I demur; for in their looks
|
|
|
Much reason, and in their actions, oft appears.
|
|
|
Thee, Serpent, subtlest beast of all the field
|
|
|
I knew, but not with human voice endued;
|
|
|
Redouble then this miracle, and say,
|
|
|
How camest thou speakable of mute, and how
|
|
|
To me so friendly grown above the rest
|
|
|
Of brutal kind, that daily are in sight?
|
|
|
Say, for such wonder claims attention due.
|
|
|
To whom the guileful Tempter thus replied.
|
|
|
Empress of this fair world, resplendent Eve!
|
|
|
Easy to me it is to tell thee all
|
|
|
What thou commandest; and right thou shouldst be obeyed:
|
|
|
I was at first as other beasts that graze
|
|
|
The trodden herb, of abject thoughts and low,
|
|
|
As was my food; nor aught but food discerned
|
|
|
Or sex, and apprehended nothing high:
|
|
|
Till, on a day roving the field, I chanced
|
|
|
A goodly tree far distant to behold
|
|
|
Loaden with fruit of fairest colours mixed,
|
|
|
Ruddy and gold: I nearer drew to gaze;
|
|
|
When from the boughs a savoury odour blown,
|
|
|
Grateful to appetite, more pleased my sense
|
|
|
Than smell of sweetest fennel, or the teats
|
|
|
Of ewe or goat dropping with milk at even,
|
|
|
Unsucked of lamb or kid, that tend their play.
|
|
|
To satisfy the sharp desire I had
|
|
|
Of tasting those fair apples, I resolved
|
|
|
Not to defer; hunger and thirst at once,
|
|
|
Powerful persuaders, quickened at the scent
|
|
|
Of that alluring fruit, urged me so keen.
|
|
|
About the mossy trunk I wound me soon;
|
|
|
For, high from ground, the branches would require
|
|
|
Thy utmost reach or Adam's: Round the tree
|
|
|
All other beasts that saw, with like desire
|
|
|
Longing and envying stood, but could not reach.
|
|
|
Amid the tree now got, where plenty hung
|
|
|
Tempting so nigh, to pluck and eat my fill
|
|
|
I spared not; for, such pleasure till that hour,
|
|
|
At feed or fountain, never had I found.
|
|
|
Sated at length, ere long I might perceive
|
|
|
Strange alteration in me, to degree
|
|
|
Of reason in my inward powers; and speech
|
|
|
Wanted not long; though to this shape retained.
|
|
|
Thenceforth to speculations high or deep
|
|
|
I turned my thoughts, and with capacious mind
|
|
|
Considered all things visible in Heaven,
|
|
|
Or Earth, or Middle; all things fair and good:
|
|
|
But all that fair and good in thy divine
|
|
|
Semblance, and in thy beauty's heavenly ray,
|
|
|
United I beheld; no fair to thine
|
|
|
Equivalent or second! which compelled
|
|
|
Me thus, though importune perhaps, to come
|
|
|
And gaze, and worship thee of right declared
|
|
|
Sovran of creatures, universal Dame!
|
|
|
So talked the spirited sly Snake; and Eve,
|
|
|
Yet more amazed, unwary thus replied.
|
|
|
Serpent, thy overpraising leaves in doubt
|
|
|
The virtue of that fruit, in thee first proved:
|
|
|
But say, where grows the tree? from hence how far?
|
|
|
For many are the trees of God that grow
|
|
|
In Paradise, and various, yet unknown
|
|
|
To us; in such abundance lies our choice,
|
|
|
As leaves a greater store of fruit untouched,
|
|
|
Still hanging incorruptible, till men
|
|
|
Grow up to their provision, and more hands
|
|
|
Help to disburden Nature of her birth.
|
|
|
To whom the wily Adder, blithe and glad.
|
|
|
Empress, the way is ready, and not long;
|
|
|
Beyond a row of myrtles, on a flat,
|
|
|
Fast by a fountain, one small thicket past
|
|
|
Of blowing myrrh and balm: if thou accept
|
|
|
My conduct, I can bring thee thither soon
|
|
|
Lead then, said Eve. He, leading, swiftly rolled
|
|
|
In tangles, and made intricate seem straight,
|
|
|
To mischief swift. Hope elevates, and joy
|
|
|
Brightens his crest; as when a wandering fire,
|
|
|
Compact of unctuous vapour, which the night
|
|
|
Condenses, and the cold environs round,
|
|
|
Kindled through agitation to a flame,
|
|
|
Which oft, they say, some evil Spirit attends,
|
|
|
Hovering and blazing with delusive light,
|
|
|
Misleads the amazed night-wanderer from his way
|
|
|
To bogs and mires, and oft through pond or pool;
|
|
|
There swallowed up and lost, from succour far.
|
|
|
So glistered the dire Snake, and into fraud
|
|
|
Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the tree
|
|
|
Of prohibition, root of all our woe;
|
|
|
Which when she saw, thus to her guide she spake.
|
|
|
Serpent, we might have spared our coming hither,
|
|
|
Fruitless to me, though fruit be here to excess,
|
|
|
The credit of whose virtue rest with thee;
|
|
|
Wonderous indeed, if cause of such effects.
|
|
|
But of this tree we may not taste nor touch;
|
|
|
God so commanded, and left that command
|
|
|
Sole daughter of his voice; the rest, we live
|
|
|
Law to ourselves; our reason is our law.
|
|
|
To whom the Tempter guilefully replied.
|
|
|
Indeed! hath God then said that of the fruit
|
|
|
Of all these garden-trees ye shall not eat,
|
|
|
Yet Lords declared of all in earth or air$?
|
|
|
To whom thus Eve, yet sinless. Of the fruit
|
|
|
Of each tree in the garden we may eat;
|
|
|
But of the fruit of this fair tree amidst
|
|
|
The garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat
|
|
|
Thereof, nor shall ye touch it, lest ye die.
|
|
|
She scarce had said, though brief, when now more bold
|
|
|
The Tempter, but with show of zeal and love
|
|
|
To Man, and indignation at his wrong,
|
|
|
New part puts on; and, as to passion moved,
|
|
|
Fluctuates disturbed, yet comely and in act
|
|
|
Raised, as of some great matter to begin.
|
|
|
As when of old some orator renowned,
|
|
|
In Athens or free Rome, where eloquence
|
|
|
Flourished, since mute! to some great cause addressed,
|
|
|
Stood in himself collected; while each part,
|
|
|
Motion, each act, won audience ere the tongue;
|
|
|
Sometimes in highth began, as no delay
|
|
|
Of preface brooking, through his zeal of right:
|
|
|
So standing, moving, or to highth up grown,
|
|
|
The Tempter, all impassioned, thus began.
|
|
|
O sacred, wise, and wisdom-giving Plant,
|
|
|
Mother of science! now I feel thy power
|
|
|
Within me clear; not only to discern
|
|
|
Things in their causes, but to trace the ways
|
|
|
Of highest agents, deemed however wise.
|
|
|
Queen of this universe! do not believe
|
|
|
Those rigid threats of death: ye shall not die:
|
|
|
How should you? by the fruit? it gives you life
|
|
|
To knowledge; by the threatener? look on me,
|
|
|
Me, who have touched and tasted; yet both live,
|
|
|
And life more perfect have attained than Fate
|
|
|
Meant me, by venturing higher than my lot.
|
|
|
Shall that be shut to Man, which to the Beast
|
|
|
Is open? or will God incense his ire
|
|
|
For such a petty trespass? and not praise
|
|
|
Rather your dauntless virtue, whom the pain
|
|
|
Of death denounced, whatever thing death be,
|
|
|
Deterred not from achieving what might lead
|
|
|
To happier life, knowledge of good and evil;
|
|
|
Of good, how just? of evil, if what is evil
|
|
|
Be real, why not known, since easier shunned?
|
|
|
God therefore cannot hurt ye, and be just;
|
|
|
Not just, not God; not feared then, nor obeyed:
|
|
|
Your fear itself of death removes the fear.
|
|
|
Why then was this forbid? Why, but to awe;
|
|
|
Why, but to keep ye low and ignorant,
|
|
|
His worshippers? He knows that in the day
|
|
|
Ye eat thereof, your eyes that seem so clear,
|
|
|
Yet are but dim, shall perfectly be then
|
|
|
Opened and cleared, and ye shall be as Gods,
|
|
|
Knowing both good and evil, as they know.
|
|
|
That ye shall be as Gods, since I as Man,
|
|
|
Internal Man, is but proportion meet;
|
|
|
I, of brute, human; ye, of human, Gods.
|
|
|
So ye shall die perhaps, by putting off
|
|
|
Human, to put on Gods; death to be wished,
|
|
|
Though threatened, which no worse than this can bring.
|
|
|
And what are Gods, that Man may not become
|
|
|
As they, participating God-like food?
|
|
|
The Gods are first, and that advantage use
|
|
|
On our belief, that all from them proceeds:
|
|
|
I question it; for this fair earth I see,
|
|
|
Warmed by the sun, producing every kind;
|
|
|
Them, nothing: if they all things, who enclosed
|
|
|
Knowledge of good and evil in this tree,
|
|
|
That whoso eats thereof, forthwith attains
|
|
|
Wisdom without their leave? and wherein lies
|
|
|
The offence, that Man should thus attain to know?
|
|
|
What can your knowledge hurt him, or this tree
|
|
|
Impart against his will, if all be his?
|
|
|
Or is it envy? and can envy dwell
|
|
|
In heavenly breasts? These, these, and many more
|
|
|
Causes import your need of this fair fruit.
|
|
|
Goddess humane, reach then, and freely taste!
|
|
|
He ended; and his words, replete with guile,
|
|
|
Into her heart too easy entrance won:
|
|
|
Fixed on the fruit she gazed, which to behold
|
|
|
Might tempt alone; and in her ears the sound
|
|
|
Yet rung of his persuasive words, impregned
|
|
|
With reason, to her seeming, and with truth:
|
|
|
Mean while the hour of noon drew on, and waked
|
|
|
An eager appetite, raised by the smell
|
|
|
So savoury of that fruit, which with desire,
|
|
|
Inclinable now grown to touch or taste,
|
|
|
Solicited her longing eye; yet first
|
|
|
Pausing a while, thus to herself she mused.
|
|
|
Great are thy virtues, doubtless, best of fruits,
|
|
|
Though kept from man, and worthy to be admired;
|
|
|
Whose taste, too long forborn, at first assay
|
|
|
Gave elocution to the mute, and taught
|
|
|
The tongue not made for speech to speak thy praise:
|
|
|
Thy praise he also, who forbids thy use,
|
|
|
Conceals not from us, naming thee the tree
|
|
|
Of knowledge, knowledge both of good and evil;
|
|
|
Forbids us then to taste! but his forbidding
|
|
|
Commends thee more, while it infers the good
|
|
|
By thee communicated, and our want:
|
|
|
For good unknown sure is not had; or, had
|
|
|
And yet unknown, is as not had at all.
|
|
|
In plain then, what forbids he but to know,
|
|
|
Forbids us good, forbids us to be wise?
|
|
|
Such prohibitions bind not. But, if death
|
|
|
Bind us with after-bands, what profits then
|
|
|
Our inward freedom? In the day we eat
|
|
|
Of this fair fruit, our doom is, we shall die!
|
|
|
How dies the Serpent? he hath eaten and lives,
|
|
|
And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns,
|
|
|
Irrational till then. For us alone
|
|
|
Was death invented? or to us denied
|
|
|
This intellectual food, for beasts reserved?
|
|
|
For beasts it seems: yet that one beast which first
|
|
|
Hath tasted envies not, but brings with joy
|
|
|
The good befallen him, author unsuspect,
|
|
|
Friendly to man, far from deceit or guile.
|
|
|
What fear I then? rather, what know to fear
|
|
|
Under this ignorance of good and evil,
|
|
|
Of God or death, of law or penalty?
|
|
|
Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine,
|
|
|
Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,
|
|
|
Of virtue to make wise: What hinders then
|
|
|
To reach, and feed at once both body and mind?
|
|
|
So saying, her rash hand in evil hour
|
|
|
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat!
|
|
|
Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat,
|
|
|
Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe,
|
|
|
That all was lost. Back to the thicket slunk
|
|
|
The guilty Serpent; and well might;for Eve,
|
|
|
Intent now wholly on her taste, nought else
|
|
|
Regarded; such delight till then, as seemed,
|
|
|
In fruit she never tasted, whether true
|
|
|
Or fancied so, through expectation high
|
|
|
Of knowledge; not was Godhead from her thought.
|
|
|
Greedily she ingorged without restraint,
|
|
|
And knew not eating death: Satiate at length,
|
|
|
And hightened as with wine, jocund and boon,
|
|
|
Thus to herself she pleasingly began.
|
|
|
O sovran, virtuous, precious of all trees
|
|
|
In Paradise! of operation blest
|
|
|
To sapience, hitherto obscured, infamed.
|
|
|
And thy fair fruit let hang, as to no end
|
|
|
Created; but henceforth my early care,
|
|
|
Not without song, each morning, and due praise,
|
|
|
Shall tend thee, and the fertile burden ease
|
|
|
Of thy full branches offered free to all;
|
|
|
Till, dieted by thee, I grow mature
|
|
|
In knowledge, as the Gods, who all things know;
|
|
|
Though others envy what they cannot give:
|
|
|
For, had the gift been theirs, it had not here
|
|
|
Thus grown. Experience, next, to thee I owe,
|
|
|
Best guide; not following thee, I had remained
|
|
|
In ignorance; thou openest wisdom's way,
|
|
|
And givest access, though secret she retire.
|
|
|
And I perhaps am secret: Heaven is high,
|
|
|
High, and remote to see from thence distinct
|
|
|
Each thing on Earth; and other care perhaps
|
|
|
May have diverted from continual watch
|
|
|
Our great Forbidder, safe with all his spies
|
|
|
About him. But to Adam in what sort
|
|
|
Shall I appear? shall I to him make known
|
|
|
As yet my change, and give him to partake
|
|
|
Full happiness with me, or rather not,
|
|
|
But keeps the odds of knowledge in my power
|
|
|
Without copartner? so to add what wants
|
|
|
In female sex, the more to draw his love,
|
|
|
And render me more equal; and perhaps,
|
|
|
A thing not undesirable, sometime
|
|
|
Superiour; for, inferiour, who is free
|
|
|
This may be well: But what if God have seen,
|
|
|
And death ensue? then I shall be no more!
|
|
|
And Adam, wedded to another Eve,
|
|
|
Shall live with her enjoying, I extinct;
|
|
|
A death to think! Confirmed then I resolve,
|
|
|
Adam shall share with me in bliss or woe:
|
|
|
So dear I love him, that with him all deaths
|
|
|
I could endure, without him live no life.
|
|
|
So saying, from the tree her step she turned;
|
|
|
But first low reverence done, as to the Power
|
|
|
That dwelt within, whose presence had infused
|
|
|
Into the plant sciential sap, derived
|
|
|
From nectar, drink of Gods. Adam the while,
|
|
|
Waiting desirous her return, had wove
|
|
|
Of choicest flowers a garland, to adorn
|
|
|
Her tresses, and her rural labours crown;
|
|
|
As reapers oft are wont their harvest-queen.
|
|
|
Great joy he promised to his thoughts, and new
|
|
|
Solace in her return, so long delayed:
|
|
|
Yet oft his heart, divine of something ill,
|
|
|
Misgave him; he the faltering measure felt;
|
|
|
And forth to meet her went, the way she took
|
|
|
That morn when first they parted: by the tree
|
|
|
Of knowledge he must pass; there he her met,
|
|
|
Scarce from the tree returning; in her hand
|
|
|
A bough of fairest fruit, that downy smiled,
|
|
|
New gathered, and ambrosial smell diffused.
|
|
|
To him she hasted; in her face excuse
|
|
|
Came prologue, and apology too prompt;
|
|
|
Which, with bland words at will, she thus addressed.
|
|
|
Hast thou not wondered, Adam, at my stay?
|
|
|
Thee I have missed, and thought it long, deprived
|
|
|
Thy presence; agony of love till now
|
|
|
Not felt, nor shall be twice; for never more
|
|
|
Mean I to try, what rash untried I sought,
|
|
|
The pain of absence from thy sight. But strange
|
|
|
Hath been the cause, and wonderful to hear:
|
|
|
This tree is not, as we are told, a tree
|
|
|
Of danger tasted, nor to evil unknown
|
|
|
Opening the way, but of divine effect
|
|
|
To open eyes, and make them Gods who taste;
|
|
|
And hath been tasted such: The serpent wise,
|
|
|
Or not restrained as we, or not obeying,
|
|
|
Hath eaten of the fruit; and is become,
|
|
|
Not dead, as we are threatened, but thenceforth
|
|
|
Endued with human voice and human sense,
|
|
|
Reasoning to admiration; and with me
|
|
|
Persuasively hath so prevailed, that I
|
|
|
Have also tasted, and have also found
|
|
|
The effects to correspond; opener mine eyes,
|
|
|
Dim erst, dilated spirits, ampler heart,
|
|
|
And growing up to Godhead; which for thee
|
|
|
Chiefly I sought, without thee can despise.
|
|
|
For bliss, as thou hast part, to me is bliss;
|
|
|
Tedious, unshared with thee, and odious soon.
|
|
|
Thou therefore also taste, that equal lot
|
|
|
May join us, equal joy, as equal love;
|
|
|
Lest, thou not tasting, different degree
|
|
|
Disjoin us, and I then too late renounce
|
|
|
Deity for thee, when Fate will not permit.
|
|
|
Thus Eve with countenance blithe her story told;
|
|
|
But in her cheek distemper flushing glowed.
|
|
|
On the other side Adam, soon as he heard
|
|
|
The fatal trespass done by Eve, amazed,
|
|
|
Astonied stood and blank, while horrour chill
|
|
|
Ran through his veins, and all his joints relaxed;
|
|
|
From his slack hand the garland wreathed for Eve
|
|
|
Down dropt, and all the faded roses shed:
|
|
|
Speechless he stood and pale, till thus at length
|
|
|
First to himself he inward silence broke.
|
|
|
O fairest of Creation, last and best
|
|
|
Of all God's works, Creature in whom excelled
|
|
|
Whatever can to sight or thought be formed,
|
|
|
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
|
|
|
How art thou lost! how on a sudden lost,
|
|
|
Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote!
|
|
|
Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress
|
|
|
The strict forbiddance, how to violate
|
|
|
The sacred fruit forbidden! Some cursed fraud
|
|
|
Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown,
|
|
|
And me with thee hath ruined; for with thee
|
|
|
Certain my resolution is to die:
|
|
|
How can I live without thee! how forego
|
|
|
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined,
|
|
|
To live again in these wild woods forlorn!
|
|
|
Should God create another Eve, and I
|
|
|
Another rib afford, yet loss of thee
|
|
|
Would never from my heart: no, no!I feel
|
|
|
The link of Nature draw me: flesh of flesh,
|
|
|
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
|
|
|
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
|
|
|
So having said, as one from sad dismay
|
|
|
Recomforted, and after thoughts disturbed
|
|
|
Submitting to what seemed remediless,
|
|
|
Thus in calm mood his words to Eve he turned.
|
|
|
Bold deed thou hast presumed, adventurous Eve,
|
|
|
And peril great provoked, who thus hast dared,
|
|
|
Had it been only coveting to eye
|
|
|
That sacred fruit, sacred to abstinence,
|
|
|
Much more to taste it under ban to touch.
|
|
|
But past who can recall, or done undo?
|
|
|
Not God Omnipotent, nor Fate; yet so
|
|
|
Perhaps thou shalt not die, perhaps the fact
|
|
|
Is not so heinous now, foretasted fruit,
|
|
|
Profaned first by the serpent, by him first
|
|
|
Made common, and unhallowed, ere our taste;
|
|
|
Nor yet on him found deadly; yet he lives;
|
|
|
Lives, as thou saidst, and gains to live, as Man,
|
|
|
Higher degree of life; inducement strong
|
|
|
To us, as likely tasting to attain
|
|
|
Proportional ascent; which cannot be
|
|
|
But to be Gods, or Angels, demi-Gods.
|
|
|
Nor can I think that God, Creator wise,
|
|
|
Though threatening, will in earnest so destroy
|
|
|
Us his prime creatures, dignified so high,
|
|
|
Set over all his works; which in our fall,
|
|
|
For us created, needs with us must fail,
|
|
|
Dependant made; so God shall uncreate,
|
|
|
Be frustrate, do, undo, and labour lose;
|
|
|
Not well conceived of God, who, though his power
|
|
|
Creation could repeat, yet would be loth
|
|
|
Us to abolish, lest the Adversary
|
|
|
Triumph, and say; "Fickle their state whom God
|
|
|
"Most favours; who can please him long? Me first
|
|
|
"He ruined, now Mankind; whom will he next?"
|
|
|
Matter of scorn, not to be given the Foe.
|
|
|
However I with thee have fixed my lot,
|
|
|
Certain to undergo like doom: If death
|
|
|
Consort with thee, death is to me as life;
|
|
|
So forcible within my heart I feel
|
|
|
The bond of Nature draw me to my own;
|
|
|
My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;
|
|
|
Our state cannot be severed; we are one,
|
|
|
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
|
|
|
So Adam; and thus Eve to him replied.
|
|
|
O glorious trial of exceeding love,
|
|
|
Illustrious evidence, example high!
|
|
|
Engaging me to emulate; but, short
|
|
|
Of thy perfection, how shall I attain,
|
|
|
Adam, from whose dear side I boast me sprung,
|
|
|
And gladly of our union hear thee speak,
|
|
|
One heart, one soul in both; whereof good proof
|
|
|
This day affords, declaring thee resolved,
|
|
|
Rather than death, or aught than death more dread,
|
|
|
Shall separate us, linked in love so dear,
|
|
|
To undergo with me one guilt, one crime,
|
|
|
If any be, of tasting this fair fruit;
|
|
|
Whose virtue for of good still good proceeds,
|
|
|
Direct, or by occasion, hath presented
|
|
|
This happy trial of thy love, which else
|
|
|
So eminently never had been known?
|
|
|
Were it I thought death menaced would ensue
|
|
|
This my attempt, I would sustain alone
|
|
|
The worst, and not persuade thee, rather die
|
|
|
Deserted, than oblige thee with a fact
|
|
|
Pernicious to thy peace; chiefly assured
|
|
|
Remarkably so late of thy so true,
|
|
|
So faithful, love unequalled: but I feel
|
|
|
Far otherwise the event; not death, but life
|
|
|
Augmented, opened eyes, new hopes, new joys,
|
|
|
Taste so divine, that what of sweet before
|
|
|
Hath touched my sense, flat seems to this, and harsh.
|
|
|
On my experience, Adam, freely taste,
|
|
|
And fear of death deliver to the winds.
|
|
|
So saying, she embraced him, and for joy
|
|
|
Tenderly wept; much won, that he his love
|
|
|
Had so ennobled, as of choice to incur
|
|
|
Divine displeasure for her sake, or death.
|
|
|
In recompence for such compliance bad
|
|
|
Such recompence best merits from the bough
|
|
|
She gave him of that fair enticing fruit
|
|
|
With liberal hand: he scrupled not to eat,
|
|
|
Against his better knowledge; not deceived,
|
|
|
But fondly overcome with female charm.
|
|
|
Earth trembled from her entrails, as again
|
|
|
In pangs; and Nature gave a second groan;
|
|
|
Sky loured; and, muttering thunder, some sad drops
|
|
|
Wept at completing of the mortal sin
|
|
|
Original: while Adam took no thought,
|
|
|
Eating his fill; nor Eve to iterate
|
|
|
Her former trespass feared, the more to sooth
|
|
|
Him with her loved society; that now,
|
|
|
As with new wine intoxicated both,
|
|
|
They swim in mirth, and fancy that they feel
|
|
|
Divinity within them breeding wings,
|
|
|
Wherewith to scorn the earth: But that false fruit
|
|
|
Far other operation first displayed,
|
|
|
Carnal desire inflaming; he on Eve
|
|
|
Began to cast lascivious eyes; she him
|
|
|
As wantonly repaid; in lust they burn:
|
|
|
Till Adam thus 'gan Eve to dalliance move.
|
|
|
Eve, now I see thou art exact of taste,
|
|
|
And elegant, of sapience no small part;
|
|
|
Since to each meaning savour we apply,
|
|
|
And palate call judicious; I the praise
|
|
|
Yield thee, so well this day thou hast purveyed.
|
|
|
Much pleasure we have lost, while we abstained
|
|
|
From this delightful fruit, nor known till now
|
|
|
True relish, tasting; if such pleasure be
|
|
|
In things to us forbidden, it might be wished,
|
|
|
For this one tree had been forbidden ten.
|
|
|
But come, so well refreshed, now let us play,
|
|
|
As meet is, after such delicious fare;
|
|
|
For never did thy beauty, since the day
|
|
|
I saw thee first and wedded thee, adorned
|
|
|
With all perfections, so inflame my sense
|
|
|
With ardour to enjoy thee, fairer now
|
|
|
Than ever; bounty of this virtuous tree!
|
|
|
So said he, and forbore not glance or toy
|
|
|
Of amorous intent; well understood
|
|
|
Of Eve, whose eye darted contagious fire.
|
|
|
Her hand he seised; and to a shady bank,
|
|
|
Thick over-head with verdant roof imbowered,
|
|
|
He led her nothing loth; flowers were the couch,
|
|
|
Pansies, and violets, and asphodel,
|
|
|
And hyacinth; Earth's freshest softest lap.
|
|
|
There they their fill of love and love's disport
|
|
|
Took largely, of their mutual guilt the seal,
|
|
|
The solace of their sin; till dewy sleep
|
|
|
Oppressed them, wearied with their amorous play,
|
|
|
Soon as the force of that fallacious fruit,
|
|
|
That with exhilarating vapour bland
|
|
|
About their spirits had played, and inmost powers
|
|
|
Made err, was now exhaled; and grosser sleep,
|
|
|
Bred of unkindly fumes, with conscious dreams
|
|
|
Incumbered, now had left them; up they rose
|
|
|
As from unrest; and, each the other viewing,
|
|
|
Soon found their eyes how opened, and their minds
|
|
|
How darkened; innocence, that as a veil
|
|
|
Had shadowed them from knowing ill, was gone;
|
|
|
Just confidence, and native righteousness,
|
|
|
And honour, from about them, naked left
|
|
|
To guilty Shame; he covered, but his robe
|
|
|
Uncovered more. So rose the Danite strong,
|
|
|
Herculean Samson, from the harlot-lap
|
|
|
Of Philistean Dalilah, and waked
|
|
|
Shorn of his strength. They destitute and bare
|
|
|
Of all their virtue: Silent, and in face
|
|
|
Confounded, long they sat, as strucken mute:
|
|
|
Till Adam, though not less than Eve abashed,
|
|
|
At length gave utterance to these words constrained.
|
|
|
O Eve, in evil hour thou didst give ear
|
|
|
To that false worm, of whomsoever taught
|
|
|
To counterfeit Man's voice; true in our fall,
|
|
|
False in our promised rising; since our eyes
|
|
|
Opened we find indeed, and find we know
|
|
|
Both good and evil; good lost, and evil got;
|
|
|
Bad fruit of knowledge, if this be to know;
|
|
|
Which leaves us naked thus, of honour void,
|
|
|
Of innocence, of faith, of purity,
|
|
|
Our wonted ornaments now soiled and stained,
|
|
|
And in our faces evident the signs
|
|
|
Of foul concupiscence; whence evil store;
|
|
|
Even shame, the last of evils; of the first
|
|
|
Be sure then.--How shall I behold the face
|
|
|
Henceforth of God or Angel, erst with joy
|
|
|
And rapture so oft beheld? Those heavenly shapes
|
|
|
Will dazzle now this earthly with their blaze
|
|
|
Insufferably bright. O! might I here
|
|
|
In solitude live savage; in some glade
|
|
|
Obscured, where highest woods, impenetrable
|
|
|
To star or sun-light, spread their umbrage broad
|
|
|
And brown as evening: Cover me, ye Pines!
|
|
|
Ye Cedars, with innumerable boughs
|
|
|
Hide me, where I may never see them more!--
|
|
|
But let us now, as in bad plight, devise
|
|
|
What best may for the present serve to hide
|
|
|
The parts of each from other, that seem most
|
|
|
To shame obnoxious, and unseemliest seen;
|
|
|
Some tree, whose broad smooth leaves together sewed,
|
|
|
And girded on our loins, may cover round
|
|
|
Those middle parts; that this new comer, Shame,
|
|
|
There sit not, and reproach us as unclean.
|
|
|
So counselled he, and both together went
|
|
|
Into the thickest wood; there soon they chose
|
|
|
The fig-tree; not that kind for fruit renowned,
|
|
|
But such as at this day, to Indians known,
|
|
|
In Malabar or Decan spreads her arms
|
|
|
Branching so broad and long, that in the ground
|
|
|
The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow
|
|
|
About the mother tree, a pillared shade
|
|
|
High over-arched, and echoing walks between:
|
|
|
There oft the Indian herdsman, shunning heat,
|
|
|
Shelters in cool, and tends his pasturing herds
|
|
|
At loop-holes cut through thickest shade: Those leaves
|
|
|
They gathered, broad as Amazonian targe;
|
|
|
And, with what skill they had, together sewed,
|
|
|
To gird their waist; vain covering, if to hide
|
|
|
Their guilt and dreaded shame! O, how unlike
|
|
|
To that first naked glory! Such of late
|
|
|
Columbus found the American, so girt
|
|
|
With feathered cincture; naked else, and wild
|
|
|
Among the trees on isles and woody shores.
|
|
|
Thus fenced, and, as they thought, their shame in part
|
|
|
Covered, but not at rest or ease of mind,
|
|
|
They sat them down to weep; nor only tears
|
|
|
Rained at their eyes, but high winds worse within
|
|
|
Began to rise, high passions, anger, hate,
|
|
|
Mistrust, suspicion, discord; and shook sore
|
|
|
Their inward state of mind, calm region once
|
|
|
And full of peace, now tost and turbulent:
|
|
|
For Understanding ruled not, and the Will
|
|
|
Heard not her lore; both in subjection now
|
|
|
To sensual Appetite, who from beneath
|
|
|
Usurping over sovran Reason claimed
|
|
|
Superiour sway: From thus distempered breast,
|
|
|
Adam, estranged in look and altered style,
|
|
|
Speech intermitted thus to Eve renewed.
|
|
|
Would thou hadst hearkened to my words, and staid
|
|
|
With me, as I besought thee, when that strange
|
|
|
Desire of wandering, this unhappy morn,
|
|
|
I know not whence possessed thee; we had then
|
|
|
Remained still happy; not, as now, despoiled
|
|
|
Of all our good; shamed, naked, miserable!
|
|
|
Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve
|
|
|
The faith they owe; when earnestly they seek
|
|
|
Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
|
|
|
To whom, soon moved with touch of blame, thus Eve.
|
|
|
What words have passed thy lips, Adam severe!
|
|
|
Imputest thou that to my default, or will
|
|
|
Of wandering, as thou callest it, which who knows
|
|
|
But might as ill have happened thou being by,
|
|
|
Or to thyself perhaps? Hadst thou been there,
|
|
|
Or here the attempt, thou couldst not have discerned
|
|
|
Fraud in the Serpent, speaking as he spake;
|
|
|
No ground of enmity between us known,
|
|
|
Why he should mean me ill, or seek to harm.
|
|
|
Was I to have never parted from thy side?
|
|
|
As good have grown there still a lifeless rib.
|
|
|
Being as I am, why didst not thou, the head,
|
|
|
Command me absolutely not to go,
|
|
|
Going into such danger, as thou saidst?
|
|
|
Too facile then, thou didst not much gainsay;
|
|
|
Nay, didst permit, approve, and fair dismiss.
|
|
|
Hadst thou been firm and fixed in thy dissent,
|
|
|
Neither had I transgressed, nor thou with me.
|
|
|
To whom, then first incensed, Adam replied.
|
|
|
Is this the love, is this the recompence
|
|
|
Of mine to thee, ingrateful Eve! expressed
|
|
|
Immutable, when thou wert lost, not I;
|
|
|
Who might have lived, and joyed immortal bliss,
|
|
|
Yet willingly chose rather death with thee?
|
|
|
And am I now upbraided as the cause
|
|
|
Of thy transgressing? Not enough severe,
|
|
|
It seems, in thy restraint: What could I more
|
|
|
I warned thee, I admonished thee, foretold
|
|
|
The danger, and the lurking enemy
|
|
|
That lay in wait; beyond this, had been force;
|
|
|
And force upon free will hath here no place.
|
|
|
But confidence then bore thee on; secure
|
|
|
Either to meet no danger, or to find
|
|
|
Matter of glorious trial; and perhaps
|
|
|
I also erred, in overmuch admiring
|
|
|
What seemed in thee so perfect, that I thought
|
|
|
No evil durst attempt thee; but I rue
|
|
|
The errour now, which is become my crime,
|
|
|
And thou the accuser. Thus it shall befall
|
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Him, who, to worth in women overtrusting,
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Lets her will rule: restraint she will not brook;
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And, left to herself, if evil thence ensue,
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She first his weak indulgence will accuse.
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Thus they in mutual accusation spent
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The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning;
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And of their vain contest appeared no end.
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Book X
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Mean while the heinous and despiteful act
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Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how
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He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve,
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Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit,
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Was known in Heaven; for what can 'scape the eye
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Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart
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Omniscient? who, in all things wise and just,
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Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind
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Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed,
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Complete to have discovered and repulsed
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Whatever wiles of foe or seeming friend.
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For still they knew, and ought to have still remembered,
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The high injunction, not to taste that fruit,
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Whoever tempted; which they not obeying,
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(Incurred what could they less?) the penalty;
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And, manifold in sin, deserved to fall.
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Up into Heaven from Paradise in haste
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The angelick guards ascended, mute, and sad,
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For Man; for of his state by this they knew,
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Much wondering how the subtle Fiend had stolen
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Entrance unseen. Soon as the unwelcome news
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From Earth arrived at Heaven-gate, displeased
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All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare
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That time celestial visages, yet, mixed
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With pity, violated not their bliss.
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About the new-arrived, in multitudes
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The ethereal people ran, to hear and know
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How all befel: They towards the throne supreme,
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Accountable, made haste, to make appear,
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With righteous plea, their utmost vigilance
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And easily approved; when the Most High
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Eternal Father, from his secret cloud,
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Amidst in thunder uttered thus his voice.
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Assembled Angels, and ye Powers returned
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From unsuccessful charge; be not dismayed,
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Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth,
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Which your sincerest care could not prevent;
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Foretold so lately what would come to pass,
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When first this tempter crossed the gulf from Hell.
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I told ye then he should prevail, and speed
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On his bad errand; Man should be seduced,
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And flattered out of all, believing lies
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Against his Maker; no decree of mine
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Concurring to necessitate his fall,
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Or touch with lightest moment of impulse
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His free will, to her own inclining left
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In even scale. But fallen he is; and now
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What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass
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On his transgression,--death denounced that day?
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Which he presumes already vain and void,
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Because not yet inflicted, as he feared,
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By some immediate stroke; but soon shall find
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Forbearance no acquittance, ere day end.
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Justice shall not return as bounty scorned.
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But whom send I to judge them? whom but thee,
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Vicegerent Son? To thee I have transferred
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All judgement, whether in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell.
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Easy it may be seen that I intend
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Mercy colleague with justice, sending thee
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Man's friend, his Mediator, his designed
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Both ransom and Redeemer voluntary,
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And destined Man himself to judge Man fallen.
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So spake the Father; and, unfolding bright
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Toward the right hand his glory, on the Son
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Blazed forth unclouded Deity: He full
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Resplendent all his Father manifest
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Expressed, and thus divinely answered mild.
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Father Eternal, thine is to decree;
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Mine, both in Heaven and Earth, to do thy will
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Supreme; that thou in me, thy Son beloved,
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Mayest ever rest well pleased. I go to judge
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On earth these thy transgressours; but thou knowest,
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Whoever judged, the worst on me must light,
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When time shall be; for so I undertook
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Before thee; and, not repenting, this obtain
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Of right, that I may mitigate their doom
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On me derived; yet I shall temper so
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Justice with mercy, as may illustrate most
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Them fully satisfied, and thee appease.
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Attendance none shall need, nor train, where none
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Are to behold the judgement, but the judged,
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Those two; the third best absent is condemned,
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Convict by flight, and rebel to all law:
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Conviction to the serpent none belongs.
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Thus saying, from his radiant seat he rose
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Of high collateral glory: Him Thrones, and Powers,
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Princedoms, and Dominations ministrant,
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Accompanied to Heaven-gate; from whence
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Eden, and all the coast, in prospect lay.
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Down he descended straight; the speed of Gods
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Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged.
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Now was the sun in western cadence low
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From noon, and gentle airs, due at their hour,
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To fan the earth now waked, and usher in
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The evening cool; when he, from wrath more cool,
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Came the mild Judge, and Intercessour both,
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To sentence Man: The voice of God they heard
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Now walking in the garden, by soft winds
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Brought to their ears, while day declined; they heard,
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And from his presence hid themselves among
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The thickest trees, both man and wife; till God,
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Approaching, thus to Adam called aloud.
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Where art thou, Adam, wont with joy to meet
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My coming seen far off? I miss thee here,
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Not pleased, thus entertained with solitude,
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Where obvious duty ere while appeared unsought:
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Or come I less conspicuous, or what change
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Absents thee, or what chance detains?--Come forth!
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He came; and with him Eve, more loth, though first
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To offend; discountenanced both, and discomposed;
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Love was not in their looks, either to God,
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Or to each other; but apparent guilt,
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And shame, and perturbation, and despair,
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|
Anger, and obstinacy, and hate, and guile.
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Whence Adam, faltering long, thus answered brief.
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I heard thee in the garden, and of thy voice
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Afraid, being naked, hid myself. To whom
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The gracious Judge without revile replied.
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My voice thou oft hast heard, and hast not feared,
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But still rejoiced; how is it now become
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So dreadful to thee? That thou art naked, who
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Hath told thee? Hast thou eaten of the tree,
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Whereof I gave thee charge thou shouldst not eat?
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To whom thus Adam sore beset replied.
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O Heaven! in evil strait this day I stand
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Before my Judge; either to undergo
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|
Myself the total crime, or to accuse
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My other self, the partner of my life;
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Whose failing, while her faith to me remains,
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I should conceal, and not expose to blame
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By my complaint: but strict necessity
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|
Subdues me, and calamitous constraint;
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Lest on my head both sin and punishment,
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|
However insupportable, be all
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Devolved; though should I hold my peace, yet thou
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Wouldst easily detect what I conceal.--
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This Woman, whom thou madest to be my help,
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And gavest me as thy perfect gift, so good,
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So fit, so acceptable, so divine,
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That from her hand I could suspect no ill,
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And what she did, whatever in itself,
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|
Her doing seemed to justify the deed;
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She gave me of the tree, and I did eat.
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To whom the Sovran Presence thus replied.
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Was she thy God, that her thou didst obey
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Before his voice? or was she made thy guide,
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Superiour, or but equal, that to her
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Thou didst resign thy manhood, and the place
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Wherein God set thee above her made of thee,
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|
And for thee, whose perfection far excelled
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|
Hers in all real dignity? Adorned
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|
She was indeed, and lovely, to attract
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|
Thy love, not thy subjection; and her gifts
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|
Were such, as under government well seemed;
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|
Unseemly to bear rule; which was thy part
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|
And person, hadst thou known thyself aright.
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|
So having said, he thus to Eve in few.
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|
Say, Woman, what is this which thou hast done?
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To whom sad Eve, with shame nigh overwhelmed,
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|
|
Confessing soon, yet not before her Judge
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|
Bold or loquacious, thus abashed replied.
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The Serpent me beguiled, and I did eat.
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Which when the Lord God heard, without delay
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|
To judgement he proceeded on the accused
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|
Serpent, though brute; unable to transfer
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|
The guilt on him, who made him instrument
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|
Of mischief, and polluted from the end
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|
|
Of his creation; justly then accursed,
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|
As vitiated in nature: More to know
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|
Concerned not Man, (since he no further knew)
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|
Nor altered his offence; yet God at last
|
|
|
To Satan first in sin his doom applied,
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|
Though in mysterious terms, judged as then best:
|
|
|
And on the Serpent thus his curse let fall.
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|
Because thou hast done this, thou art accursed
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|
|
Above all cattle, each beast of the field;
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Upon thy belly groveling thou shalt go,
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|
And dust shalt eat all the days of thy life.
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|
Between thee and the woman I will put
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|
|
Enmity, and between thine and her seed;
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|
Her seed shall bruise thy head, thou bruise his heel.
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|
|
So spake this oracle, then verified
|
|
|
When Jesus, Son of Mary, second Eve,
|
|
|
Saw Satan fall, like lightning, down from Heaven,
|
|
|
Prince of the air; then, rising from his grave
|
|
|
Spoiled Principalities and Powers, triumphed
|
|
|
In open show; and, with ascension bright,
|
|
|
Captivity led captive through the air,
|
|
|
The realm itself of Satan, long usurped;
|
|
|
Whom he shall tread at last under our feet;
|
|
|
Even he, who now foretold his fatal bruise;
|
|
|
And to the Woman thus his sentence turned.
|
|
|
Thy sorrow I will greatly multiply
|
|
|
By thy conception; children thou shalt bring
|
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|
In sorrow forth; and to thy husband's will
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|
Thine shall submit; he over thee shall rule.
|
|
|
On Adam last thus judgement he pronounced.
|
|
|
Because thou hast hearkened to the voice of thy wife,
|
|
|
And eaten of the tree, concerning which
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|
|
I charged thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat thereof:
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|
|
Cursed is the ground for thy sake; thou in sorrow
|
|
|
Shalt eat thereof, all the days of thy life;
|
|
|
Thorns also and thistles it shall bring thee forth
|
|
|
Unbid; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
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|
|
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,
|
|
|
Till thou return unto the ground; for thou
|
|
|
Out of the ground wast taken, know thy birth,
|
|
|
For dust thou art, and shalt to dust return.
|
|
|
So judged he Man, both Judge and Saviour sent;
|
|
|
And the instant stroke of death, denounced that day,
|
|
|
Removed far off; then, pitying how they stood
|
|
|
Before him naked to the air, that now
|
|
|
Must suffer change, disdained not to begin
|
|
|
Thenceforth the form of servant to assume;
|
|
|
As when he washed his servants feet; so now,
|
|
|
As father of his family, he clad
|
|
|
Their nakedness with skins of beasts, or slain,
|
|
|
Or as the snake with youthful coat repaid;
|
|
|
And thought not much to clothe his enemies;
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|
|
Nor he their outward only with the skins
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|
|
Of beasts, but inward nakedness, much more.
|
|
|
Opprobrious, with his robe of righteousness,
|
|
|
Arraying, covered from his Father's sight.
|
|
|
To him with swift ascent he up returned,
|
|
|
Into his blissful bosom reassumed
|
|
|
In glory, as of old; to him appeased
|
|
|
All, though all-knowing, what had passed with Man
|
|
|
Recounted, mixing intercession sweet.
|
|
|
Mean while, ere thus was sinned and judged on Earth,
|
|
|
Within the gates of Hell sat Sin and Death,
|
|
|
In counterview within the gates, that now
|
|
|
Stood open wide, belching outrageous flame
|
|
|
Far into Chaos, since the Fiend passed through,
|
|
|
Sin opening; who thus now to Death began.
|
|
|
O Son, why sit we here each other viewing
|
|
|
Idly, while Satan, our great author, thrives
|
|
|
In other worlds, and happier seat provides
|
|
|
For us, his offspring dear? It cannot be
|
|
|
But that success attends him; if mishap,
|
|
|
Ere this he had returned, with fury driven
|
|
|
By his avengers; since no place like this
|
|
|
Can fit his punishment, or their revenge.
|
|
|
Methinks I feel new strength within me rise,
|
|
|
Wings growing, and dominion given me large
|
|
|
Beyond this deep; whatever draws me on,
|
|
|
Or sympathy, or some connatural force,
|
|
|
Powerful at greatest distance to unite,
|
|
|
With secret amity, things of like kind,
|
|
|
By secretest conveyance. Thou, my shade
|
|
|
Inseparable, must with me along;
|
|
|
For Death from Sin no power can separate.
|
|
|
But, lest the difficulty of passing back
|
|
|
Stay his return perhaps over this gulf
|
|
|
Impassable, impervious; let us try
|
|
|
Adventurous work, yet to thy power and mine
|
|
|
Not unagreeable, to found a path
|
|
|
Over this main from Hell to that new world,
|
|
|
Where Satan now prevails; a monument
|
|
|
Of merit high to all the infernal host,
|
|
|
Easing their passage hence, for intercourse,
|
|
|
Or transmigration, as their lot shall lead.
|
|
|
Nor can I miss the way, so strongly drawn
|
|
|
By this new-felt attraction and instinct.
|
|
|
Whom thus the meager Shadow answered soon.
|
|
|
Go, whither Fate, and inclination strong,
|
|
|
Leads thee; I shall not lag behind, nor err
|
|
|
The way, thou leading; such a scent I draw
|
|
|
Of carnage, prey innumerable, and taste
|
|
|
The savour of death from all things there that live:
|
|
|
Nor shall I to the work thou enterprisest
|
|
|
Be wanting, but afford thee equal aid.
|
|
|
So saying, with delight he snuffed the smell
|
|
|
Of mortal change on earth. As when a flock
|
|
|
Of ravenous fowl, though many a league remote,
|
|
|
Against the day of battle, to a field,
|
|
|
Where armies lie encamped, come flying, lured
|
|
|
With scent of living carcasses designed
|
|
|
For death, the following day, in bloody fight:
|
|
|
So scented the grim Feature, and upturned
|
|
|
His nostril wide into the murky air;
|
|
|
Sagacious of his quarry from so far.
|
|
|
Then both from out Hell-gates, into the waste
|
|
|
Wide anarchy of Chaos, damp and dark,
|
|
|
Flew diverse; and with power (their power was great)
|
|
|
Hovering upon the waters, what they met
|
|
|
Solid or slimy, as in raging sea
|
|
|
Tost up and down, together crouded drove,
|
|
|
From each side shoaling towards the mouth of Hell;
|
|
|
As when two polar winds, blowing adverse
|
|
|
Upon the Cronian sea, together drive
|
|
|
Mountains of ice, that stop the imagined way
|
|
|
Beyond Petsora eastward, to the rich
|
|
|
Cathaian coast. The aggregated soil
|
|
|
Death with his mace petrifick, cold and dry,
|
|
|
As with a trident, smote; and fixed as firm
|
|
|
As Delos, floating once; the rest his look
|
|
|
Bound with Gorgonian rigour not to move;
|
|
|
And with Asphaltick slime, broad as the gate,
|
|
|
Deep to the roots of Hell the gathered beach
|
|
|
They fastened, and the mole immense wrought on
|
|
|
Over the foaming deep high-arched, a bridge
|
|
|
Of length prodigious, joining to the wall
|
|
|
Immoveable of this now fenceless world,
|
|
|
Forfeit to Death; from hence a passage broad,
|
|
|
Smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to Hell.
|
|
|
So, if great things to small may be compared,
|
|
|
Xerxes, the liberty of Greece to yoke,
|
|
|
From Susa, his Memnonian palace high,
|
|
|
Came to the sea: and, over Hellespont
|
|
|
Bridging his way, Europe with Asia joined,
|
|
|
And scourged with many a stroke the indignant waves.
|
|
|
Now had they brought the work by wonderous art
|
|
|
Pontifical, a ridge of pendant rock,
|
|
|
Over the vexed abyss, following the track
|
|
|
Of Satan to the self-same place where he
|
|
|
First lighted from his wing, and landed safe
|
|
|
From out of Chaos, to the outside bare
|
|
|
Of this round world: With pins of adamant
|
|
|
And chains they made all fast, too fast they made
|
|
|
And durable! And now in little space
|
|
|
The confines met of empyrean Heaven,
|
|
|
And of this World; and, on the left hand, Hell
|
|
|
With long reach interposed; three several ways
|
|
|
In sight, to each of these three places led.
|
|
|
And now their way to Earth they had descried,
|
|
|
To Paradise first tending; when, behold!
|
|
|
Satan, in likeness of an Angel bright,
|
|
|
Betwixt the Centaur and the Scorpion steering
|
|
|
His zenith, while the sun in Aries rose:
|
|
|
Disguised he came; but those his children dear
|
|
|
Their parent soon discerned, though in disguise.
|
|
|
He, after Eve seduced, unminded slunk
|
|
|
Into the wood fast by; and, changing shape,
|
|
|
To observe the sequel, saw his guileful act
|
|
|
By Eve, though all unweeting, seconded
|
|
|
Upon her husband; saw their shame that sought
|
|
|
Vain covertures; but when he saw descend
|
|
|
The Son of God to judge them, terrified
|
|
|
He fled; not hoping to escape, but shun
|
|
|
The present; fearing, guilty, what his wrath
|
|
|
Might suddenly inflict; that past, returned
|
|
|
By night, and listening where the hapless pair
|
|
|
Sat in their sad discourse, and various plaint,
|
|
|
Thence gathered his own doom; which understood
|
|
|
Not instant, but of future time, with joy
|
|
|
And tidings fraught, to Hell he now returned;
|
|
|
And at the brink of Chaos, near the foot
|
|
|
Of this new wonderous pontifice, unhoped
|
|
|
Met, who to meet him came, his offspring dear.
|
|
|
Great joy was at their meeting, and at sight
|
|
|
Of that stupendious bridge his joy encreased.
|
|
|
Long he admiring stood, till Sin, his fair
|
|
|
Enchanting daughter, thus the silence broke.
|
|
|
O Parent, these are thy magnifick deeds,
|
|
|
Thy trophies! which thou viewest as not thine own;
|
|
|
Thou art their author, and prime architect:
|
|
|
For I no sooner in my heart divined,
|
|
|
My heart, which by a secret harmony
|
|
|
Still moves with thine, joined in connexion sweet,
|
|
|
That thou on earth hadst prospered, which thy looks
|
|
|
Now also evidence, but straight I felt,
|
|
|
Though distant from thee worlds between, yet felt,
|
|
|
That I must after thee, with this thy son;
|
|
|
Such fatal consequence unites us three!
|
|
|
Hell could no longer hold us in our bounds,
|
|
|
Nor this unvoyageable gulf obscure
|
|
|
Detain from following thy illustrious track.
|
|
|
Thou hast achieved our liberty, confined
|
|
|
Within Hell-gates till now; thou us impowered
|
|
|
To fortify thus far, and overlay,
|
|
|
With this portentous bridge, the dark abyss.
|
|
|
Thine now is all this world; thy virtue hath won
|
|
|
What thy hands builded not; thy wisdom gained
|
|
|
With odds what war hath lost, and fully avenged
|
|
|
Our foil in Heaven; here thou shalt monarch reign,
|
|
|
There didst not; there let him still victor sway,
|
|
|
As battle hath adjudged; from this new world
|
|
|
Retiring, by his own doom alienated;
|
|
|
And henceforth monarchy with thee divide
|
|
|
Of all things, parted by the empyreal bounds,
|
|
|
His quadrature, from thy orbicular world;
|
|
|
Or try thee now more dangerous to his throne.
|
|
|
Whom thus the Prince of darkness answered glad.
|
|
|
Fair Daughter, and thou Son and Grandchild both;
|
|
|
High proof ye now have given to be the race
|
|
|
Of Satan (for I glory in the name,
|
|
|
Antagonist of Heaven's Almighty King,)
|
|
|
Amply have merited of me, of all
|
|
|
The infernal empire, that so near Heaven's door
|
|
|
Triumphal with triumphal act have met,
|
|
|
Mine, with this glorious work; and made one realm,
|
|
|
Hell and this world, one realm, one continent
|
|
|
Of easy thorough-fare. Therefore, while I
|
|
|
Descend through darkness, on your road with ease,
|
|
|
To my associate Powers, them to acquaint
|
|
|
With these successes, and with them rejoice;
|
|
|
You two this way, among these numerous orbs,
|
|
|
All yours, right down to Paradise descend;
|
|
|
There dwell, and reign in bliss; thence on the earth
|
|
|
Dominion exercise and in the air,
|
|
|
Chiefly on Man, sole lord of all declared;
|
|
|
Him first make sure your thrall, and lastly kill.
|
|
|
My substitutes I send ye, and create
|
|
|
Plenipotent on earth, of matchless might
|
|
|
Issuing from me: on your joint vigour now
|
|
|
My hold of this new kingdom all depends,
|
|
|
Through Sin to Death exposed by my exploit.
|
|
|
If your joint power prevail, the affairs of Hell
|
|
|
No detriment need fear; go, and be strong!
|
|
|
So saying he dismissed them; they with speed
|
|
|
Their course through thickest constellations held,
|
|
|
Spreading their bane; the blasted stars looked wan,
|
|
|
And planets, planet-struck, real eclipse
|
|
|
Then suffered. The other way Satan went down
|
|
|
The causey to Hell-gate: On either side
|
|
|
Disparted Chaos overbuilt exclaimed,
|
|
|
And with rebounding surge the bars assailed,
|
|
|
That scorned his indignation: Through the gate,
|
|
|
Wide open and unguarded, Satan passed,
|
|
|
And all about found desolate; for those,
|
|
|
Appointed to sit there, had left their charge,
|
|
|
Flown to the upper world; the rest were all
|
|
|
Far to the inland retired, about the walls
|
|
|
Of Pandemonium; city and proud seat
|
|
|
Of Lucifer, so by allusion called
|
|
|
Of that bright star to Satan paragoned;
|
|
|
There kept their watch the legions, while the Grand
|
|
|
In council sat, solicitous what chance
|
|
|
Might intercept their emperour sent; so he
|
|
|
Departing gave command, and they observed.
|
|
|
As when the Tartar from his Russian foe,
|
|
|
By Astracan, over the snowy plains,
|
|
|
Retires; or Bactrin Sophi, from the horns
|
|
|
Of Turkish crescent, leaves all waste beyond
|
|
|
The realm of Aladule, in his retreat
|
|
|
To Tauris or Casbeen: So these, the late
|
|
|
Heaven-banished host, left desart utmost Hell
|
|
|
Many a dark league, reduced in careful watch
|
|
|
Round their metropolis; and now expecting
|
|
|
Each hour their great adventurer, from the search
|
|
|
Of foreign worlds: He through the midst unmarked,
|
|
|
In show plebeian Angel militant
|
|
|
Of lowest order, passed; and from the door
|
|
|
Of that Plutonian hall, invisible
|
|
|
Ascended his high throne; which, under state
|
|
|
Of richest texture spread, at the upper end
|
|
|
Was placed in regal lustre. Down a while
|
|
|
He sat, and round about him saw unseen:
|
|
|
At last, as from a cloud, his fulgent head
|
|
|
And shape star-bright appeared, or brighter; clad
|
|
|
With what permissive glory since his fall
|
|
|
Was left him, or false glitter: All amazed
|
|
|
At that so sudden blaze the Stygian throng
|
|
|
Bent their aspect, and whom they wished beheld,
|
|
|
Their mighty Chief returned: loud was the acclaim:
|
|
|
Forth rushed in haste the great consulting peers,
|
|
|
Raised from their dark Divan, and with like joy
|
|
|
Congratulant approached him; who with hand
|
|
|
Silence, and with these words attention, won.
|
|
|
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers;
|
|
|
For in possession such, not only of right,
|
|
|
I call ye, and declare ye now; returned
|
|
|
Successful beyond hope, to lead ye forth
|
|
|
Triumphant out of this infernal pit
|
|
|
Abominable, accursed, the house of woe,
|
|
|
And dungeon of our tyrant: Now possess,
|
|
|
As Lords, a spacious world, to our native Heaven
|
|
|
Little inferiour, by my adventure hard
|
|
|
With peril great achieved. Long were to tell
|
|
|
What I have done; what suffered;with what pain
|
|
|
Voyaged th' unreal, vast, unbounded deep
|
|
|
Of horrible confusion; over which
|
|
|
By Sin and Death a broad way now is paved,
|
|
|
To expedite your glorious march; but I
|
|
|
Toiled out my uncouth passage, forced to ride
|
|
|
The untractable abyss, plunged in the womb
|
|
|
Of unoriginal Night and Chaos wild;
|
|
|
That, jealous of their secrets, fiercely opposed
|
|
|
My journey strange, with clamorous uproar
|
|
|
Protesting Fate supreme; thence how I found
|
|
|
The new created world, which fame in Heaven
|
|
|
Long had foretold, a fabrick wonderful
|
|
|
Of absolute perfection! therein Man
|
|
|
Placed in a Paradise, by our exile
|
|
|
Made happy: Him by fraud I have seduced
|
|
|
From his Creator; and, the more to encrease
|
|
|
Your wonder, with an apple; he, thereat
|
|
|
Offended, worth your laughter! hath given up
|
|
|
Both his beloved Man, and all his world,
|
|
|
To Sin and Death a prey, and so to us,
|
|
|
Without our hazard, labour, or alarm;
|
|
|
To range in, and to dwell, and over Man
|
|
|
To rule, as over all he should have ruled.
|
|
|
True is, me also he hath judged, or rather
|
|
|
Me not, but the brute serpent in whose shape
|
|
|
Man I deceived: that which to me belongs,
|
|
|
Is enmity which he will put between
|
|
|
Me and mankind; I am to bruise his heel;
|
|
|
His seed, when is not set, shall bruise my head:
|
|
|
A world who would not purchase with a bruise,
|
|
|
Or much more grievous pain?--Ye have the account
|
|
|
Of my performance: What remains, ye Gods,
|
|
|
But up, and enter now into full bliss?
|
|
|
So having said, a while he stood, expecting
|
|
|
Their universal shout, and high applause,
|
|
|
To fill his ear; when, contrary, he hears
|
|
|
On all sides, from innumerable tongues,
|
|
|
A dismal universal hiss, the sound
|
|
|
Of publick scorn; he wondered, but not long
|
|
|
Had leisure, wondering at himself now more,
|
|
|
His visage drawn he felt to sharp and spare;
|
|
|
His arms clung to his ribs; his legs entwining
|
|
|
Each other, till supplanted down he fell
|
|
|
A monstrous serpent on his belly prone,
|
|
|
Reluctant, but in vain; a greater power
|
|
|
Now ruled him, punished in the shape he sinned,
|
|
|
According to his doom: he would have spoke,
|
|
|
But hiss for hiss returned with forked tongue
|
|
|
To forked tongue; for now were all transformed
|
|
|
Alike, to serpents all, as accessories
|
|
|
To his bold riot: Dreadful was the din
|
|
|
Of hissing through the hall, thick swarming now
|
|
|
With complicated monsters head and tail,
|
|
|
Scorpion, and Asp, and Amphisbaena dire,
|
|
|
Cerastes horned, Hydrus, and Elops drear,
|
|
|
And Dipsas; (not so thick swarmed once the soil
|
|
|
Bedropt with blood of Gorgon, or the isle
|
|
|
Ophiusa,) but still greatest he the midst,
|
|
|
Now Dragon grown, larger than whom the sun
|
|
|
Ingendered in the Pythian vale or slime,
|
|
|
Huge Python, and his power no less he seemed
|
|
|
Above the rest still to retain; they all
|
|
|
Him followed, issuing forth to the open field,
|
|
|
Where all yet left of that revolted rout,
|
|
|
Heaven-fallen, in station stood or just array;
|
|
|
Sublime with expectation when to see
|
|
|
In triumph issuing forth their glorious Chief;
|
|
|
They saw, but other sight instead! a croud
|
|
|
Of ugly serpents; horrour on them fell,
|
|
|
And horrid sympathy; for, what they saw,
|
|
|
They felt themselves, now changing; down their arms,
|
|
|
Down fell both spear and shield; down they as fast;
|
|
|
And the dire hiss renewed, and the dire form
|
|
|
Catched, by contagion; like in punishment,
|
|
|
As in their crime. Thus was the applause they meant,
|
|
|
Turned to exploding hiss, triumph to shame
|
|
|
Cast on themselves from their own mouths. There stood
|
|
|
A grove hard by, sprung up with this their change,
|
|
|
His will who reigns above, to aggravate
|
|
|
Their penance, laden with fair fruit, like that
|
|
|
Which grew in Paradise, the bait of Eve
|
|
|
Used by the Tempter: on that prospect strange
|
|
|
Their earnest eyes they fixed, imagining
|
|
|
For one forbidden tree a multitude
|
|
|
Now risen, to work them further woe or shame;
|
|
|
Yet, parched with scalding thirst and hunger fierce,
|
|
|
Though to delude them sent, could not abstain;
|
|
|
But on they rolled in heaps, and, up the trees
|
|
|
Climbing, sat thicker than the snaky locks
|
|
|
That curled Megaera: greedily they plucked
|
|
|
The fruitage fair to sight, like that which grew
|
|
|
Near that bituminous lake where Sodom flamed;
|
|
|
This more delusive, not the touch, but taste
|
|
|
Deceived; they, fondly thinking to allay
|
|
|
Their appetite with gust, instead of fruit
|
|
|
Chewed bitter ashes, which the offended taste
|
|
|
With spattering noise rejected: oft they assayed,
|
|
|
Hunger and thirst constraining; drugged as oft,
|
|
|
With hatefullest disrelish writhed their jaws,
|
|
|
With soot and cinders filled; so oft they fell
|
|
|
Into the same illusion, not as Man
|
|
|
Whom they triumphed once lapsed. Thus were they plagued
|
|
|
And worn with famine, long and ceaseless hiss,
|
|
|
Till their lost shape, permitted, they resumed;
|
|
|
Yearly enjoined, some say, to undergo,
|
|
|
This annual humbling certain numbered days,
|
|
|
To dash their pride, and joy, for Man seduced.
|
|
|
However, some tradition they dispersed
|
|
|
Among the Heathen, of their purchase got,
|
|
|
And fabled how the Serpent, whom they called
|
|
|
Ophion, with Eurynome, the wide--
|
|
|
Encroaching Eve perhaps, had first the rule
|
|
|
Of high Olympus; thence by Saturn driven
|
|
|
And Ops, ere yet Dictaean Jove was born.
|
|
|
Mean while in Paradise the hellish pair
|
|
|
Too soon arrived; Sin, there in power before,
|
|
|
Once actual; now in body, and to dwell
|
|
|
Habitual habitant; behind her Death,
|
|
|
Close following pace for pace, not mounted yet
|
|
|
On his pale horse: to whom Sin thus began.
|
|
|
Second of Satan sprung, all-conquering Death!
|
|
|
What thinkest thou of our empire now, though earned
|
|
|
With travel difficult, not better far
|
|
|
Than still at Hell's dark threshold to have sat watch,
|
|
|
Unnamed, undreaded, and thyself half starved?
|
|
|
Whom thus the Sin-born monster answered soon.
|
|
|
To me, who with eternal famine pine,
|
|
|
Alike is Hell, or Paradise, or Heaven;
|
|
|
There best, where most with ravine I may meet;
|
|
|
Which here, though plenteous, all too little seems
|
|
|
To stuff this maw, this vast unhide-bound corps.
|
|
|
To whom the incestuous mother thus replied.
|
|
|
Thou therefore on these herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
|
|
|
Feed first; on each beast next, and fish, and fowl;
|
|
|
No homely morsels! and, whatever thing
|
|
|
The sithe of Time mows down, devour unspared;
|
|
|
Till I, in Man residing, through the race,
|
|
|
His thoughts, his looks, words, actions, all infect;
|
|
|
And season him thy last and sweetest prey.
|
|
|
This said, they both betook them several ways,
|
|
|
Both to destroy, or unimmortal make
|
|
|
All kinds, and for destruction to mature
|
|
|
Sooner or later; which the Almighty seeing,
|
|
|
From his transcendent seat the Saints among,
|
|
|
To those bright Orders uttered thus his voice.
|
|
|
See, with what heat these dogs of Hell advance
|
|
|
To waste and havock yonder world, which I
|
|
|
So fair and good created; and had still
|
|
|
Kept in that state, had not the folly of Man
|
|
|
Let in these wasteful furies, who impute
|
|
|
Folly to me; so doth the Prince of Hell
|
|
|
And his adherents, that with so much ease
|
|
|
I suffer them to enter and possess
|
|
|
A place so heavenly; and, conniving, seem
|
|
|
To gratify my scornful enemies,
|
|
|
That laugh, as if, transported with some fit
|
|
|
Of passion, I to them had quitted all,
|
|
|
At random yielded up to their misrule;
|
|
|
And know not that I called, and drew them thither,
|
|
|
My Hell-hounds, to lick up the draff and filth
|
|
|
Which Man's polluting sin with taint hath shed
|
|
|
On what was pure; til, crammed and gorged, nigh burst
|
|
|
With sucked and glutted offal, at one sling
|
|
|
Of thy victorious arm, well-pleasing Son,
|
|
|
Both Sin, and Death, and yawning Grave, at last,
|
|
|
Through Chaos hurled, obstruct the mouth of Hell
|
|
|
For ever, and seal up his ravenous jaws.
|
|
|
Then Heaven and Earth renewed shall be made pure
|
|
|
To sanctity, that shall receive no stain:
|
|
|
Till then, the curse pronounced on both precedes.
|
|
|
He ended, and the heavenly audience loud
|
|
|
Sung Halleluiah, as the sound of seas,
|
|
|
Through multitude that sung: Just are thy ways,
|
|
|
Righteous are thy decrees on all thy works;
|
|
|
Who can extenuate thee? Next, to the Son,
|
|
|
Destined Restorer of mankind, by whom
|
|
|
New Heaven and Earth shall to the ages rise,
|
|
|
Or down from Heaven descend.--Such was their song;
|
|
|
While the Creator, calling forth by name
|
|
|
His mighty Angels, gave them several charge,
|
|
|
As sorted best with present things. The sun
|
|
|
Had first his precept so to move, so shine,
|
|
|
As might affect the earth with cold and heat
|
|
|
Scarce tolerable; and from the north to call
|
|
|
Decrepit winter; from the south to bring
|
|
|
Solstitial summer's heat. To the blanc moon
|
|
|
Her office they prescribed; to the other five
|
|
|
Their planetary motions, and aspects,
|
|
|
In sextile, square, and trine, and opposite,
|
|
|
Of noxious efficacy, and when to join
|
|
|
In synod unbenign; and taught the fixed
|
|
|
Their influence malignant when to shower,
|
|
|
Which of them rising with the sun, or falling,
|
|
|
Should prove tempestuous: To the winds they set
|
|
|
Their corners, when with bluster to confound
|
|
|
Sea, air, and shore; the thunder when to roll
|
|
|
With terrour through the dark aereal hall.
|
|
|
Some say, he bid his Angels turn ascanse
|
|
|
The poles of earth, twice ten degrees and more,
|
|
|
From the sun's axle; they with labour pushed
|
|
|
Oblique the centrick globe: Some say, the sun
|
|
|
Was bid turn reins from the equinoctial road
|
|
|
Like distant breadth to Taurus with the seven
|
|
|
Atlantick Sisters, and the Spartan Twins,
|
|
|
Up to the Tropick Crab: thence down amain
|
|
|
By Leo, and the Virgin, and the Scales,
|
|
|
As deep as Capricorn; to bring in change
|
|
|
Of seasons to each clime; else had the spring
|
|
|
Perpetual smiled on earth with vernant flowers,
|
|
|
Equal in days and nights, except to those
|
|
|
Beyond the polar circles; to them day
|
|
|
Had unbenighted shone, while the low sun,
|
|
|
To recompense his distance, in their sight
|
|
|
Had rounded still the horizon, and not known
|
|
|
Or east or west; which had forbid the snow
|
|
|
From cold Estotiland, and south as far
|
|
|
Beneath Magellan. At that tasted fruit
|
|
|
The sun, as from Thyestean banquet, turned
|
|
|
His course intended; else, how had the world
|
|
|
Inhabited, though sinless, more than now,
|
|
|
Avoided pinching cold and scorching heat?
|
|
|
These changes in the Heavens, though slow, produced
|
|
|
Like change on sea and land; sideral blast,
|
|
|
Vapour, and mist, and exhalation hot,
|
|
|
Corrupt and pestilent: Now from the north
|
|
|
Of Norumbega, and the Samoed shore,
|
|
|
Bursting their brazen dungeon, armed with ice,
|
|
|
And snow, and hail, and stormy gust and flaw,
|
|
|
Boreas, and Caecias, and Argestes loud,
|
|
|
And Thrascias, rend the woods, and seas upturn;
|
|
|
With adverse blast upturns them from the south
|
|
|
Notus, and Afer black with thunderous clouds
|
|
|
From Serraliona; thwart of these, as fierce,
|
|
|
Forth rush the Levant and the Ponent winds,
|
|
|
Eurus and Zephyr, with their lateral noise,
|
|
|
Sirocco and Libecchio. Thus began
|
|
|
Outrage from lifeless things; but Discord first,
|
|
|
Daughter of Sin, among the irrational
|
|
|
Death introduced, through fierce antipathy:
|
|
|
Beast now with beast 'gan war, and fowl with fowl,
|
|
|
And fish with fish; to graze the herb all leaving,
|
|
|
Devoured each other; nor stood much in awe
|
|
|
Of Man, but fled him; or, with countenance grim,
|
|
|
Glared on him passing. These were from without
|
|
|
The growing miseries, which Adam saw
|
|
|
Already in part, though hid in gloomiest shade,
|
|
|
To sorrow abandoned, but worse felt within;
|
|
|
And, in a troubled sea of passion tost,
|
|
|
Thus to disburden sought with sad complaint.
|
|
|
O miserable of happy! Is this the end
|
|
|
Of this new glorious world, and me so late
|
|
|
The glory of that glory, who now become
|
|
|
Accursed, of blessed? hide me from the face
|
|
|
Of God, whom to behold was then my highth
|
|
|
Of happiness!--Yet well, if here would end
|
|
|
The misery; I deserved it, and would bear
|
|
|
My own deservings; but this will not serve:
|
|
|
All that I eat or drink, or shall beget,
|
|
|
Is propagated curse. O voice, once heard
|
|
|
Delightfully, Encrease and multiply;
|
|
|
Now death to hear! for what can I encrease,
|
|
|
Or multiply, but curses on my head?
|
|
|
Who of all ages to succeed, but, feeling
|
|
|
The evil on him brought by me, will curse
|
|
|
My head? Ill fare our ancestor impure,
|
|
|
For this we may thank Adam! but his thanks
|
|
|
Shall be the execration: so, besides
|
|
|
Mine own that bide upon me, all from me
|
|
|
Shall with a fierce reflux on me rebound;
|
|
|
On me, as on their natural center, light
|
|
|
Heavy, though in their place. O fleeting joys
|
|
|
Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes!
|
|
|
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
|
|
|
To mould me Man? did I solicit thee
|
|
|
From darkness to promote me, or here place
|
|
|
In this delicious garden? As my will
|
|
|
Concurred not to my being, it were but right
|
|
|
And equal to reduce me to my dust;
|
|
|
Desirous to resign and render back
|
|
|
All I received; unable to perform
|
|
|
Thy terms too hard, by which I was to hold
|
|
|
The good I sought not. To the loss of that,
|
|
|
Sufficient penalty, why hast thou added
|
|
|
The sense of endless woes? Inexplicable
|
|
|
Why am I mocked with death, and lengthened out
|
|
|
To deathless pain? How gladly would I meet
|
|
|
Mortality my sentence, and be earth
|
|
|
Insensible! How glad would lay me down
|
|
|
As in my mother's lap! There I should rest,
|
|
|
And sleep secure; his dreadful voice no more
|
|
|
Would thunder in my ears; no fear of worse
|
|
|
To me, and to my offspring, would torment me
|
|
|
With cruel expectation. Yet one doubt
|
|
|
Pursues me still, lest all I cannot die;
|
|
|
Lest that pure breath of life, the spirit of Man
|
|
|
Which God inspired, cannot together perish
|
|
|
With this corporeal clod; then, in the grave,
|
|
|
Or in some other dismal place, who knows
|
|
|
But I shall die a living death? O thought
|
|
|
Horrid, if true! Yet why? It was but breath
|
|
|
Of life that sinned; what dies but what had life
|
|
|
And sin? The body properly had neither,
|
|
|
All of me then shall die: let this appease
|
|
|
The doubt, since human reach no further knows.
|
|
|
For though the Lord of all be infinite,
|
|
|
Is his wrath also? Be it, Man is not so,
|
|
|
But mortal doomed. How can he exercise
|
|
|
Wrath without end on Man, whom death must end?
|
|
|
Can he make deathless death? That were to make
|
|
|
Strange contradiction, which to God himself
|
|
|
Impossible is held; as argument
|
|
|
Of weakness, not of power. Will he draw out,
|
|
|
For anger's sake, finite to infinite,
|
|
|
In punished Man, to satisfy his rigour,
|
|
|
Satisfied never? That were to extend
|
|
|
His sentence beyond dust and Nature's law;
|
|
|
By which all causes else, according still
|
|
|
To the reception of their matter, act;
|
|
|
Not to the extent of their own sphere. But say
|
|
|
That death be not one stroke, as I supposed,
|
|
|
Bereaving sense, but endless misery
|
|
|
From this day onward; which I feel begun
|
|
|
Both in me, and without me; and so last
|
|
|
To perpetuity;--Ay me!that fear
|
|
|
Comes thundering back with dreadful revolution
|
|
|
On my defenceless head; both Death and I
|
|
|
Am found eternal, and incorporate both;
|
|
|
Nor I on my part single; in me all
|
|
|
Posterity stands cursed: Fair patrimony
|
|
|
That I must leave ye, Sons! O, were I able
|
|
|
To waste it all myself, and leave ye none!
|
|
|
So disinherited, how would you bless
|
|
|
Me, now your curse! Ah, why should all mankind,
|
|
|
For one man's fault, thus guiltless be condemned,
|
|
|
It guiltless? But from me what can proceed,
|
|
|
But all corrupt; both mind and will depraved
|
|
|
Not to do only, but to will the same
|
|
|
With me? How can they then acquitted stand
|
|
|
In sight of God? Him, after all disputes,
|
|
|
Forced I absolve: all my evasions vain,
|
|
|
And reasonings, though through mazes, lead me still
|
|
|
But to my own conviction: first and last
|
|
|
On me, me only, as the source and spring
|
|
|
Of all corruption, all the blame lights due;
|
|
|
So might the wrath! Fond wish!couldst thou support
|
|
|
That burden, heavier than the earth to bear;
|
|
|
Than all the world much heavier, though divided
|
|
|
With that bad Woman? Thus, what thou desirest,
|
|
|
And what thou fearest, alike destroys all hope
|
|
|
Of refuge, and concludes thee miserable
|
|
|
Beyond all past example and future;
|
|
|
To Satan only like both crime and doom.
|
|
|
O Conscience! into what abyss of fears
|
|
|
And horrours hast thou driven me; out of which
|
|
|
I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged!
|
|
|
Thus Adam to himself lamented loud,
|
|
|
Through the still night; not now, as ere Man fell,
|
|
|
Wholesome, and cool, and mild, but with black air
|
|
|
Accompanied; with damps, and dreadful gloom;
|
|
|
Which to his evil conscience represented
|
|
|
All things with double terrour: On the ground
|
|
|
Outstretched he lay, on the cold ground; and oft
|
|
|
Cursed his creation; Death as oft accused
|
|
|
Of tardy execution, since denounced
|
|
|
The day of his offence. Why comes not Death,
|
|
|
Said he, with one thrice-acceptable stroke
|
|
|
To end me? Shall Truth fail to keep her word,
|
|
|
Justice Divine not hasten to be just?
|
|
|
But Death comes not at call; Justice Divine
|
|
|
Mends not her slowest pace for prayers or cries,
|
|
|
O woods, O fountains, hillocks, dales, and bowers!
|
|
|
With other echo late I taught your shades
|
|
|
To answer, and resound far other song.--
|
|
|
Whom thus afflicted when sad Eve beheld,
|
|
|
Desolate where she sat, approaching nigh,
|
|
|
Soft words to his fierce passion she assayed:
|
|
|
But her with stern regard he thus repelled.
|
|
|
Out of my sight, thou Serpent! That name best
|
|
|
Befits thee with him leagued, thyself as false
|
|
|
And hateful; nothing wants, but that thy shape,
|
|
|
Like his, and colour serpentine, may show
|
|
|
Thy inward fraud; to warn all creatures from thee
|
|
|
Henceforth; lest that too heavenly form, pretended
|
|
|
To hellish falshood, snare them! But for thee
|
|
|
I had persisted happy; had not thy pride
|
|
|
And wandering vanity, when least was safe,
|
|
|
Rejected my forewarning, and disdained
|
|
|
Not to be trusted; longing to be seen,
|
|
|
Though by the Devil himself; him overweening
|
|
|
To over-reach; but, with the serpent meeting,
|
|
|
Fooled and beguiled; by him thou, I by thee
|
|
|
To trust thee from my side; imagined wise,
|
|
|
Constant, mature, proof against all assaults;
|
|
|
And understood not all was but a show,
|
|
|
Rather than solid virtue; all but a rib
|
|
|
Crooked by nature, bent, as now appears,
|
|
|
More to the part sinister, from me drawn;
|
|
|
Well if thrown out, as supernumerary
|
|
|
To my just number found. O! why did God,
|
|
|
Creator wise, that peopled highest Heaven
|
|
|
With Spirits masculine, create at last
|
|
|
This novelty on earth, this fair defect
|
|
|
Of nature, and not fill the world at once
|
|
|
With Men, as Angels, without feminine;
|
|
|
Or find some other way to generate
|
|
|
Mankind? This mischief had not been befallen,
|
|
|
And more that shall befall; innumerable
|
|
|
Disturbances on earth through female snares,
|
|
|
And strait conjunction with this sex: for either
|
|
|
He never shall find out fit mate, but such
|
|
|
As some misfortune brings him, or mistake;
|
|
|
Or whom he wishes most shall seldom gain
|
|
|
Through her perverseness, but shall see her gained
|
|
|
By a far worse; or, if she love, withheld
|
|
|
By parents; or his happiest choice too late
|
|
|
Shall meet, already linked and wedlock-bound
|
|
|
To a fell adversary, his hate or shame:
|
|
|
Which infinite calamity shall cause
|
|
|
To human life, and houshold peace confound.
|
|
|
He added not, and from her turned; but Eve,
|
|
|
Not so repulsed, with tears that ceased not flowing
|
|
|
And tresses all disordered, at his feet
|
|
|
Fell humble; and, embracing them, besought
|
|
|
His peace, and thus proceeded in her plaint.
|
|
|
Forsake me not thus, Adam! witness Heaven
|
|
|
What love sincere, and reverence in my heart
|
|
|
I bear thee, and unweeting have offended,
|
|
|
Unhappily deceived! Thy suppliant
|
|
|
I beg, and clasp thy knees; bereave me not,
|
|
|
Whereon I live, thy gentle looks, thy aid,
|
|
|
Thy counsel, in this uttermost distress,
|
|
|
My only strength and stay: Forlorn of thee,
|
|
|
Whither shall I betake me, where subsist?
|
|
|
While yet we live, scarce one short hour perhaps,
|
|
|
Between us two let there be peace; both joining,
|
|
|
As joined in injuries, one enmity
|
|
|
Against a foe by doom express assigned us,
|
|
|
That cruel Serpent: On me exercise not
|
|
|
Thy hatred for this misery befallen;
|
|
|
On me already lost, me than thyself
|
|
|
More miserable! Both have sinned;but thou
|
|
|
Against God only; I against God and thee;
|
|
|
And to the place of judgement will return,
|
|
|
There with my cries importune Heaven; that all
|
|
|
The sentence, from thy head removed, may light
|
|
|
On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe;
|
|
|
Me, me only, just object of his ire!
|
|
|
She ended weeping; and her lowly plight,
|
|
|
Immoveable, till peace obtained from fault
|
|
|
Acknowledged and deplored, in Adam wrought
|
|
|
Commiseration: Soon his heart relented
|
|
|
Towards her, his life so late, and sole delight,
|
|
|
Now at his feet submissive in distress;
|
|
|
Creature so fair his reconcilement seeking,
|
|
|
His counsel, whom she had displeased, his aid:
|
|
|
As one disarmed, his anger all he lost,
|
|
|
And thus with peaceful words upraised her soon.
|
|
|
Unwary, and too desirous, as before,
|
|
|
So now of what thou knowest not, who desirest
|
|
|
The punishment all on thyself; alas!
|
|
|
Bear thine own first, ill able to sustain
|
|
|
His full wrath, whose thou feelest as yet least part,
|
|
|
And my displeasure bearest so ill. If prayers
|
|
|
Could alter high decrees, I to that place
|
|
|
Would speed before thee, and be louder heard,
|
|
|
That on my head all might be visited;
|
|
|
Thy frailty and infirmer sex forgiven,
|
|
|
To me committed, and by me exposed.
|
|
|
But rise;--let us no more contend, nor blame
|
|
|
Each other, blamed enough elsewhere; but strive
|
|
|
In offices of love, how we may lighten
|
|
|
Each other's burden, in our share of woe;
|
|
|
Since this day's death denounced, if aught I see,
|
|
|
Will prove no sudden, but a slow-paced evil;
|
|
|
A long day's dying, to augment our pain;
|
|
|
And to our seed (O hapless seed!) derived.
|
|
|
To whom thus Eve, recovering heart, replied.
|
|
|
Adam, by sad experiment I know
|
|
|
How little weight my words with thee can find,
|
|
|
Found so erroneous; thence by just event
|
|
|
Found so unfortunate: Nevertheless,
|
|
|
Restored by thee, vile as I am, to place
|
|
|
Of new acceptance, hopeful to regain
|
|
|
Thy love, the sole contentment of my heart
|
|
|
Living or dying, from thee I will not hide
|
|
|
What thoughts in my unquiet breast are risen,
|
|
|
Tending to some relief of our extremes,
|
|
|
Or end; though sharp and sad, yet tolerable,
|
|
|
As in our evils, and of easier choice.
|
|
|
If care of our descent perplex us most,
|
|
|
Which must be born to certain woe, devoured
|
|
|
By Death at last; and miserable it is
|
|
|
To be to others cause of misery,
|
|
|
Our own begotten, and of our loins to bring
|
|
|
Into this cursed world a woeful race,
|
|
|
That after wretched life must be at last
|
|
|
Food for so foul a monster; in thy power
|
|
|
It lies, yet ere conception to prevent
|
|
|
The race unblest, to being yet unbegot.
|
|
|
Childless thou art, childless remain: so Death
|
|
|
Shall be deceived his glut, and with us two
|
|
|
Be forced to satisfy his ravenous maw.
|
|
|
But if thou judge it hard and difficult,
|
|
|
Conversing, looking, loving, to abstain
|
|
|
From love's due rights, nuptial embraces sweet;
|
|
|
And with desire to languish without hope,
|
|
|
Before the present object languishing
|
|
|
With like desire; which would be misery
|
|
|
And torment less than none of what we dread;
|
|
|
Then, both ourselves and seed at once to free
|
|
|
From what we fear for both, let us make short, --
|
|
|
Let us seek Death; -- or, he not found, supply
|
|
|
With our own hands his office on ourselves:
|
|
|
Why stand we longer shivering under fears,
|
|
|
That show no end but death, and have the power,
|
|
|
Of many ways to die the shortest choosing,
|
|
|
Destruction with destruction to destroy? --
|
|
|
She ended here, or vehement despair
|
|
|
Broke off the rest: so much of death her thoughts
|
|
|
Had entertained, as dyed her cheeks with pale.
|
|
|
But Adam, with such counsel nothing swayed,
|
|
|
To better hopes his more attentive mind
|
|
|
Labouring had raised; and thus to Eve replied.
|
|
|
Eve, thy contempt of life and pleasure seems
|
|
|
To argue in thee something more sublime
|
|
|
And excellent, than what thy mind contemns;
|
|
|
But self-destruction therefore sought, refutes
|
|
|
That excellence thought in thee; and implies,
|
|
|
Not thy contempt, but anguish and regret
|
|
|
For loss of life and pleasure overloved.
|
|
|
Or if thou covet death, as utmost end
|
|
|
Of misery, so thinking to evade
|
|
|
The penalty pronounced; doubt not but God
|
|
|
Hath wiselier armed his vengeful ire, than so
|
|
|
To be forestalled; much more I fear lest death,
|
|
|
So snatched, will not exempt us from the pain
|
|
|
We are by doom to pay; rather, such acts
|
|
|
Of contumacy will provoke the Highest
|
|
|
To make death in us live: Then let us seek
|
|
|
Some safer resolution, which methinks
|
|
|
I have in view, calling to mind with heed
|
|
|
Part of our sentence, that thy seed shall bruise
|
|
|
The Serpent's head; piteous amends! unless
|
|
|
Be meant, whom I conjecture, our grand foe,
|
|
|
Satan; who, in the serpent, hath contrived
|
|
|
Against us this deceit: To crush his head
|
|
|
Would be revenge indeed! which will be lost
|
|
|
By death brought on ourselves, or childless days
|
|
|
Resolved, as thou proposest; so our foe
|
|
|
Shal 'scape his punishment ordained, and we
|
|
|
Instead shall double ours upon our heads.
|
|
|
No more be mentioned then of violence
|
|
|
Against ourselves; and wilful barrenness,
|
|
|
That cuts us off from hope; and savours only
|
|
|
Rancour and pride, impatience and despite,
|
|
|
Reluctance against God and his just yoke
|
|
|
Laid on our necks. Remember with what mild
|
|
|
And gracious temper he both heard, and judged,
|
|
|
Without wrath or reviling; we expected
|
|
|
Immediate dissolution, which we thought
|
|
|
Was meant by death that day; when lo!to thee
|
|
|
Pains only in child-bearing were foretold,
|
|
|
And bringing forth; soon recompensed with joy,
|
|
|
Fruit of thy womb: On me the curse aslope
|
|
|
Glanced on the ground; with labour I must earn
|
|
|
My bread; what harm? Idleness had been worse;
|
|
|
My labour will sustain me; and, lest cold
|
|
|
Or heat should injure us, his timely care
|
|
|
Hath, unbesought, provided; and his hands
|
|
|
Clothed us unworthy, pitying while he judged;
|
|
|
How much more, if we pray him, will his ear
|
|
|
Be open, and his heart to pity incline,
|
|
|
And teach us further by what means to shun
|
|
|
The inclement seasons, rain, ice, hail, and snow!
|
|
|
Which now the sky, with various face, begins
|
|
|
To show us in this mountain; while the winds
|
|
|
Blow moist and keen, shattering the graceful locks
|
|
|
Of these fair spreading trees; which bids us seek
|
|
|
Some better shroud, some better warmth to cherish
|
|
|
Our limbs benummed, ere this diurnal star
|
|
|
Leave cold the night, how we his gathered beams
|
|
|
Reflected may with matter sere foment;
|
|
|
Or, by collision of two bodies, grind
|
|
|
The air attrite to fire; as late the clouds
|
|
|
Justling, or pushed with winds, rude in their shock,
|
|
|
Tine the slant lightning; whose thwart flame, driven down
|
|
|
Kindles the gummy bark of fir or pine;
|
|
|
And sends a comfortable heat from far,
|
|
|
Which might supply the sun: Such fire to use,
|
|
|
And what may else be remedy or cure
|
|
|
To evils which our own misdeeds have wrought,
|
|
|
He will instruct us praying, and of grace
|
|
|
Beseeching him; so as we need not fear
|
|
|
To pass commodiously this life, sustained
|
|
|
By him with many comforts, till we end
|
|
|
In dust, our final rest and native home.
|
|
|
What better can we do, than, to the place
|
|
|
Repairing where he judged us, prostrate fall
|
|
|
Before him reverent; and there confess
|
|
|
Humbly our faults, and pardon beg; with tears
|
|
|
Watering the ground, and with our sighs the air
|
|
|
Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign
|
|
|
Of sorrow unfeigned, and humiliation meek
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Book XI
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Undoubtedly he will relent, and turn
|
|
|
From his displeasure; in whose look serene,
|
|
|
When angry most he seemed and most severe,
|
|
|
What else but favour, grace, and mercy, shone?
|
|
|
So spake our father penitent; nor Eve
|
|
|
Felt less remorse: they, forthwith to the place
|
|
|
Repairing where he judged them, prostrate fell
|
|
|
Before him reverent; and both confessed
|
|
|
Humbly their faults, and pardon begged; with tears
|
|
|
Watering the ground, and with their sighs the air
|
|
|
Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign
|
|
|
Of sorrow unfeigned, and humiliation meek.
|
|
|
Thus they, in lowliest plight, repentant stood
|
|
|
Praying; for from the mercy-seat above
|
|
|
Prevenient grace descending had removed
|
|
|
The stony from their hearts, and made new flesh
|
|
|
Regenerate grow instead; that sighs now breathed
|
|
|
Unutterable; which the Spirit of prayer
|
|
|
Inspired, and winged for Heaven with speedier flight
|
|
|
Than loudest oratory: Yet their port
|
|
|
Not of mean suitors; nor important less
|
|
|
Seemed their petition, than when the ancient pair
|
|
|
In fables old, less ancient yet than these,
|
|
|
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha, to restore
|
|
|
The race of mankind drowned, before the shrine
|
|
|
Of Themis stood devout. To Heaven their prayers
|
|
|
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious winds
|
|
|
Blown vagabond or frustrate: in they passed
|
|
|
Dimensionless through heavenly doors; then clad
|
|
|
With incense, where the golden altar fumed,
|
|
|
By their great intercessour, came in sight
|
|
|
Before the Father's throne: them the glad Son
|
|
|
Presenting, thus to intercede began.
|
|
|
See$ Father, what first-fruits on earth are sprung
|
|
|
From thy implanted grace in Man; these sighs
|
|
|
And prayers, which in this golden censer mixed
|
|
|
With incense, I thy priest before thee bring;
|
|
|
Fruits of more pleasing savour, from thy seed
|
|
|
Sown with contrition in his heart, than those
|
|
|
Which, his own hand manuring, all the trees
|
|
|
Of Paradise could have produced, ere fallen
|
|
|
From innocence. Now therefore, bend thine ear
|
|
|
To supplication; hear his sighs, though mute;
|
|
|
Unskilful with what words to pray, let me
|
|
|
Interpret for him; me, his advocate
|
|
|
And propitiation; all his works on me,
|
|
|
Good, or not good, ingraft; my merit those
|
|
|
Shall perfect, and for these my death shall pay.
|
|
|
Accept me; and, in me, from these receive
|
|
|
The smell of peace toward mankind: let him live
|
|
|
Before thee reconciled, at least his days
|
|
|
Numbered, though sad; till death, his doom, (which I
|
|
|
To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse,)
|
|
|
To better life shall yield him: where with me
|
|
|
All my redeemed may dwell in joy and bliss;
|
|
|
Made one with me, as I with thee am one.
|
|
|
To whom the Father, without cloud, serene.
|
|
|
All thy request for Man, accepted Son,
|
|
|
Obtain; all thy request was my decree:
|
|
|
But, longer in that Paradise to dwell,
|
|
|
The law I gave to Nature him forbids:
|
|
|
Those pure immortal elements, that know,
|
|
|
No gross, no unharmonious mixture foul,
|
|
|
Eject him, tainted now; and purge him off,
|
|
|
As a distemper, gross, to air as gross,
|
|
|
And mortal food; as may dispose him best
|
|
|
For dissolution wrought by sin, that first
|
|
|
Distempered all things, and of incorrupt
|
|
|
Corrupted. I, at first, with two fair gifts
|
|
|
Created him endowed; with happiness,
|
|
|
And immortality: that fondly lost,
|
|
|
This other served but to eternize woe;
|
|
|
Till I provided death: so death becomes
|
|
|
His final remedy; and, after life,
|
|
|
Tried in sharp tribulation, and refined
|
|
|
By faith and faithful works, to second life,
|
|
|
Waked in the renovation of the just,
|
|
|
Resigns him up with Heaven and Earth renewed.
|
|
|
But let us call to synod all the Blest,
|
|
|
Through Heaven's wide bounds: from them I will not hide
|
|
|
My judgements; how with mankind I proceed,
|
|
|
As how with peccant Angels late they saw,
|
|
|
And in their state, though firm, stood more confirmed.
|
|
|
He ended, and the Son gave signal high
|
|
|
To the bright minister that watched; he blew
|
|
|
His trumpet, heard in Oreb since perhaps
|
|
|
When God descended, and perhaps once more
|
|
|
To sound at general doom. The angelick blast
|
|
|
Filled all the regions: from their blisful bowers
|
|
|
Of amarantine shade, fountain or spring,
|
|
|
By the waters of life, where'er they sat
|
|
|
In fellowships of joy, the sons of light
|
|
|
Hasted, resorting to the summons high;
|
|
|
And took their seats; till from his throne supreme
|
|
|
The Almighty thus pronounced his sovran will.
|
|
|
O Sons, like one of us Man is become
|
|
|
To know both good and evil, since his taste
|
|
|
Of that defended fruit; but let him boast
|
|
|
His knowledge of good lost, and evil got;
|
|
|
Happier! had it sufficed him to have known
|
|
|
Good by itself, and evil not at all.
|
|
|
He sorrows now, repents, and prays contrite,
|
|
|
My motions in him; longer than they move,
|
|
|
His heart I know, how variable and vain,
|
|
|
Self-left. Lest therefore his now bolder hand
|
|
|
Reach also of the tree of life, and eat,
|
|
|
And live for ever, dream at least to live
|
|
|
For ever, to remove him I decree,
|
|
|
And send him from the garden forth to till
|
|
|
The ground whence he was taken, fitter soil.
|
|
|
Michael, this my behest have thou in charge;
|
|
|
Take to thee from among the Cherubim
|
|
|
Thy choice of flaming warriours, lest the Fiend,
|
|
|
Or in behalf of Man, or to invade
|
|
|
Vacant possession, some new trouble raise:
|
|
|
Haste thee, and from the Paradise of God
|
|
|
Without remorse drive out the sinful pair;
|
|
|
From hallowed ground the unholy; and denounce
|
|
|
To them, and to their progeny, from thence
|
|
|
Perpetual banishment. Yet, lest they faint
|
|
|
At the sad sentence rigorously urged,
|
|
|
(For I behold them softened, and with tears
|
|
|
Bewailing their excess,) all terrour hide.
|
|
|
If patiently thy bidding they obey,
|
|
|
Dismiss them not disconsolate; reveal
|
|
|
To Adam what shall come in future days,
|
|
|
As I shall thee enlighten; intermix
|
|
|
My covenant in the Woman's seed renewed;
|
|
|
So send them forth, though sorrowing, yet in peace:
|
|
|
And on the east side of the garden place,
|
|
|
Where entrance up from Eden easiest climbs,
|
|
|
Cherubick watch; and of a sword the flame
|
|
|
Wide-waving; all approach far off to fright,
|
|
|
And guard all passage to the tree of life:
|
|
|
Lest Paradise a receptacle prove
|
|
|
To Spirits foul, and all my trees their prey;
|
|
|
With whose stolen fruit Man once more to delude.
|
|
|
He ceased; and the arch-angelick Power prepared
|
|
|
For swift descent; with him the cohort bright
|
|
|
Of watchful Cherubim: four faces each
|
|
|
Had, like a double Janus; all their shape
|
|
|
Spangled with eyes more numerous than those
|
|
|
Of Argus, and more wakeful than to drouse,
|
|
|
Charmed with Arcadian pipe, the pastoral reed
|
|
|
Of Hermes, or his opiate rod. Mean while,
|
|
|
To re-salute the world with sacred light,
|
|
|
Leucothea waked; and with fresh dews imbalmed
|
|
|
The earth; when Adam and first matron Eve
|
|
|
Had ended now their orisons, and found
|
|
|
Strength added from above; new hope to spring
|
|
|
Out of despair; joy, but with fear yet linked;
|
|
|
Which thus to Eve his welcome words renewed.
|
|
|
Eve, easily my faith admit, that all
|
|
|
The good which we enjoy from Heaven descends;
|
|
|
But, that from us aught should ascend to Heaven
|
|
|
So prevalent as to concern the mind
|
|
|
Of God high-blest, or to incline his will,
|
|
|
Hard to belief may seem; yet this will prayer
|
|
|
Or one short sigh of human breath, upborne
|
|
|
Even to the seat of God. For since I sought
|
|
|
By prayer the offended Deity to appease;
|
|
|
Kneeled, and before him humbled all my heart;
|
|
|
Methought I saw him placable and mild,
|
|
|
Bending his ear; persuasion in me grew
|
|
|
That I was heard with favour; peace returned
|
|
|
Home to my breast, and to my memory
|
|
|
His promise, that thy seed shall bruise our foe;
|
|
|
Which, then not minded in dismay, yet now
|
|
|
Assures me that the bitterness of death
|
|
|
Is past, and we shall live. Whence hail to thee,
|
|
|
Eve rightly called, mother of all mankind,
|
|
|
Mother of all things living, since by thee
|
|
|
Man is to live; and all things live for Man.
|
|
|
To whom thus Eve with sad demeanour meek.
|
|
|
Ill-worthy I such title should belong
|
|
|
To me transgressour; who, for thee ordained
|
|
|
A help, became thy snare; to me reproach
|
|
|
Rather belongs, distrust, and all dispraise:
|
|
|
But infinite in pardon was my Judge,
|
|
|
That I, who first brought death on all, am graced
|
|
|
The source of life; next favourable thou,
|
|
|
Who highly thus to entitle me vouchsaf'st,
|
|
|
Far other name deserving. But the field
|
|
|
To labour calls us, now with sweat imposed,
|
|
|
Though after sleepless night; for see!the morn,
|
|
|
All unconcerned with our unrest, begins
|
|
|
Her rosy progress smiling: let us forth;
|
|
|
I never from thy side henceforth to stray,
|
|
|
Where'er our day's work lies, though now enjoined
|
|
|
Laborious, till day droop; while here we dwell,
|
|
|
What can be toilsome in these pleasant walks?
|
|
|
Here let us live, though in fallen state, content.
|
|
|
So spake, so wished much humbled Eve; but Fate
|
|
|
Subscribed not: Nature first gave signs, impressed
|
|
|
On bird, beast, air; air suddenly eclipsed,
|
|
|
After short blush of morn; nigh in her sight
|
|
|
The bird of Jove, stooped from his aery tour,
|
|
|
Two birds of gayest plume before him drove;
|
|
|
Down from a hill the beast that reigns in woods,
|
|
|
First hunter then, pursued a gentle brace,
|
|
|
Goodliest of all the forest, hart and hind;
|
|
|
Direct to the eastern gate was bent their flight.
|
|
|
Adam observed, and with his eye the chase
|
|
|
Pursuing, not unmoved, to Eve thus spake.
|
|
|
O Eve, some further change awaits us nigh,
|
|
|
Which Heaven, by these mute signs in Nature, shows
|
|
|
Forerunners of his purpose; or to warn
|
|
|
Us, haply too secure, of our discharge
|
|
|
From penalty, because from death released
|
|
|
Some days: how long, and what till then our life,
|
|
|
Who knows? or more than this, that we are dust,
|
|
|
And thither must return, and be no more?
|
|
|
Why else this double object in our sight
|
|
|
Of flight pursued in the air, and o'er the ground,
|
|
|
One way the self-same hour? why in the east
|
|
|
Darkness ere day's mid-course, and morning-light
|
|
|
More orient in yon western cloud, that draws
|
|
|
O'er the blue firmament a radiant white,
|
|
|
And slow descends with something heavenly fraught?
|
|
|
He erred not; for by this the heavenly bands
|
|
|
Down from a sky of jasper lighted now
|
|
|
In Paradise, and on a hill made halt;
|
|
|
A glorious apparition, had not doubt
|
|
|
And carnal fear that day dimmed Adam's eye.
|
|
|
Not that more glorious, when the Angels met
|
|
|
Jacob in Mahanaim, where he saw
|
|
|
The field pavilioned with his guardians bright;
|
|
|
Nor that, which on the flaming mount appeared
|
|
|
In Dothan, covered with a camp of fire,
|
|
|
Against the Syrian king, who to surprise
|
|
|
One man, assassin-like, had levied war,
|
|
|
War unproclaimed. The princely Hierarch
|
|
|
In their bright stand there left his Powers, to seise
|
|
|
Possession of the garden; he alone,
|
|
|
To find where Adam sheltered, took his way,
|
|
|
Not unperceived of Adam; who to Eve,
|
|
|
While the great visitant approached, thus spake.
|
|
|
Eve$ now expect great tidings, which perhaps
|
|
|
Of us will soon determine, or impose
|
|
|
New laws to be observed; for I descry,
|
|
|
From yonder blazing cloud that veils the hill,
|
|
|
One of the heavenly host; and, by his gait,
|
|
|
None of the meanest; some great Potentate
|
|
|
Or of the Thrones above; such majesty
|
|
|
Invests him coming! yet not terrible,
|
|
|
That I should fear; nor sociably mild,
|
|
|
As Raphael, that I should much confide;
|
|
|
But solemn and sublime; whom not to offend,
|
|
|
With reverence I must meet, and thou retire.
|
|
|
He ended: and the Arch-Angel soon drew nigh,
|
|
|
Not in his shape celestial, but as man
|
|
|
Clad to meet man; over his lucid arms
|
|
|
A military vest of purple flowed,
|
|
|
Livelier than Meliboean, or the grain
|
|
|
Of Sarra, worn by kings and heroes old
|
|
|
In time of truce; Iris had dipt the woof;
|
|
|
His starry helm unbuckled showed him prime
|
|
|
In manhood where youth ended; by his side,
|
|
|
As in a glistering zodiack, hung the sword,
|
|
|
Satan's dire dread; and in his hand the spear.
|
|
|
Adam bowed low; he, kingly, from his state
|
|
|
Inclined not, but his coming thus declared.
|
|
|
Adam, Heaven's high behest no preface needs:
|
|
|
Sufficient that thy prayers are heard; and Death,
|
|
|
Then due by sentence when thou didst transgress,
|
|
|
Defeated of his seisure many days
|
|
|
Given thee of grace; wherein thou mayest repent,
|
|
|
And one bad act with many deeds well done
|
|
|
Mayest cover: Well may then thy Lord, appeased,
|
|
|
Redeem thee quite from Death's rapacious claim;
|
|
|
But longer in this Paradise to dwell
|
|
|
Permits not: to remove thee I am come,
|
|
|
And send thee from the garden forth to till
|
|
|
The ground whence thou wast taken, fitter soil.
|
|
|
He added not; for Adam at the news
|
|
|
Heart-struck with chilling gripe of sorrow stood,
|
|
|
That all his senses bound; Eve, who unseen
|
|
|
Yet all had heard, with audible lament
|
|
|
Discovered soon the place of her retire.
|
|
|
O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death!
|
|
|
Must I thus leave thee$ Paradise? thus leave
|
|
|
Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades,
|
|
|
Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend,
|
|
|
Quiet though sad, the respite of that day
|
|
|
That must be mortal to us both. O flowers,
|
|
|
That never will in other climate grow,
|
|
|
My early visitation, and my last
|
|
|
;t even, which I bred up with tender hand
|
|
|
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names!
|
|
|
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
|
|
|
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
|
|
|
Thee lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned
|
|
|
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
|
|
|
How shall I part, and whither wander down
|
|
|
Into a lower world; to this obscure
|
|
|
And wild? how shall we breathe in other air
|
|
|
Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?
|
|
|
Whom thus the Angel interrupted mild.
|
|
|
Lament not, Eve, but patiently resign
|
|
|
What justly thou hast lost, nor set thy heart,
|
|
|
Thus over-fond, on that which is not thine:
|
|
|
Thy going is not lonely; with thee goes
|
|
|
Thy husband; whom to follow thou art bound;
|
|
|
Where he abides, think there thy native soil.
|
|
|
Adam, by this from the cold sudden damp
|
|
|
Recovering, and his scattered spirits returned,
|
|
|
To Michael thus his humble words addressed.
|
|
|
Celestial, whether among the Thrones, or named
|
|
|
Of them the highest; for such of shape may seem
|
|
|
Prince above princes! gently hast thou told
|
|
|
Thy message, which might else in telling wound,
|
|
|
And in performing end us; what besides
|
|
|
Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair,
|
|
|
Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring,
|
|
|
Departure from this happy place, our sweet
|
|
|
Recess, and only consolation left
|
|
|
Familiar to our eyes! all places else
|
|
|
Inhospitable appear, and desolate;
|
|
|
Nor knowing us, nor known: And, if by prayer
|
|
|
Incessant I could hope to change the will
|
|
|
Of Him who all things can, I would not cease
|
|
|
To weary him with my assiduous cries:
|
|
|
But prayer against his absolute decree
|
|
|
No more avails than breath against the wind,
|
|
|
Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth:
|
|
|
Therefore to his great bidding I submit.
|
|
|
This most afflicts me, that, departing hence,
|
|
|
As from his face I shall be hid, deprived
|
|
|
His blessed countenance: Here I could frequent
|
|
|
With worship place by place where he vouchsafed
|
|
|
Presence Divine; and to my sons relate,
|
|
|
'On this mount he appeared; under this tree
|
|
|
'Stood visible; among these pines his voice
|
|
|
'I heard; here with him at this fountain talked:
|
|
|
So many grateful altars I would rear
|
|
|
Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone
|
|
|
Of lustre from the brook, in memory,
|
|
|
Or monument to ages; and theron
|
|
|
Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, and flowers:
|
|
|
In yonder nether world where shall I seek
|
|
|
His bright appearances, or foot-step trace?
|
|
|
For though I fled him angry, yet recalled
|
|
|
To life prolonged and promised race, I now
|
|
|
Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts
|
|
|
Of glory; and far off his steps adore.
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael with regard benign.
|
|
|
Adam, thou knowest Heaven his, and all the Earth;
|
|
|
Not this rock only; his Omnipresence fills
|
|
|
Land, sea, and air, and every kind that lives,
|
|
|
Fomented by his virtual power and warmed:
|
|
|
All the earth he gave thee to possess and rule,
|
|
|
No despicable gift; surmise not then
|
|
|
His presence to these narrow bounds confined
|
|
|
Of Paradise, or Eden: this had been
|
|
|
Perhaps thy capital seat, from whence had spread
|
|
|
All generations; and had hither come
|
|
|
From all the ends of the earth, to celebrate
|
|
|
And reverence thee, their great progenitor.
|
|
|
But this pre-eminence thou hast lost, brought down
|
|
|
To dwell on even ground now with thy sons:
|
|
|
Yet doubt not but in valley, and in plain,
|
|
|
God is, as here; and will be found alike
|
|
|
Present; and of his presence many a sign
|
|
|
Still following thee, still compassing thee round
|
|
|
With goodness and paternal love, his face
|
|
|
Express, and of his steps the track divine.
|
|
|
Which that thou mayest believe, and be confirmed
|
|
|
Ere thou from hence depart; know, I am sent
|
|
|
To show thee what shall come in future days
|
|
|
To thee, and to thy offspring: good with bad
|
|
|
Expect to hear; supernal grace contending
|
|
|
With sinfulness of men; thereby to learn
|
|
|
True patience, and to temper joy with fear
|
|
|
And pious sorrow; equally inured
|
|
|
By moderation either state to bear,
|
|
|
Prosperous or adverse: so shalt thou lead
|
|
|
Safest thy life, and best prepared endure
|
|
|
Thy mortal passage when it comes.--Ascend
|
|
|
This hill; let Eve (for I have drenched her eyes)
|
|
|
Here sleep below; while thou to foresight wakest;
|
|
|
As once thou sleptst, while she to life was formed.
|
|
|
To whom thus Adam gratefully replied.
|
|
|
Ascend, I follow thee, safe Guide, the path
|
|
|
Thou leadest me; and to the hand of Heaven submit,
|
|
|
However chastening; to the evil turn
|
|
|
My obvious breast; arming to overcome
|
|
|
By suffering, and earn rest from labour won,
|
|
|
If so I may attain. -- So both ascend
|
|
|
In the visions of God. It was a hill,
|
|
|
Of Paradise the highest; from whose top
|
|
|
The hemisphere of earth, in clearest ken,
|
|
|
Stretched out to the amplest reach of prospect lay.
|
|
|
Not higher that hill, nor wider looking round,
|
|
|
Whereon, for different cause, the Tempter set
|
|
|
Our second Adam, in the wilderness;
|
|
|
To show him all Earth's kingdoms, and their glory.
|
|
|
His eye might there command wherever stood
|
|
|
City of old or modern fame, the seat
|
|
|
Of mightiest empire, from the destined walls
|
|
|
Of Cambalu, seat of Cathaian Can,
|
|
|
And Samarchand by Oxus, Temir's throne,
|
|
|
To Paquin of Sinaean kings; and thence
|
|
|
To Agra and Lahor of great Mogul,
|
|
|
Down to the golden Chersonese; or where
|
|
|
The Persian in Ecbatan sat, or since
|
|
|
In Hispahan; or where the Russian Ksar
|
|
|
In Mosco; or the Sultan in Bizance,
|
|
|
Turchestan-born; nor could his eye not ken
|
|
|
The empire of Negus to his utmost port
|
|
|
Ercoco, and the less maritim kings
|
|
|
Mombaza, and Quiloa, and Melind,
|
|
|
And Sofala, thought Ophir, to the realm
|
|
|
Of Congo, and Angola farthest south;
|
|
|
Or thence from Niger flood to Atlas mount
|
|
|
The kingdoms of Almansor, Fez and Sus,
|
|
|
Morocco, and Algiers, and Tremisen;
|
|
|
On Europe thence, and where Rome was to sway
|
|
|
The world: in spirit perhaps he also saw
|
|
|
Rich Mexico, the seat of Montezume,
|
|
|
And Cusco in Peru, the richer seat
|
|
|
Of Atabalipa; and yet unspoiled
|
|
|
Guiana, whose great city Geryon's sons
|
|
|
Call El Dorado. But to nobler sights
|
|
|
Michael from Adam's eyes the film removed,
|
|
|
Which that false fruit that promised clearer sight
|
|
|
Had bred; then purged with euphrasy and rue
|
|
|
The visual nerve, for he had much to see;
|
|
|
And from the well of life three drops instilled.
|
|
|
So deep the power of these ingredients pierced,
|
|
|
Even to the inmost seat of mental sight,
|
|
|
That Adam, now enforced to close his eyes,
|
|
|
Sunk down, and all his spirits became entranced;
|
|
|
But him the gentle Angel by the hand
|
|
|
Soon raised, and his attention thus recalled.
|
|
|
Adam, now ope thine eyes; and first behold
|
|
|
The effects, which thy original crime hath wrought
|
|
|
In some to spring from thee; who never touched
|
|
|
The excepted tree; nor with the snake conspired;
|
|
|
Nor sinned thy sin; yet from that sin derive
|
|
|
Corruption, to bring forth more violent deeds.
|
|
|
His eyes he opened, and beheld a field,
|
|
|
Part arable and tilth, whereon were sheaves
|
|
|
New reaped; the other part sheep-walks and folds;
|
|
|
I' the midst an altar as the land-mark stood,
|
|
|
Rustick, of grassy sord; thither anon
|
|
|
A sweaty reaper from his tillage brought
|
|
|
First fruits, the green ear, and the yellow sheaf,
|
|
|
Unculled, as came to hand; a shepherd next,
|
|
|
More meek, came with the firstlings of his flock,
|
|
|
Choicest and best; then, sacrificing, laid
|
|
|
The inwards and their fat, with incense strowed,
|
|
|
On the cleft wood, and all due rights performed:
|
|
|
His offering soon propitious fire from Heaven
|
|
|
Consumed with nimble glance, and grateful steam;
|
|
|
The other's not, for his was not sincere;
|
|
|
Whereat he inly raged, and, as they talked,
|
|
|
Smote him into the midriff with a stone
|
|
|
That beat out life; he fell;and, deadly pale,
|
|
|
Groaned out his soul with gushing blood effused.
|
|
|
Much at that sight was Adam in his heart
|
|
|
Dismayed, and thus in haste to the Angel cried.
|
|
|
O Teacher, some great mischief hath befallen
|
|
|
To that meek man, who well had sacrificed;
|
|
|
Is piety thus and pure devotion paid?
|
|
|
To whom Michael thus, he also moved, replied.
|
|
|
These two are brethren, Adam, and to come
|
|
|
Out of thy loins; the unjust the just hath slain,
|
|
|
For envy that his brother's offering found
|
|
|
From Heaven acceptance; but the bloody fact
|
|
|
Will be avenged; and the other's faith, approved,
|
|
|
Lose no reward; though here thou see him die,
|
|
|
Rolling in dust and gore. To which our sire.
|
|
|
Alas! both for the deed, and for the cause!
|
|
|
But have I now seen Death? Is this the way
|
|
|
I must return to native dust? O sight
|
|
|
Of terrour, foul and ugly to behold,
|
|
|
Horrid to think, how horrible to feel!
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael. Death thou hast seen
|
|
|
In his first shape on Man; but many shapes
|
|
|
Of Death, and many are the ways that lead
|
|
|
To his grim cave, all dismal; yet to sense
|
|
|
More terrible at the entrance, than within.
|
|
|
Some, as thou sawest, by violent stroke shall die;
|
|
|
By fire, flood, famine, by intemperance more
|
|
|
In meats and drinks, which on the earth shall bring
|
|
|
Diseases dire, of which a monstrous crew
|
|
|
Before thee shall appear; that thou mayest know
|
|
|
What misery the inabstinence of Eve
|
|
|
Shall bring on Men. Immediately a place
|
|
|
Before his eyes appeared, sad, noisome, dark;
|
|
|
A lazar-house it seemed; wherein were laid
|
|
|
Numbers of all diseased; all maladies
|
|
|
Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms
|
|
|
Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds,
|
|
|
Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs,
|
|
|
Intestine stone and ulcer, colick-pangs,
|
|
|
Demoniack phrenzy, moaping melancholy,
|
|
|
And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy,
|
|
|
Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence,
|
|
|
Dropsies, and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums.
|
|
|
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans; Despair
|
|
|
Tended the sick busiest from couch to couch;
|
|
|
And over them triumphant Death his dart
|
|
|
Shook, but delayed to strike, though oft invoked
|
|
|
With vows, as their chief good, and final hope.
|
|
|
Sight so deform what heart of rock could long
|
|
|
Dry-eyed behold? Adam could not, but wept,
|
|
|
Though not of woman born; compassion quelled
|
|
|
His best of man, and gave him up to tears
|
|
|
A space, till firmer thoughts restrained excess;
|
|
|
And, scarce recovering words, his plaint renewed.
|
|
|
O miserable mankind, to what fall
|
|
|
Degraded, to what wretched state reserved!
|
|
|
Better end here unborn. Why is life given
|
|
|
To be thus wrested from us? rather, why
|
|
|
Obtruded on us thus? who, if we knew
|
|
|
What we receive, would either no accept
|
|
|
Life offered, or soon beg to lay it down;
|
|
|
Glad to be so dismissed in peace. Can thus
|
|
|
The image of God in Man, created once
|
|
|
So goodly and erect, though faulty since,
|
|
|
To such unsightly sufferings be debased
|
|
|
Under inhuman pains? Why should not Man,
|
|
|
Retaining still divine similitude
|
|
|
In part, from such deformities be free,
|
|
|
And, for his Maker's image sake, exempt?
|
|
|
Their Maker's image, answered Michael, then
|
|
|
Forsook them, when themselves they vilified
|
|
|
To serve ungoverned Appetite; and took
|
|
|
His image whom they served, a brutish vice,
|
|
|
Inductive mainly to the sin of Eve.
|
|
|
Therefore so abject is their punishment,
|
|
|
Disfiguring not God's likeness, but their own;
|
|
|
Or if his likeness, by themselves defaced;
|
|
|
While they pervert pure Nature's healthful rules
|
|
|
To loathsome sickness; worthily, since they
|
|
|
God's image did not reverence in themselves.
|
|
|
I yield it just, said Adam, and submit.
|
|
|
But is there yet no other way, besides
|
|
|
These painful passages, how we may come
|
|
|
To death, and mix with our connatural dust?
|
|
|
There is, said Michael, if thou well observe
|
|
|
The rule of Not too much; by temperance taught,
|
|
|
In what thou eatest and drinkest; seeking from thence
|
|
|
Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight,
|
|
|
Till many years over thy head return:
|
|
|
So mayest thou live; till, like ripe fruit, thou drop
|
|
|
Into thy mother's lap; or be with ease
|
|
|
Gathered, nor harshly plucked; for death mature:
|
|
|
This is Old Age; but then, thou must outlive
|
|
|
Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty; which will change
|
|
|
To withered, weak, and gray; thy senses then,
|
|
|
Obtuse, all taste of pleasure must forego,
|
|
|
To what thou hast; and, for the air of youth,
|
|
|
Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign
|
|
|
A melancholy damp of cold and dry
|
|
|
To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume
|
|
|
The balm of life. To whom our ancestor.
|
|
|
Henceforth I fly not death, nor would prolong
|
|
|
Life much; bent rather, how I may be quit,
|
|
|
Fairest and easiest, of this cumbrous charge;
|
|
|
Which I must keep till my appointed day
|
|
|
Of rendering up, and patiently attend
|
|
|
My dissolution. Michael replied.
|
|
|
Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest
|
|
|
Live well; how long, or short, permit to Heaven:
|
|
|
And now prepare thee for another sight.
|
|
|
He looked, and saw a spacious plain, whereon
|
|
|
Were tents of various hue; by some, were herds
|
|
|
Of cattle grazing; others, whence the sound
|
|
|
Of instruments, that made melodious chime,
|
|
|
Was heard, of harp and organ; and, who moved
|
|
|
Their stops and chords, was seen; his volant touch,
|
|
|
Instinct through all proportions, low and high,
|
|
|
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.
|
|
|
In other part stood one who, at the forge
|
|
|
Labouring, two massy clods of iron and brass
|
|
|
Had melted, (whether found where casual fire
|
|
|
Had wasted woods on mountain or in vale,
|
|
|
Down to the veins of earth; thence gliding hot
|
|
|
To some cave's mouth; or whether washed by stream
|
|
|
From underground;) the liquid ore he drained
|
|
|
Into fit moulds prepared; from which he formed
|
|
|
First his own tools; then, what might else be wrought
|
|
|
Fusil or graven in metal. After these,
|
|
|
But on the hither side, a different sort
|
|
|
From the high neighbouring hills, which was their seat,
|
|
|
Down to the plain descended; by their guise
|
|
|
Just men they seemed, and all their study bent
|
|
|
To worship God aright, and know his works
|
|
|
Not hid; nor those things last, which might preserve
|
|
|
Freedom and peace to Men; they on the plain
|
|
|
Long had not walked, when from the tents, behold!
|
|
|
A bevy of fair women, richly gay
|
|
|
In gems and wanton dress; to the harp they sung
|
|
|
Soft amorous ditties, and in dance came on:
|
|
|
The men, though grave, eyed them; and let their eyes
|
|
|
Rove without rein; till, in the amorous net
|
|
|
Fast caught, they liked; and each his liking chose;
|
|
|
And now of love they treat, till the evening-star,
|
|
|
Love's harbinger, appeared; then, all in heat
|
|
|
They light the nuptial torch, and bid invoke
|
|
|
Hymen, then first to marriage rites invoked:
|
|
|
With feast and musick all the tents resound.
|
|
|
Such happy interview, and fair event
|
|
|
Of love and youth not lost, songs, garlands, flowers,
|
|
|
And charming symphonies, attached the heart
|
|
|
Of Adam, soon inclined to admit delight,
|
|
|
The bent of nature; which he thus expressed.
|
|
|
True opener of mine eyes, prime Angel blest;
|
|
|
Much better seems this vision, and more hope
|
|
|
Of peaceful days portends, than those two past;
|
|
|
Those were of hate and death, or pain much worse;
|
|
|
Here Nature seems fulfilled in all her ends.
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael. Judge not what is best
|
|
|
By pleasure, though to nature seeming meet;
|
|
|
Created, as thou art, to nobler end
|
|
|
Holy and pure, conformity divine.
|
|
|
Those tents thou sawest so pleasant, were the tents
|
|
|
Of wickedness, wherein shall dwell his race
|
|
|
Who slew his brother; studious they appear
|
|
|
Of arts that polish life, inventers rare;
|
|
|
Unmindful of their Maker, though his Spirit
|
|
|
Taught them; but they his gifts acknowledged none.
|
|
|
Yet they a beauteous offspring shall beget;
|
|
|
For that fair female troop thou sawest, that seemed
|
|
|
Of Goddesses, so blithe, so smooth, so gay,
|
|
|
Yet empty of all good wherein consists
|
|
|
Woman's domestick honour and chief praise;
|
|
|
Bred only and completed to the taste
|
|
|
Of lustful appetence, to sing, to dance,
|
|
|
To dress, and troll the tongue, and roll the eye:
|
|
|
To these that sober race of men, whose lives
|
|
|
Religious titled them the sons of God,
|
|
|
Shall yield up all their virtue, all their fame
|
|
|
Ignobly, to the trains and to the smiles
|
|
|
Of these fair atheists; and now swim in joy,
|
|
|
Erelong to swim at large; and laugh, for which
|
|
|
The world erelong a world of tears must weep.
|
|
|
To whom thus Adam, of short joy bereft.
|
|
|
O pity and shame, that they, who to live well
|
|
|
Entered so fair, should turn aside to tread
|
|
|
Paths indirect, or in the mid way faint!
|
|
|
But still I see the tenour of Man's woe
|
|
|
Holds on the same, from Woman to begin.
|
|
|
From Man's effeminate slackness it begins,
|
|
|
Said the Angel, who should better hold his place
|
|
|
By wisdom, and superiour gifts received.
|
|
|
But now prepare thee for another scene.
|
|
|
He looked, and saw wide territory spread
|
|
|
Before him, towns, and rural works between;
|
|
|
Cities of men with lofty gates and towers,
|
|
|
Concourse in arms, fierce faces threatening war,
|
|
|
Giants of mighty bone and bold emprise;
|
|
|
Part wield their arms, part curb the foaming steed,
|
|
|
Single or in array of battle ranged
|
|
|
Both horse and foot, nor idly mustering stood;
|
|
|
One way a band select from forage drives
|
|
|
A herd of beeves, fair oxen and fair kine,
|
|
|
From a fat meadow ground; or fleecy flock,
|
|
|
Ewes and their bleating lambs over the plain,
|
|
|
Their booty; scarce with life the shepherds fly,
|
|
|
But call in aid, which makes a bloody fray;
|
|
|
With cruel tournament the squadrons join;
|
|
|
Where cattle pastured late, now scattered lies
|
|
|
With carcasses and arms the ensanguined field,
|
|
|
Deserted: Others to a city strong
|
|
|
Lay siege, encamped; by battery, scale, and mine,
|
|
|
Assaulting; others from the wall defend
|
|
|
With dart and javelin, stones, and sulphurous fire;
|
|
|
On each hand slaughter, and gigantick deeds.
|
|
|
In other part the sceptered heralds call
|
|
|
To council, in the city-gates; anon
|
|
|
Gray-headed men and grave, with warriours mixed,
|
|
|
Assemble, and harangues are heard; but soon,
|
|
|
In factious opposition; till at last,
|
|
|
Of middle age one rising, eminent
|
|
|
In wise deport, spake much of right and wrong,
|
|
|
Of justice, or religion, truth, and peace,
|
|
|
And judgement from above: him old and young
|
|
|
Exploded, and had seized with violent hands,
|
|
|
Had not a cloud descending snatched him thence
|
|
|
Unseen amid the throng: so violence
|
|
|
Proceeded, and oppression, and sword-law,
|
|
|
Through all the plain, and refuge none was found.
|
|
|
Adam was all in tears, and to his guide
|
|
|
Lamenting turned full sad; O!what are these,
|
|
|
Death's ministers, not men? who thus deal death
|
|
|
Inhumanly to men, and multiply
|
|
|
Ten thousandfold the sin of him who slew
|
|
|
His brother: for of whom such massacre
|
|
|
Make they, but of their brethren; men of men
|
|
|
But who was that just man, whom had not Heaven
|
|
|
Rescued, had in his righteousness been lost?
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael. These are the product
|
|
|
Of those ill-mated marriages thou sawest;
|
|
|
Where good with bad were matched, who of themselves
|
|
|
Abhor to join; and, by imprudence mixed,
|
|
|
Produce prodigious births of body or mind.
|
|
|
Such were these giants, men of high renown;
|
|
|
For in those days might only shall be admired,
|
|
|
And valour and heroick virtue called;
|
|
|
To overcome in battle, and subdue
|
|
|
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
|
|
|
Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
|
|
|
Of human glory; and for glory done
|
|
|
Of triumph, to be styled great conquerours
|
|
|
Patrons of mankind, Gods, and sons of Gods;
|
|
|
Destroyers rightlier called, and plagues of men.
|
|
|
Thus fame shall be achieved, renown on earth;
|
|
|
And what most merits fame, in silence hid.
|
|
|
But he, the seventh from thee, whom thou beheldst
|
|
|
The only righteous in a world preverse,
|
|
|
And therefore hated, therefore so beset
|
|
|
With foes, for daring single to be just,
|
|
|
And utter odious truth, that God would come
|
|
|
To judge them with his Saints; him the Most High
|
|
|
Rapt in a balmy cloud with winged steeds
|
|
|
Did, as thou sawest, receive, to walk with God
|
|
|
High in salvation and the climes of bliss,
|
|
|
Exempt from death; to show thee what reward
|
|
|
Awaits the good; the rest what punishment;
|
|
|
Which now direct thine eyes and soon behold.
|
|
|
He looked, and saw the face of things quite changed;
|
|
|
The brazen throat of war had ceased to roar;
|
|
|
All now was turned to jollity and game,
|
|
|
To luxury and riot, feast and dance;
|
|
|
Marrying or prostituting, as befel,
|
|
|
Rape or adultery, where passing fair
|
|
|
Allured them; thence from cups to civil broils.
|
|
|
At length a reverend sire among them came,
|
|
|
And of their doings great dislike declared,
|
|
|
And testified against their ways; he oft
|
|
|
Frequented their assemblies, whereso met,
|
|
|
Triumphs or festivals; and to them preached
|
|
|
Conversion and repentance, as to souls
|
|
|
In prison, under judgements imminent:
|
|
|
But all in vain: which when he saw, he ceased
|
|
|
Contending, and removed his tents far off;
|
|
|
Then, from the mountain hewing timber tall,
|
|
|
Began to build a vessel of huge bulk;
|
|
|
Measured by cubit, length, and breadth, and highth;
|
|
|
Smeared round with pitch; and in the side a door
|
|
|
Contrived; and of provisions laid in large,
|
|
|
For man and beast: when lo, a wonder strange!
|
|
|
Of every beast, and bird, and insect small,
|
|
|
Came sevens, and pairs; and entered in as taught
|
|
|
Their order: last the sire and his three sons,
|
|
|
With their four wives; and God made fast the door.
|
|
|
Mean while the south-wind rose, and, with black wings
|
|
|
Wide-hovering, all the clouds together drove
|
|
|
From under Heaven; the hills to their supply
|
|
|
Vapour, and exhalation dusk and moist,
|
|
|
Sent up amain; and now the thickened sky
|
|
|
Like a dark cieling stood; down rushed the rain
|
|
|
Impetuous; and continued, till the earth
|
|
|
No more was seen: the floating vessel swum
|
|
|
Uplifted, and secure with beaked prow
|
|
|
Rode tilting o'er the waves; all dwellings else
|
|
|
Flood overwhelmed, and them with all their pomp
|
|
|
Deep under water rolled; sea covered sea,
|
|
|
Sea without shore; and in their palaces,
|
|
|
Where luxury late reigned, sea-monsters whelped
|
|
|
And stabled; of mankind, so numerous late,
|
|
|
All left, in one small bottom swum imbarked.
|
|
|
How didst thou grieve then, Adam, to behold
|
|
|
The end of all thy offspring, end so sad,
|
|
|
Depopulation! Thee another flood,
|
|
|
Of tears and sorrow a flood, thee also drowned,
|
|
|
And sunk thee as thy sons; till, gently reared
|
|
|
By the Angel, on thy feet thou stoodest at last,
|
|
|
Though comfortless; as when a father mourns
|
|
|
His children, all in view destroyed at once;
|
|
|
And scarce to the Angel utter'dst thus thy plaint.
|
|
|
O visions ill foreseen! Better had I
|
|
|
Lived ignorant of future! so had borne
|
|
|
My part of evil only, each day's lot
|
|
|
Enough to bear; those now, that were dispensed
|
|
|
The burden of many ages, on me light
|
|
|
At once, by my foreknowledge gaining birth
|
|
|
Abortive, to torment me ere their being,
|
|
|
With thought that they must be. Let no man seek
|
|
|
Henceforth to be foretold, what shall befall
|
|
|
Him or his children; evil he may be sure,
|
|
|
Which neither his foreknowing can prevent;
|
|
|
And he the future evil shall no less
|
|
|
In apprehension than in substance feel,
|
|
|
Grievous to bear: but that care now is past,
|
|
|
Man is not whom to warn: those few escaped
|
|
|
Famine and anguish will at last consume,
|
|
|
Wandering that watery desart: I had hope,
|
|
|
When violence was ceased, and war on earth,
|
|
|
All would have then gone well; peace would have crowned
|
|
|
With length of happy days the race of Man;
|
|
|
But I was far deceived; for now I see
|
|
|
Peace to corrupt no less than war to waste.
|
|
|
How comes it thus? unfold, celestial Guide,
|
|
|
And whether here the race of Man will end.
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael. Those, whom last thou sawest
|
|
|
In triumph and luxurious wealth, are they
|
|
|
First seen in acts of prowess eminent
|
|
|
And great exploits, but of true virtue void;
|
|
|
Who, having spilt much blood, and done much wast
|
|
|
Subduing nations, and achieved thereby
|
|
|
Fame in the world, high titles, and rich prey;
|
|
|
Shall change their course to pleasure, ease, and sloth,
|
|
|
Surfeit, and lust; till wantonness and pride
|
|
|
Raise out of friendship hostile deeds in peace.
|
|
|
The conquered also, and enslaved by war,
|
|
|
Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose
|
|
|
And fear of God; from whom their piety feigned
|
|
|
In sharp contest of battle found no aid
|
|
|
Against invaders; therefore, cooled in zeal,
|
|
|
Thenceforth shall practice how to live secure,
|
|
|
Worldly or dissolute, on what their lords
|
|
|
Shall leave them to enjoy; for the earth shall bear
|
|
|
More than enough, that temperance may be tried:
|
|
|
So all shall turn degenerate, all depraved;
|
|
|
Justice and temperance, truth and faith, forgot;
|
|
|
One man except, the only son of light
|
|
|
In a dark age, against example good,
|
|
|
Against allurement, custom, and a world
|
|
|
Offended: fearless of reproach and scorn,
|
|
|
The grand-child, with twelve sons encreased, departs
|
|
|
From Canaan, to a land hereafter called
|
|
|
Egypt, divided by the river Nile;
|
|
|
See where it flows, disgorging at seven mouths
|
|
|
Into the sea: To sojourn in that land
|
|
|
He comes, invited by a younger son
|
|
|
In time of dearth; a son, whose worthy deeds
|
|
|
Raise him to be the second in that realm
|
|
|
Of Pharaoh: There he dies, and leaves his race
|
|
|
Growing into a nation, and now grown
|
|
|
Suspected to a sequent king, who seeks
|
|
|
To stop their overgrowth, as inmate guests
|
|
|
Or violence, he of their wicked ways
|
|
|
Shall them admonish; and before them set
|
|
|
The paths of righteousness, how much more safe
|
|
|
And full of peace; denouncing wrath to come
|
|
|
On their impenitence; and shall return
|
|
|
Of them derided, but of God observed
|
|
|
The one just man alive; by his command
|
|
|
Shall build a wonderous ark, as thou beheldst,
|
|
|
To save himself, and houshold, from amidst
|
|
|
A world devote to universal wrack.
|
|
|
No sooner he, with them of man and beast
|
|
|
Select for life, shall in the ark be lodged,
|
|
|
And sheltered round; but all the cataracts
|
|
|
Of Heaven set open on the Earth shall pour
|
|
|
Rain, day and night; all fountains of the deep,
|
|
|
Broke up, shall heave the ocean to usurp
|
|
|
Beyond all bounds; till inundation rise
|
|
|
Above the highest hills: Then shall this mount
|
|
|
Of Paradise by might of waves be moved
|
|
|
Out of his place, pushed by the horned flood,
|
|
|
With all his verdure spoiled, and trees adrift,
|
|
|
Down the great river to the opening gulf,
|
|
|
And there take root an island salt and bare,
|
|
|
The haunt of seals, and orcs, and sea-mews' clang:
|
|
|
To teach thee that God attributes to place
|
|
|
No sanctity, if none be thither brought
|
|
|
By men who there frequent, or therein dwell.
|
|
|
And now, what further shall ensue, behold.
|
|
|
He looked, and saw the ark hull on the flood,
|
|
|
Which now abated; for the clouds were fled,
|
|
|
Driven by a keen north-wind, that, blowing dry,
|
|
|
Wrinkled the face of deluge, as decayed;
|
|
|
And the clear sun on his wide watery glass
|
|
|
Gazed hot, and of the fresh wave largely drew,
|
|
|
As after thirst; which made their flowing shrink
|
|
|
From standing lake to tripping ebb, that stole
|
|
|
With soft foot towards the deep; who now had stopt
|
|
|
His sluces, as the Heaven his windows shut.
|
|
|
The ark no more now floats, but seems on ground,
|
|
|
Fast on the top of some high mountain fixed.
|
|
|
And now the tops of hills, as rocks, appear;
|
|
|
With clamour thence the rapid currents drive,
|
|
|
Towards the retreating sea, their furious tide.
|
|
|
Forthwith from out the ark a raven flies,
|
|
|
And after him, the surer messenger,
|
|
|
A dove sent forth once and again to spy
|
|
|
Green tree or ground, whereon his foot may light:
|
|
|
The second time returning, in his bill
|
|
|
An olive-leaf he brings, pacifick sign:
|
|
|
Anon dry ground appears, and from his ark
|
|
|
The ancient sire descends, with all his train;
|
|
|
Then with uplifted hands, and eyes devout,
|
|
|
Grateful to Heaven, over his head beholds
|
|
|
A dewy cloud, and in the cloud a bow
|
|
|
Conspicuous with three lifted colours gay,
|
|
|
Betokening peace from God, and covenant new.
|
|
|
Whereat the heart of Adam, erst so sad,
|
|
|
Greatly rejoiced; and thus his joy broke forth.
|
|
|
O thou, who future things canst represent
|
|
|
As present, heavenly Instructer! I revive
|
|
|
At this last sight; assured that Man shall live,
|
|
|
With all the creatures, and their seed preserve.
|
|
|
Far less I now lament for one whole world
|
|
|
Of wicked sons destroyed, than I rejoice
|
|
|
For one man found so perfect, and so just,
|
|
|
That God vouchsafes to raise another world
|
|
|
From him, and all his anger to forget.
|
|
|
But say, what mean those coloured streaks in Heaven
|
|
|
Distended, as the brow of God appeased?
|
|
|
Or serve they, as a flowery verge, to bind
|
|
|
The fluid skirts of that same watery cloud,
|
|
|
Lest it again dissolve, and shower the earth?
|
|
|
To whom the Arch-Angel. Dextrously thou aimest;
|
|
|
So willingly doth God remit his ire,
|
|
|
Though late repenting him of Man depraved;
|
|
|
Grieved at his heart, when looking down he saw
|
|
|
The whole earth filled with violence, and all flesh
|
|
|
Corrupting each their way; yet, those removed,
|
|
|
Such grace shall one just man find in his sight,
|
|
|
That he relents, not to blot out mankind;
|
|
|
And makes a covenant never to destroy
|
|
|
The earth again by flood; nor let the sea
|
|
|
Surpass his bounds; nor rain to drown the world,
|
|
|
With man therein or beast; but, when he brings
|
|
|
Over the earth a cloud, will therein set
|
|
|
His triple-coloured bow, whereon to look,
|
|
|
And call to mind his covenant: Day and night,
|
|
|
Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost,
|
|
|
Shall hold their course; till fire purge all things new,
|
|
|
Both Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Book XII
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
As one who in his journey bates at noon,
|
|
|
Though bent on speed; so here the Arch-Angel paused
|
|
|
Betwixt the world destroyed and world restored,
|
|
|
If Adam aught perhaps might interpose;
|
|
|
Then, with transition sweet, new speech resumes.
|
|
|
Thus thou hast seen one world begin, and end;
|
|
|
And Man, as from a second stock, proceed.
|
|
|
Much thou hast yet to see; but I perceive
|
|
|
Thy mortal sight to fail; objects divine
|
|
|
Must needs impair and weary human sense:
|
|
|
Henceforth what is to come I will relate;
|
|
|
Thou therefore give due audience, and attend.
|
|
|
This second source of Men, while yet but few,
|
|
|
And while the dread of judgement past remains
|
|
|
Fresh in their minds, fearing the Deity,
|
|
|
With some regard to what is just and right
|
|
|
Shall lead their lives, and multiply apace;
|
|
|
Labouring the soil, and reaping plenteous crop,
|
|
|
Corn, wine, and oil; and, from the herd or flock,
|
|
|
Oft sacrificing bullock, lamb, or kid,
|
|
|
With large wine-offerings poured, and sacred feast,
|
|
|
Shall spend their days in joy unblamed; and dwell
|
|
|
Long time in peace, by families and tribes,
|
|
|
Under paternal rule: till one shall rise
|
|
|
Of proud ambitious heart; who, not content
|
|
|
With fair equality, fraternal state,
|
|
|
Will arrogate dominion undeserved
|
|
|
Over his brethren, and quite dispossess
|
|
|
Concord and law of nature from the earth;
|
|
|
Hunting (and men not beasts shall be his game)
|
|
|
With war, and hostile snare, such as refuse
|
|
|
Subjection to his empire tyrannous:
|
|
|
A mighty hunter thence he shall be styled
|
|
|
Before the Lord; as in despite of Heaven,
|
|
|
Or from Heaven, claiming second sovranty;
|
|
|
And from rebellion shall derive his name,
|
|
|
Though of rebellion others he accuse.
|
|
|
He with a crew, whom like ambition joins
|
|
|
With him or under him to tyrannize,
|
|
|
Marching from Eden towards the west, shall find
|
|
|
The plain, wherein a black bituminous gurge
|
|
|
Boils out from under ground, the mouth of Hell:
|
|
|
Of brick, and of that stuff, they cast to build
|
|
|
A city and tower, whose top may reach to Heaven;
|
|
|
And get themselves a name; lest, far dispersed
|
|
|
In foreign lands, their memory be lost;
|
|
|
Regardless whether good or evil fame.
|
|
|
But God, who oft descends to visit men
|
|
|
Unseen, and through their habitations walks
|
|
|
To mark their doings, them beholding soon,
|
|
|
Comes down to see their city, ere the tower
|
|
|
Obstruct Heaven-towers, and in derision sets
|
|
|
Upon their tongues a various spirit, to rase
|
|
|
Quite out their native language; and, instead,
|
|
|
To sow a jangling noise of words unknown:
|
|
|
Forthwith a hideous gabble rises loud,
|
|
|
Among the builders; each to other calls
|
|
|
Not understood; till hoarse, and all in rage,
|
|
|
As mocked they storm: great laughter was in Heaven,
|
|
|
And looking down, to see the hubbub strange,
|
|
|
And hear the din: Thus was the building left
|
|
|
Ridiculous, and the work Confusion named.
|
|
|
Whereto thus Adam, fatherly displeased.
|
|
|
O execrable son! so to aspire
|
|
|
Above his brethren; to himself assuming
|
|
|
Authority usurped, from God not given:
|
|
|
He gave us only over beast, fish, fowl,
|
|
|
Dominion absolute; that right we hold
|
|
|
By his donation; but man over men
|
|
|
He made not lord; such title to himself
|
|
|
Reserving, human left from human free.
|
|
|
But this usurper his encroachment proud
|
|
|
Stays not on Man; to God his tower intends
|
|
|
Siege and defiance: Wretched man!what food
|
|
|
Will he convey up thither, to sustain
|
|
|
Himself and his rash army; where thin air
|
|
|
Above the clouds will pine his entrails gross,
|
|
|
And famish him of breath, if not of bread?
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael. Justly thou abhorrest
|
|
|
That son, who on the quiet state of men
|
|
|
Such trouble brought, affecting to subdue
|
|
|
Rational liberty; yet know withal,
|
|
|
Since thy original lapse, true liberty
|
|
|
Is lost, which always with right reason dwells
|
|
|
Twinned, and from her hath no dividual being:
|
|
|
Reason in man obscured, or not obeyed,
|
|
|
Immediately inordinate desires,
|
|
|
And upstart passions, catch the government
|
|
|
From reason; and to servitude reduce
|
|
|
Man, till then free. Therefore, since he permits
|
|
|
Within himself unworthy powers to reign
|
|
|
Over free reason, God, in judgement just,
|
|
|
Subjects him from without to violent lords;
|
|
|
Who oft as undeservedly enthrall
|
|
|
His outward freedom: Tyranny must be;
|
|
|
Though to the tyrant thereby no excuse.
|
|
|
Yet sometimes nations will decline so low
|
|
|
From virtue, which is reason, that no wrong,
|
|
|
But justice, and some fatal curse annexed,
|
|
|
Deprives them of their outward liberty;
|
|
|
Their inward lost: Witness the irreverent son
|
|
|
Of him who built the ark; who, for the shame
|
|
|
Done to his father, heard this heavy curse,
|
|
|
Servant of servants, on his vicious race.
|
|
|
Thus will this latter, as the former world,
|
|
|
Still tend from bad to worse; till God at last,
|
|
|
Wearied with their iniquities, withdraw
|
|
|
His presence from among them, and avert
|
|
|
His holy eyes; resolving from thenceforth
|
|
|
To leave them to their own polluted ways;
|
|
|
And one peculiar nation to select
|
|
|
From all the rest, of whom to be invoked,
|
|
|
A nation from one faithful man to spring:
|
|
|
Him on this side Euphrates yet residing,
|
|
|
Bred up in idol-worship: O, that men
|
|
|
(Canst thou believe?) should be so stupid grown,
|
|
|
While yet the patriarch lived, who 'scaped the flood,
|
|
|
As to forsake the living God, and fall
|
|
|
To worship their own work in wood and stone
|
|
|
For Gods! Yet him God the Most High vouchsafes
|
|
|
To call by vision, from his father's house,
|
|
|
His kindred, and false Gods, into a land
|
|
|
Which he will show him; and from him will raise
|
|
|
A mighty nation; and upon him shower
|
|
|
His benediction so, that in his seed
|
|
|
All nations shall be blest: he straight obeys;
|
|
|
Not knowing to what land, yet firm believes:
|
|
|
I see him, but thou canst not, with what faith
|
|
|
He leaves his Gods, his friends, and native soil,
|
|
|
Ur of Chaldaea, passing now the ford
|
|
|
To Haran; after him a cumbrous train
|
|
|
Of herds and flocks, and numerous servitude;
|
|
|
Not wandering poor, but trusting all his wealth
|
|
|
With God, who called him, in a land unknown.
|
|
|
Canaan he now attains; I see his tents
|
|
|
Pitched about Sechem, and the neighbouring plain
|
|
|
Of Moreh; there by promise he receives
|
|
|
Gift to his progeny of all that land,
|
|
|
From Hameth northward to the Desart south;
|
|
|
(Things by their names I call, though yet unnamed;)
|
|
|
From Hermon east to the great western Sea;
|
|
|
Mount Hermon, yonder sea; each place behold
|
|
|
In prospect, as I point them; on the shore
|
|
|
Mount Carmel; here, the double-founted stream,
|
|
|
Jordan, true limit eastward; but his sons
|
|
|
Shall dwell to Senir, that long ridge of hills.
|
|
|
This ponder, that all nations of the earth
|
|
|
Shall in his seed be blessed: By that seed
|
|
|
Is meant thy great Deliverer, who shall bruise
|
|
|
The Serpent's head; whereof to thee anon
|
|
|
Plainlier shall be revealed. This patriarch blest,
|
|
|
Whom faithful Abraham due time shall call,
|
|
|
A son, and of his son a grand-child, leaves;
|
|
|
Like him in faith, in wisdom, and renown:
|
|
|
The grandchild, with twelve sons increased, departs
|
|
|
From Canaan to a land hereafter called
|
|
|
Egypt, divided by the river Nile
|
|
|
See where it flows, disgorging at seven mouths
|
|
|
Into the sea. To sojourn in that land
|
|
|
He comes, invited by a younger son
|
|
|
In time of dearth, a son whose worthy deeds
|
|
|
Raise him to be the second in that realm
|
|
|
Of Pharaoh. There he dies, and leaves his race
|
|
|
Growing into a nation, and now grown
|
|
|
Suspected to a sequent king, who seeks
|
|
|
To stop their overgrowth, as inmate guests
|
|
|
Too numerous; whence of guests he makes them slaves
|
|
|
Inhospitably, and kills their infant males:
|
|
|
Till by two brethren (these two brethren call
|
|
|
Moses and Aaron) sent from God to claim
|
|
|
His people from enthralment, they return,
|
|
|
With glory and spoil, back to their promised land.
|
|
|
But first, the lawless tyrant, who denies
|
|
|
To know their God, or message to regard,
|
|
|
Must be compelled by signs and judgements dire;
|
|
|
To blood unshed the rivers must be turned;
|
|
|
Frogs, lice, and flies, must all his palace fill
|
|
|
With loathed intrusion, and fill all the land;
|
|
|
His cattle must of rot and murren die;
|
|
|
Botches and blains must all his flesh emboss,
|
|
|
And all his people; thunder mixed with hail,
|
|
|
Hail mixed with fire, must rend the Egyptians sky,
|
|
|
And wheel on the earth, devouring where it rolls;
|
|
|
What it devours not, herb, or fruit, or grain,
|
|
|
A darksome cloud of locusts swarming down
|
|
|
Must eat, and on the ground leave nothing green;
|
|
|
Darkness must overshadow all his bounds,
|
|
|
Palpable darkness, and blot out three days;
|
|
|
Last, with one midnight stroke, all the first-born
|
|
|
Of Egypt must lie dead. Thus with ten wounds
|
|
|
The river-dragon tamed at length submits
|
|
|
To let his sojourners depart, and oft
|
|
|
Humbles his stubborn heart; but still, as ice
|
|
|
More hardened after thaw; till, in his rage
|
|
|
Pursuing whom he late dismissed, the sea
|
|
|
Swallows him with his host; but them lets pass,
|
|
|
As on dry land, between two crystal walls;
|
|
|
Awed by the rod of Moses so to stand
|
|
|
Divided, till his rescued gain their shore:
|
|
|
Such wondrous power God to his saint will lend,
|
|
|
Though present in his Angel; who shall go
|
|
|
Before them in a cloud, and pillar of fire;
|
|
|
By day a cloud, by night a pillar of fire;
|
|
|
To guide them in their journey, and remove
|
|
|
Behind them, while the obdurate king pursues:
|
|
|
All night he will pursue; but his approach
|
|
|
Darkness defends between till morning watch;
|
|
|
Then through the fiery pillar, and the cloud,
|
|
|
God looking forth will trouble all his host,
|
|
|
And craze their chariot-wheels: when by command
|
|
|
Moses once more his potent rod extends
|
|
|
Over the sea; the sea his rod obeys;
|
|
|
On their embattled ranks the waves return,
|
|
|
And overwhelm their war: The race elect
|
|
|
Safe toward Canaan from the shore advance
|
|
|
Through the wild Desart, not the readiest way;
|
|
|
Lest, entering on the Canaanite alarmed,
|
|
|
War terrify them inexpert, and fear
|
|
|
Return them back to Egypt, choosing rather
|
|
|
Inglorious life with servitude; for life
|
|
|
To noble and ignoble is more sweet
|
|
|
Untrained in arms, where rashness leads not on.
|
|
|
This also shall they gain by their delay
|
|
|
In the wide wilderness; there they shall found
|
|
|
Their government, and their great senate choose
|
|
|
Through the twelve tribes, to rule by laws ordained:
|
|
|
God from the mount of Sinai, whose gray top
|
|
|
Shall tremble, he descending, will himself
|
|
|
In thunder, lightning, and loud trumpets' sound,
|
|
|
Ordain them laws; part, such as appertain
|
|
|
To civil justice; part, religious rites
|
|
|
Of sacrifice; informing them, by types
|
|
|
And shadows, of that destined Seed to bruise
|
|
|
The Serpent, by what means he shall achieve
|
|
|
Mankind's deliverance. But the voice of God
|
|
|
To mortal ear is dreadful: They beseech
|
|
|
That Moses might report to them his will,
|
|
|
And terrour cease; he grants what they besought,
|
|
|
Instructed that to God is no access
|
|
|
Without Mediator, whose high office now
|
|
|
Moses in figure bears; to introduce
|
|
|
One greater, of whose day he shall foretel,
|
|
|
And all the Prophets in their age the times
|
|
|
Of great Messiah shall sing. Thus, laws and rites
|
|
|
Established, such delight hath God in Men
|
|
|
Obedient to his will, that he vouchsafes
|
|
|
Among them to set up his tabernacle;
|
|
|
The Holy One with mortal Men to dwell:
|
|
|
By his prescript a sanctuary is framed
|
|
|
Of cedar, overlaid with gold; therein
|
|
|
An ark, and in the ark his testimony,
|
|
|
The records of his covenant; over these
|
|
|
A mercy-seat of gold, between the wings
|
|
|
Of two bright Cherubim; before him burn
|
|
|
Seven lamps as in a zodiack representing
|
|
|
The heavenly fires; over the tent a cloud
|
|
|
Shall rest by day, a fiery gleam by night;
|
|
|
Save when they journey, and at length they come,
|
|
|
Conducted by his Angel, to the land
|
|
|
Promised to Abraham and his seed:--The rest
|
|
|
Were long to tell; how many battles fought
|
|
|
How many kings destroyed; and kingdoms won;
|
|
|
Or how the sun shall in mid Heaven stand still
|
|
|
A day entire, and night's due course adjourn,
|
|
|
Man's voice commanding, 'Sun, in Gibeon stand,
|
|
|
'And thou moon in the vale of Aialon,
|
|
|
'Till Israel overcome! so call the third
|
|
|
From Abraham, son of Isaac; and from him
|
|
|
His whole descent, who thus shall Canaan win.
|
|
|
Here Adam interposed. O sent from Heaven,
|
|
|
Enlightener of my darkness, gracious things
|
|
|
Thou hast revealed; those chiefly, which concern
|
|
|
Just Abraham and his seed: now first I find
|
|
|
Mine eyes true-opening, and my heart much eased;
|
|
|
Erewhile perplexed with thoughts, what would become
|
|
|
Of me and all mankind: But now I see
|
|
|
His day, in whom all nations shall be blest;
|
|
|
Favour unmerited by me, who sought
|
|
|
Forbidden knowledge by forbidden means.
|
|
|
This yet I apprehend not, why to those
|
|
|
Among whom God will deign to dwell on earth
|
|
|
So many and so various laws are given;
|
|
|
So many laws argue so many sins
|
|
|
Among them; how can God with such reside?
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael. Doubt not but that sin
|
|
|
Will reign among them, as of thee begot;
|
|
|
And therefore was law given them, to evince
|
|
|
Their natural pravity, by stirring up
|
|
|
Sin against law to fight: that when they see
|
|
|
Law can discover sin, but not remove,
|
|
|
Save by those shadowy expiations weak,
|
|
|
The blood of bulls and goats, they may conclude
|
|
|
Some blood more precious must be paid for Man;
|
|
|
Just for unjust; that, in such righteousness
|
|
|
To them by faith imputed, they may find
|
|
|
Justification towards God, and peace
|
|
|
Of conscience; which the law by ceremonies
|
|
|
Cannot appease; nor Man the mortal part
|
|
|
Perform; and, not performing, cannot live.
|
|
|
So law appears imperfect; and but given
|
|
|
With purpose to resign them, in full time,
|
|
|
Up to a better covenant; disciplined
|
|
|
From shadowy types to truth; from flesh to spirit;
|
|
|
From imposition of strict laws to free
|
|
|
Acceptance of large grace; from servile fear
|
|
|
To filial; works of law to works of faith.
|
|
|
And therefore shall not Moses, though of God
|
|
|
Highly beloved, being but the minister
|
|
|
Of law, his people into Canaan lead;
|
|
|
But Joshua, whom the Gentiles Jesus call,
|
|
|
His name and office bearing, who shall quell
|
|
|
The adversary-Serpent, and bring back
|
|
|
Through the world's wilderness long-wandered Man
|
|
|
Safe to eternal Paradise of rest.
|
|
|
Mean while they, in their earthly Canaan placed,
|
|
|
Long time shall dwell and prosper, but when sins
|
|
|
National interrupt their publick peace,
|
|
|
Provoking God to raise them enemies;
|
|
|
From whom as oft he saves them penitent
|
|
|
By Judges first, then under Kings; of whom
|
|
|
The second, both for piety renowned
|
|
|
And puissant deeds, a promise shall receive
|
|
|
Irrevocable, that his regal throne
|
|
|
For ever shall endure; the like shall sing
|
|
|
All Prophecy, that of the royal stock
|
|
|
Of David (so I name this king) shall rise
|
|
|
A Son, the Woman's seed to thee foretold,
|
|
|
Foretold to Abraham, as in whom shall trust
|
|
|
All nations; and to kings foretold, of kings
|
|
|
The last; for of his reign shall be no end.
|
|
|
But first, a long succession must ensue;
|
|
|
And his next son, for wealth and wisdom famed,
|
|
|
The clouded ark of God, till then in tents
|
|
|
Wandering, shall in a glorious temple enshrine.
|
|
|
Such follow him, as shall be registered
|
|
|
Part good, part bad; of bad the longer scroll;
|
|
|
Whose foul idolatries, and other faults
|
|
|
Heaped to the popular sum, will so incense
|
|
|
God, as to leave them, and expose their land,
|
|
|
Their city, his temple, and his holy ark,
|
|
|
With all his sacred things, a scorn and prey
|
|
|
To that proud city, whose high walls thou sawest
|
|
|
Left in confusion; Babylon thence called.
|
|
|
There in captivity he lets them dwell
|
|
|
The space of seventy years; then brings them back,
|
|
|
Remembering mercy, and his covenant sworn
|
|
|
To David, stablished as the days of Heaven.
|
|
|
Returned from Babylon by leave of kings
|
|
|
Their lords, whom God disposed, the house of God
|
|
|
They first re-edify; and for a while
|
|
|
In mean estate live moderate; till, grown
|
|
|
In wealth and multitude, factious they grow;
|
|
|
But first among the priests dissention springs,
|
|
|
Men who attend the altar, and should most
|
|
|
Endeavour peace: their strife pollution brings
|
|
|
Upon the temple itself: at last they seise
|
|
|
The scepter, and regard not David's sons;
|
|
|
Then lose it to a stranger, that the true
|
|
|
Anointed King Messiah might be born
|
|
|
Barred of his right; yet at his birth a star,
|
|
|
Unseen before in Heaven, proclaims him come;
|
|
|
And guides the eastern sages, who inquire
|
|
|
His place, to offer incense, myrrh, and gold:
|
|
|
His place of birth a solemn Angel tells
|
|
|
To simple shepherds, keeping watch by night;
|
|
|
They gladly thither haste, and by a quire
|
|
|
Of squadroned Angels hear his carol sung.
|
|
|
A virgin is his mother, but his sire
|
|
|
The power of the Most High: He shall ascend
|
|
|
The throne hereditary, and bound his reign
|
|
|
With Earth's wide bounds, his glory with the Heavens.
|
|
|
He ceased, discerning Adam with such joy
|
|
|
Surcharged, as had like grief been dewed in tears,
|
|
|
Without the vent of words; which these he breathed.
|
|
|
O prophet of glad tidings, finisher
|
|
|
Of utmost hope! now clear I understand
|
|
|
What oft my steadiest thoughts have searched in vain;
|
|
|
Why our great Expectation should be called
|
|
|
The seed of Woman: Virgin Mother, hail,
|
|
|
High in the love of Heaven; yet from my loins
|
|
|
Thou shalt proceed, and from thy womb the Son
|
|
|
Of God Most High: so God with Man unites!
|
|
|
Needs must the Serpent now his capital bruise
|
|
|
Expect with mortal pain: Say where and when
|
|
|
Their fight, what stroke shall bruise the victor's heel.
|
|
|
To whom thus Michael. Dream not of their fight,
|
|
|
As of a duel, or the local wounds
|
|
|
Of head or heel: Not therefore joins the Son
|
|
|
Manhood to Godhead, with more strength to foil
|
|
|
Thy enemy; nor so is overcome
|
|
|
Satan, whose fall from Heaven, a deadlier bruise,
|
|
|
Disabled, not to give thee thy death's wound:
|
|
|
Which he, who comes thy Saviour, shall recure,
|
|
|
Not by destroying Satan, but his works
|
|
|
In thee, and in thy seed: Nor can this be,
|
|
|
But by fulfilling that which thou didst want,
|
|
|
Obedience to the law of God, imposed
|
|
|
On penalty of death, and suffering death;
|
|
|
The penalty to thy transgression due,
|
|
|
And due to theirs which out of thine will grow:
|
|
|
So only can high Justice rest appaid.
|
|
|
The law of God exact he shall fulfil
|
|
|
Both by obedience and by love, though love
|
|
|
Alone fulfil the law; thy punishment
|
|
|
He shall endure, by coming in the flesh
|
|
|
To a reproachful life, and cursed death;
|
|
|
Proclaiming life to all who shall believe
|
|
|
In his redemption; and that his obedience,
|
|
|
Imputed, becomes theirs by faith; his merits
|
|
|
To save them, not their own, though legal, works.
|
|
|
For this he shall live hated, be blasphemed,
|
|
|
Seised on by force, judged, and to death condemned
|
|
|
A shameful and accursed, nailed to the cross
|
|
|
By his own nation; slain for bringing life:
|
|
|
But to the cross he nails thy enemies,
|
|
|
The law that is against thee, and the sins
|
|
|
Of all mankind, with him there crucified,
|
|
|
Never to hurt them more who rightly trust
|
|
|
In this his satisfaction; so he dies,
|
|
|
But soon revives; Death over him no power
|
|
|
Shall long usurp; ere the third dawning light
|
|
|
Return, the stars of morn shall see him rise
|
|
|
Out of his grave, fresh as the dawning light,
|
|
|
Thy ransom paid, which Man from death redeems,
|
|
|
His death for Man, as many as offered life
|
|
|
Neglect not, and the benefit embrace
|
|
|
By faith not void of works: This God-like act
|
|
|
Annuls thy doom, the death thou shouldest have died,
|
|
|
In sin for ever lost from life; this act
|
|
|
Shall bruise the head of Satan, crush his strength,
|
|
|
Defeating Sin and Death, his two main arms;
|
|
|
And fix far deeper in his head their stings
|
|
|
Than temporal death shall bruise the victor's heel,
|
|
|
Or theirs whom he redeems; a death, like sleep,
|
|
|
A gentle wafting to immortal life.
|
|
|
Nor after resurrection shall he stay
|
|
|
Longer on earth, than certain times to appear
|
|
|
To his disciples, men who in his life
|
|
|
Still followed him; to them shall leave in charge
|
|
|
To teach all nations what of him they learned
|
|
|
And his salvation; them who shall believe
|
|
|
Baptizing in the profluent stream, the sign
|
|
|
Of washing them from guilt of sin to life
|
|
|
Pure, and in mind prepared, if so befall,
|
|
|
For death, like that which the Redeemer died.
|
|
|
All nations they shall teach; for, from that day,
|
|
|
Not only to the sons of Abraham's loins
|
|
|
Salvation shall be preached, but to the sons
|
|
|
Of Abraham's faith wherever through the world;
|
|
|
So in his seed all nations shall be blest.
|
|
|
Then to the Heaven of Heavens he shall ascend
|
|
|
With victory, triumphing through the air
|
|
|
Over his foes and thine; there shall surprise
|
|
|
The Serpent, prince of air, and drag in chains
|
|
|
Through all his realm, and there confounded leave;
|
|
|
Then enter into glory, and resume
|
|
|
His seat at God's right hand, exalted high
|
|
|
Above all names in Heaven; and thence shall come,
|
|
|
When this world's dissolution shall be ripe,
|
|
|
With glory and power to judge both quick and dead;
|
|
|
To judge the unfaithful dead, but to reward
|
|
|
His faithful, and receive them into bliss,
|
|
|
Whether in Heaven or Earth; for then the Earth
|
|
|
Shall all be Paradise, far happier place
|
|
|
Than this of Eden, and far happier days.
|
|
|
So spake the Arch-Angel Michael; then paused,
|
|
|
As at the world's great period; and our sire,
|
|
|
Replete with joy and wonder, thus replied.
|
|
|
O Goodness infinite, Goodness immense!
|
|
|
That all this good of evil shall produce,
|
|
|
And evil turn to good; more wonderful
|
|
|
Than that which by creation first brought forth
|
|
|
Light out of darkness! Full of doubt I stand,
|
|
|
Whether I should repent me now of sin
|
|
|
By me done, and occasioned; or rejoice
|
|
|
Much more, that much more good thereof shall spring;
|
|
|
To God more glory, more good-will to Men
|
|
|
From God, and over wrath grace shall abound.
|
|
|
But say, if our Deliverer up to Heaven
|
|
|
Must re-ascend, what will betide the few
|
|
|
His faithful, left among the unfaithful herd,
|
|
|
The enemies of truth? Who then shall guide
|
|
|
His people, who defend? Will they not deal
|
|
|
Worse with his followers than with him they dealt?
|
|
|
Be sure they will, said the Angel; but from Heaven
|
|
|
He to his own a Comforter will send,
|
|
|
The promise of the Father, who shall dwell
|
|
|
His Spirit within them; and the law of faith,
|
|
|
Working through love, upon their hearts shall write,
|
|
|
To guide them in all truth; and also arm
|
|
|
With spiritual armour, able to resist
|
|
|
Satan's assaults, and quench his fiery darts;
|
|
|
What man can do against them, not afraid,
|
|
|
Though to the death; against such cruelties
|
|
|
With inward consolations recompensed,
|
|
|
And oft supported so as shall amaze
|
|
|
Their proudest persecutors: For the Spirit,
|
|
|
Poured first on his Apostles, whom he sends
|
|
|
To evangelize the nations, then on all
|
|
|
Baptized, shall them with wonderous gifts endue
|
|
|
To speak all tongues, and do all miracles,
|
|
|
As did their Lord before them. Thus they win
|
|
|
Great numbers of each nation to receive
|
|
|
With joy the tidings brought from Heaven: At length
|
|
|
Their ministry performed, and race well run,
|
|
|
Their doctrine and their story written left,
|
|
|
They die; but in their room, as they forewarn,
|
|
|
Wolves shall succeed for teachers, grievous wolves,
|
|
|
Who all the sacred mysteries of Heaven
|
|
|
To their own vile advantages shall turn
|
|
|
Of lucre and ambition; and the truth
|
|
|
With superstitions and traditions taint,
|
|
|
Left only in those written records pure,
|
|
|
Though not but by the Spirit understood.
|
|
|
Then shall they seek to avail themselves of names,
|
|
|
Places, and titles, and with these to join
|
|
|
Secular power; though feigning still to act
|
|
|
By spiritual, to themselves appropriating
|
|
|
The Spirit of God, promised alike and given
|
|
|
To all believers; and, from that pretence,
|
|
|
Spiritual laws by carnal power shall force
|
|
|
On every conscience; laws which none shall find
|
|
|
Left them inrolled, or what the Spirit within
|
|
|
Shall on the heart engrave. What will they then
|
|
|
But force the Spirit of Grace itself, and bind
|
|
|
His consort Liberty? what, but unbuild
|
|
|
His living temples, built by faith to stand,
|
|
|
Their own faith, not another's? for, on earth,
|
|
|
Who against faith and conscience can be heard
|
|
|
Infallible? yet many will presume:
|
|
|
Whence heavy persecution shall arise
|
|
|
On all, who in the worship persevere
|
|
|
Of spirit and truth; the rest, far greater part,
|
|
|
Will deem in outward rites and specious forms
|
|
|
Religion satisfied; Truth shall retire
|
|
|
Bestuck with slanderous darts, and works of faith
|
|
|
Rarely be found: So shall the world go on,
|
|
|
To good malignant, to bad men benign;
|
|
|
Under her own weight groaning; till the day
|
|
|
Appear of respiration to the just,
|
|
|
And vengeance to the wicked, at return
|
|
|
Of him so lately promised to thy aid,
|
|
|
The Woman's Seed; obscurely then foretold,
|
|
|
Now ampler known thy Saviour and thy Lord;
|
|
|
Last, in the clouds, from Heaven to be revealed
|
|
|
In glory of the Father, to dissolve
|
|
|
Satan with his perverted world; then raise
|
|
|
From the conflagrant mass, purged and refined,
|
|
|
New Heavens, new Earth, ages of endless date,
|
|
|
Founded in righteousness, and peace, and love;
|
|
|
To bring forth fruits, joy and eternal bliss.
|
|
|
He ended; and thus Adam last replied.
|
|
|
How soon hath thy prediction, Seer blest,
|
|
|
Measured this transient world, the race of time,
|
|
|
Till time stand fixed! Beyond is all abyss,
|
|
|
Eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
|
|
|
Greatly-instructed I shall hence depart;
|
|
|
Greatly in peace of thought; and have my fill
|
|
|
Of knowledge, what this vessel can contain;
|
|
|
Beyond which was my folly to aspire.
|
|
|
Henceforth I learn, that to obey is best,
|
|
|
And love with fear the only God; to walk
|
|
|
As in his presence; ever to observe
|
|
|
His providence; and on him sole depend,
|
|
|
Merciful over all his works, with good
|
|
|
Still overcoming evil, and by small
|
|
|
Accomplishing great things, by things deemed weak
|
|
|
Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise
|
|
|
By simply meek: that suffering for truth's sake
|
|
|
Is fortitude to highest victory,
|
|
|
And, to the faithful, death the gate of life;
|
|
|
Taught this by his example, whom I now
|
|
|
Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest.
|
|
|
To whom thus also the Angel last replied.
|
|
|
This having learned, thou hast attained the sum
|
|
|
Of wisdom; hope no higher, though all the stars
|
|
|
Thou knewest by name, and all the ethereal powers,
|
|
|
All secrets of the deep, all Nature's works,
|
|
|
Or works of God in Heaven, air, earth, or sea,
|
|
|
And all the riches of this world enjoyedst,
|
|
|
And all the rule, one empire; only add
|
|
|
Deeds to thy knowledge answerable; add faith,
|
|
|
Add virtue, patience, temperance; add love,
|
|
|
By name to come called charity, the soul
|
|
|
Of all the rest: then wilt thou not be loth
|
|
|
To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess
|
|
|
A Paradise within thee, happier far.--
|
|
|
Let us descend now therefore from this top
|
|
|
Of speculation; for the hour precise
|
|
|
Exacts our parting hence; and see!the guards,
|
|
|
By me encamped on yonder hill, expect
|
|
|
Their motion; at whose front a flaming sword,
|
|
|
In signal of remove, waves fiercely round:
|
|
|
We may no longer stay: go, waken Eve;
|
|
|
Her also I with gentle dreams have calmed
|
|
|
Portending good, and all her spirits composed
|
|
|
To meek submission: thou, at season fit,
|
|
|
Let her with thee partake what thou hast heard;
|
|
|
Chiefly what may concern her faith to know,
|
|
|
The great deliverance by her seed to come
|
|
|
(For by the Woman's seed) on all mankind:
|
|
|
That ye may live, which will be many days,
|
|
|
Both in one faith unanimous, though sad,
|
|
|
With cause, for evils past; yet much more cheered
|
|
|
With meditation on the happy end.
|
|
|
He ended, and they both descend the hill;
|
|
|
Descended, Adam to the bower, where Eve
|
|
|
Lay sleeping, ran before; but found her waked;
|
|
|
And thus with words not sad she him received.
|
|
|
Whence thou returnest, and whither wentest, I know;
|
|
|
For God is also in sleep; and dreams advise,
|
|
|
Which he hath sent propitious, some great good
|
|
|
Presaging, since with sorrow and heart's distress
|
|
|
Wearied I fell asleep: But now lead on;
|
|
|
In me is no delay; with thee to go,
|
|
|
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay,
|
|
|
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me
|
|
|
Art all things under $Heaven, all places thou,
|
|
|
Who for my wilful crime art banished hence.
|
|
|
This further consolation yet secure
|
|
|
I carry hence; though all by me is lost,
|
|
|
Such favour I unworthy am vouchsafed,
|
|
|
By me the Promised Seed shall all restore.
|
|
|
So spake our mother Eve; and Adam heard
|
|
|
Well pleased, but answered not: For now, too nigh
|
|
|
The Arch-Angel stood; and, from the other hill
|
|
|
To their fixed station, all in bright array
|
|
|
The Cherubim descended; on the ground
|
|
|
Gliding meteorous, as evening-mist
|
|
|
Risen from a river o'er the marish glides,
|
|
|
And gathers ground fast at the labourer's heel
|
|
|
Homeward returning. High in front advanced,
|
|
|
The brandished sword of God before them blazed,
|
|
|
Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat,
|
|
|
And vapour as the Libyan air adust,
|
|
|
Began to parch that temperate clime; whereat
|
|
|
In either hand the hastening Angel caught
|
|
|
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate
|
|
|
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
|
|
|
To the subjected plain; then disappeared.
|
|
|
They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
|
|
|
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
|
|
|
Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate
|
|
|
With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms:
|
|
|
Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon;
|
|
|
The world was all before them, where to choose
|
|
|
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:
|
|
|
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
|
|
|
Through Eden took their solitary way.
|
|
|
|
|
|
[The End]
|
|
|
|