| This is the February 1992 Project Gutenberg release of: | |
| Paradise Lost by John Milton | |
| The oldest etext known to Project Gutenberg (ca. 1964-1965) | |
| (If you know of any older ones, please let us know.) | |
| Introduction (one page) | |
| This etext was originally created in 1964-1965 according to Dr. | |
| Joseph Raben of Queens College, NY, to whom it is attributed by | |
| Project Gutenberg. We had heard of this etext for years but it | |
| was not until 1991 that we actually managed to track it down to | |
| a specific location, and then it took months to convince people | |
| to let us have a copy, then more months for them actually to do | |
| the copying and get it to us. Then another month to convert to | |
| something we could massage with our favorite 486 in DOS. After | |
| that is was only a matter of days to get it into this shape you | |
| will see below. The original was, of course, in CAPS only, and | |
| so were all the other etexts of the 60's and early 70's. Don't | |
| let anyone fool you into thinking any etext with both upper and | |
| lower case is an original; all those original Project Gutenberg | |
| etexts were also in upper case and were translated or rewritten | |
| many times to get them into their current condition. They have | |
| been worked on by many people throughout the world. | |
| In the course of our searches for Professor Raben and his etext | |
| we were never able to determine where copies were or which of a | |
| variety of editions he may have used as a source. We did get a | |
| little information here and there, but even after we received a | |
| copy of the etext we were unwilling to release it without first | |
| determining that it was in fact Public Domain and finding Raben | |
| to verify this and get his permission. Interested enough, in a | |
| totally unrelated action to our searches for him, the professor | |
| subscribed to the Project Gutenberg listserver and we happened, | |
| by accident, to notice his name. (We don't really look at every | |
| subscription request as the computers usually handle them.) The | |
| etext was then properly identified, copyright analyzed, and the | |
| current edition prepared. | |
| To give you an estimation of the difference in the original and | |
| what we have today: the original was probably entered on cards | |
| commonly known at the time as "IBM cards" (Do Not Fold, Spindle | |
| or Mutilate) and probably took in excess of 100,000 of them. A | |
| single card could hold 80 characters (hence 80 characters is an | |
| accepted standard for so many computer margins), and the entire | |
| original edition we received in all caps was over 800,000 chars | |
| in length, including line enumeration, symbols for caps and the | |
| punctuation marks, etc., since they were not available keyboard | |
| characters at the time (probably the keyboards operated at baud | |
| rates of around 113, meaning the typists had to type slowly for | |
| the keyboard to keep up). | |
| This is the second version of Paradise Lost released by Project | |
| Gutenberg. The first was released as our October, 1991 etext. | |
| Paradise Lost | |
| Book I | |
| Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit | |
| Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste | |
| Brought death into the World, and all our woe, | |
| With loss of Eden, till one greater Man | |
| Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, | |
| Sing, Heavenly Muse, that, on the secret top | |
| Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire | |
| That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed | |
| In the beginning how the heavens and earth | |
| Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill | |
| Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed | |
| Fast by the oracle of God, I thence | |
| Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, | |
| That with no middle flight intends to soar | |
| Above th' Aonian mount, while it pursues | |
| Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. | |
| And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer | |
| Before all temples th' upright heart and pure, | |
| Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou from the first | |
| Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, | |
| Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss, | |
| And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark | |
| Illumine, what is low raise and support; | |
| That, to the height of this great argument, | |
| I may assert Eternal Providence, | |
| And justify the ways of God to men. | |
| Say first--for Heaven hides nothing from thy view, | |
| Nor the deep tract of Hell--say first what cause | |
| Moved our grand parents, in that happy state, | |
| Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off | |
| From their Creator, and transgress his will | |
| For one restraint, lords of the World besides. | |
| Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? | |
| Th' infernal Serpent; he it was whose guile, | |
| Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived | |
| The mother of mankind, what time his pride | |
| Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host | |
| Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring | |
| To set himself in glory above his peers, | |
| He trusted to have equalled the Most High, | |
| If he opposed, and with ambitious aim | |
| Against the throne and monarchy of God, | |
| Raised impious war in Heaven and battle proud, | |
| With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power | |
| Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky, | |
| With hideous ruin and combustion, down | |
| To bottomless perdition, there to dwell | |
| In adamantine chains and penal fire, | |
| Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms. | |
| Nine times the space that measures day and night | |
| To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew, | |
| Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, | |
| Confounded, though immortal. But his doom | |
| Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought | |
| Both of lost happiness and lasting pain | |
| Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes, | |
| That witnessed huge affliction and dismay, | |
| Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate. | |
| At once, as far as Angels ken, he views | |
| The dismal situation waste and wild. | |
| A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, | |
| As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames | |
| No light; but rather darkness visible | |
| Served only to discover sights of woe, | |
| Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace | |
| And rest can never dwell, hope never comes | |
| That comes to all, but torture without end | |
| Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed | |
| With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed. | |
| Such place Eternal Justice has prepared | |
| For those rebellious; here their prison ordained | |
| In utter darkness, and their portion set, | |
| As far removed from God and light of Heaven | |
| As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole. | |
| Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell! | |
| There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed | |
| With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, | |
| He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side, | |
| One next himself in power, and next in crime, | |
| Long after known in Palestine, and named | |
| Beelzebub. To whom th' Arch-Enemy, | |
| And thence in Heaven called Satan, with bold words | |
| Breaking the horrid silence, thus began:-- | |
| "If thou beest he--but O how fallen! how changed | |
| From him who, in the happy realms of light | |
| Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine | |
| Myriads, though bright!--if he whom mutual league, | |
| United thoughts and counsels, equal hope | |
| And hazard in the glorious enterprise | |
| Joined with me once, now misery hath joined | |
| In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest | |
| From what height fallen: so much the stronger proved | |
| He with his thunder; and till then who knew | |
| The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those, | |
| Nor what the potent Victor in his rage | |
| Can else inflict, do I repent, or change, | |
| Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed mind, | |
| And high disdain from sense of injured merit, | |
| That with the Mightiest raised me to contend, | |
| And to the fierce contentions brought along | |
| Innumerable force of Spirits armed, | |
| That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring, | |
| His utmost power with adverse power opposed | |
| In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, | |
| And shook his throne. What though the field be lost? | |
| All is not lost--the unconquerable will, | |
| And study of revenge, immortal hate, | |
| And courage never to submit or yield: | |
| And what is else not to be overcome? | |
| That glory never shall his wrath or might | |
| Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace | |
| With suppliant knee, and deify his power | |
| Who, from the terror of this arm, so late | |
| Doubted his empire--that were low indeed; | |
| That were an ignominy and shame beneath | |
| This downfall; since, by fate, the strength of Gods, | |
| And this empyreal sybstance, cannot fail; | |
| Since, through experience of this great event, | |
| In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced, | |
| We may with more successful hope resolve | |
| To wage by force or guile eternal war, | |
| Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, | |
| Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy | |
| Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven." | |
| So spake th' apostate Angel, though in pain, | |
| Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair; | |
| And him thus answered soon his bold compeer:-- | |
| "O Prince, O Chief of many throned Powers | |
| That led th' embattled Seraphim to war | |
| Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds | |
| Fearless, endangered Heaven's perpetual King, | |
| And put to proof his high supremacy, | |
| Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate, | |
| Too well I see and rue the dire event | |
| That, with sad overthrow and foul defeat, | |
| Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty host | |
| In horrible destruction laid thus low, | |
| As far as Gods and heavenly Essences | |
| Can perish: for the mind and spirit remains | |
| Invincible, and vigour soon returns, | |
| Though all our glory extinct, and happy state | |
| Here swallowed up in endless misery. | |
| But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now | |
| Of force believe almighty, since no less | |
| Than such could have o'erpowered such force as ours) | |
| Have left us this our spirit and strength entire, | |
| Strongly to suffer and support our pains, | |
| That we may so suffice his vengeful ire, | |
| Or do him mightier service as his thralls | |
| By right of war, whate'er his business be, | |
| Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire, | |
| Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep? | |
| What can it the avail though yet we feel | |
| Strength undiminished, or eternal being | |
| To undergo eternal punishment?" | |
| Whereto with speedy words th' Arch-Fiend replied:-- | |
| "Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable, | |
| Doing or suffering: but of this be sure-- | |
| To do aught good never will be our task, | |
| But ever to do ill our sole delight, | |
| As being the contrary to his high will | |
| Whom we resist. If then his providence | |
| Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, | |
| Our labour must be to pervert that end, | |
| And out of good still to find means of evil; | |
| Which ofttimes may succeed so as perhaps | |
| Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb | |
| His inmost counsels from their destined aim. | |
| But see! the angry Victor hath recalled | |
| His ministers of vengeance and pursuit | |
| Back to the gates of Heaven: the sulphurous hail, | |
| Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath laid | |
| The fiery surge that from the precipice | |
| Of Heaven received us falling; and the thunder, | |
| Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage, | |
| Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now | |
| To bellow through the vast and boundless Deep. | |
| Let us not slip th' occasion, whether scorn | |
| Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe. | |
| Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, | |
| The seat of desolation, void of light, | |
| Save what the glimmering of these livid flames | |
| Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend | |
| From off the tossing of these fiery waves; | |
| There rest, if any rest can harbour there; | |
| And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, | |
| Consult how we may henceforth most offend | |
| Our enemy, our own loss how repair, | |
| How overcome this dire calamity, | |
| What reinforcement we may gain from hope, | |
| If not, what resolution from despair." | |
| Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate, | |
| With head uplift above the wave, and eyes | |
| That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides | |
| Prone on the flood, extended long and large, | |
| Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge | |
| As whom the fables name of monstrous size, | |
| Titanian or Earth-born, that warred on Jove, | |
| Briareos or Typhon, whom the den | |
| By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast | |
| Leviathan, which God of all his works | |
| Created hugest that swim th' ocean-stream. | |
| Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam, | |
| The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff, | |
| Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, | |
| With fixed anchor in his scaly rind, | |
| Moors by his side under the lee, while night | |
| Invests the sea, and wished morn delays. | |
| So stretched out huge in length the Arch-fiend lay, | |
| Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thence | |
| Had risen, or heaved his head, but that the will | |
| And high permission of all-ruling Heaven | |
| Left him at large to his own dark designs, | |
| That with reiterated crimes he might | |
| Heap on himself damnation, while he sought | |
| Evil to others, and enraged might see | |
| How all his malice served but to bring forth | |
| Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn | |
| On Man by him seduced, but on himself | |
| Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured. | |
| Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool | |
| His mighty stature; on each hand the flames | |
| Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and,rolled | |
| In billows, leave i' th' midst a horrid vale. | |
| Then with expanded wings he steers his flight | |
| Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, | |
| That felt unusual weight; till on dry land | |
| He lights--if it were land that ever burned | |
| With solid, as the lake with liquid fire, | |
| And such appeared in hue as when the force | |
| Of subterranean wind transprots a hill | |
| Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side | |
| Of thundering Etna, whose combustible | |
| And fuelled entrails, thence conceiving fire, | |
| Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds, | |
| And leave a singed bottom all involved | |
| With stench and smoke. Such resting found the sole | |
| Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate; | |
| Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood | |
| As gods, and by their own recovered strength, | |
| Not by the sufferance of supernal Power. | |
| "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," | |
| Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat | |
| That we must change for Heaven?--this mournful gloom | |
| For that celestial light? Be it so, since he | |
| Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid | |
| What shall be right: farthest from him is best | |
| Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme | |
| Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields, | |
| Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail, | |
| Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell, | |
| Receive thy new possessor--one who brings | |
| A mind not to be changed by place or time. | |
| The mind is its own place, and in itself | |
| Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. | |
| What matter where, if I be still the same, | |
| And what I should be, all but less than he | |
| Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least | |
| We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built | |
| Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: | |
| Here we may reigh secure; and, in my choice, | |
| To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: | |
| Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. | |
| But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, | |
| Th' associates and co-partners of our loss, | |
| Lie thus astonished on th' oblivious pool, | |
| And call them not to share with us their part | |
| In this unhappy mansion, or once more | |
| With rallied arms to try what may be yet | |
| Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell?" | |
| So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub | |
| Thus answered:--"Leader of those armies bright | |
| Which, but th' Omnipotent, none could have foiled! | |
| If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge | |
| Of hope in fears and dangers--heard so oft | |
| In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge | |
| Of battle, when it raged, in all assaults | |
| Their surest signal--they will soon resume | |
| New courage and revive, though now they lie | |
| Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire, | |
| As we erewhile, astounded and amazed; | |
| No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height!" | |
| He scare had ceased when the superior Fiend | |
| Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield, | |
| Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, | |
| Behind him cast. The broad circumference | |
| Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb | |
| Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views | |
| At evening, from the top of Fesole, | |
| Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, | |
| Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. | |
| His spear--to equal which the tallest pine | |
| Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast | |
| Of some great ammiral, were but a wand-- | |
| He walked with, to support uneasy steps | |
| Over the burning marl, not like those steps | |
| On Heaven's azure; and the torrid clime | |
| Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. | |
| Nathless he so endured, till on the beach | |
| Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called | |
| His legions--Angel Forms, who lay entranced | |
| Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks | |
| In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades | |
| High over-arched embower; or scattered sedge | |
| Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed | |
| Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew | |
| Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, | |
| While with perfidious hatred they pursued | |
| The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld | |
| From the safe shore their floating carcases | |
| And broken chariot-wheels. So thick bestrown, | |
| Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood, | |
| Under amazement of their hideous change. | |
| He called so loud that all the hollow deep | |
| Of Hell resounded:--"Princes, Potentates, | |
| Warriors, the Flower of Heaven--once yours; now lost, | |
| If such astonishment as this can seize | |
| 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 | |
| Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire, | |
| As from her outmost works, a broken foe, | |
| With tumult less and with less hostile din; | |
| That Satan with less toil, and now with ease, | |
| Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious light, | |
| And, like a weather-beaten vessel, holds | |
| Gladly the port, though shrouds and tackle torn; | |
| Or in the emptier waste, resembling air, | |
| Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to behold | |
| Far off th' empyreal Heaven, extended wide | |
| In circuit, undetermined square or round, | |
| With opal towers and battlements adorned | |
| Of living sapphire, once his native seat; | |
| And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain, | |
| This pendent World, in bigness as a star | |
| Of smallest magnitude close by the moon. | |
| Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge, | |
| Accursed, and in a cursed hour, he hies. | |
| Book III | |
| Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven firstborn, | |
| Or of the Eternal coeternal beam | |
| May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, | |
| And never but in unapproached light | |
| Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee | |
| Bright effluence of bright essence increate. | |
| Or hear"st thou rather pure ethereal stream, | |
| Whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun, | |
| Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice | |
| Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest *** | |
| The rising world of waters dark and deep, | |
| Won from the void and formless infinite. | |
| Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, | |
| Escap'd the Stygian pool, though long detain'd | |
| In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight | |
| Through utter and through middle darkness borne, | |
| With other notes than to the Orphean lyre | |
| I sung of Chaos and eternal Night; | |
| Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down | |
| The dark descent, and up to re-ascend, | |
| Though hard and rare: Thee I revisit safe, | |
| And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou | |
| Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain | |
| To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; | |
| So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, | |
| Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more | |
| Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt, | |
| Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, | |
| Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief | |
| Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, | |
| That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow, | |
| Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget | |
| So were I equall'd with them in renown, | |
| Thy sovran command, that Man should find grace; | |
| Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides, | |
| And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old: | |
| Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move | |
| Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird | |
| Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid | |
| Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year | |
| Seasons return; but not to me returns | |
| Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, | |
| Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, | |
| Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; | |
| But cloud instead, and ever-during dark | |
| Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men | |
| Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair | |
| Presented with a universal blank | |
| Of nature's works to me expung'd and ras'd, | |
| And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. | |
| So much the rather thou, celestial Light, | |
| Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers | |
| Irradiate; there plant eyes, all mist from thence | |
| Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell | |
| Of things invisible to mortal sight. | |
| Now had the Almighty Father from above, | |
| From the pure empyrean where he sits | |
| High thron'd above all highth, bent down his eye | |
| His own works and their works at once to view: | |
| About him all the Sanctities of Heaven | |
| Stood thick as stars, and from his sight receiv'd | |
| Beatitude past utterance; on his right | |
| The radiant image of his glory sat, | |
| His only son; on earth he first beheld | |
| Our two first parents, yet the only two | |
| Of mankind in the happy garden plac'd | |
| Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, | |
| Uninterrupted joy, unrivall'd love, | |
| In blissful solitude; he then survey'd | |
| Hell and the gulf between, and Satan there | |
| Coasting the wall of Heaven on this side Night | |
| In the dun air sublime, and ready now | |
| To stoop with wearied wings, and willing feet, | |
| On the bare outside of this world, that seem'd | |
| Firm land imbosom'd, without firmament, | |
| Uncertain which, in ocean or in air. | |
| Him God beholding from his prospect high, | |
| Wherein past, present, future, he beholds, | |
| Thus to his only Son foreseeing spake. | |
| Only begotten Son, seest thou what rage | |
| Transports our Adversary? whom no bounds | |
| Prescrib'd no bars of Hell, nor all the chains | |
| Heap'd on him there, nor yet the main abyss | |
| Wide interrupt, can hold; so bent he seems | |
| On desperate revenge, that shall redound | |
| Upon his own rebellious head. And now, | |
| Through all restraint broke loose, he wings his way | |
| Not far off Heaven, in the precincts of light, | |
| Directly towards the new created world, | |
| And man there plac'd, with purpose to assay | |
| If him by force he can destroy, or, worse, | |
| By some false guile pervert; and shall pervert; | |
| For man will hearken to his glozing lies, | |
| And easily transgress the sole command, | |
| Sole pledge of his obedience: So will fall | |
| He and his faithless progeny: Whose fault? | |
| Whose but his own? ingrate, he had of me | |
| All he could have; I made him just and right, | |
| Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall. | |
| Such I created all the ethereal Powers | |
| And Spirits, both them who stood, and them who fail'd; | |
| Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell. | |
| Not free, what proof could they have given sincere | |
| Of true allegiance, constant faith or love, | |
| Where only what they needs must do appear'd, | |
| Not what they would? what praise could they receive? | |
| What pleasure I from such obedience paid, | |
| When will and reason (reason also is choice) | |
| Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil'd, | |
| Made passive both, had serv'd necessity, | |
| Not me? they therefore, as to right belong$ 'd, | |
| So were created, nor can justly accuse | |
| Their Maker, or their making, or their fate, | |
| As if predestination over-rul'd | |
| Their will dispos'd by absolute decree | |
| Or high foreknowledge they themselves decreed | |
| Their own revolt, not I; if I foreknew, | |
| Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault, | |
| Which had no less proved certain unforeknown. | |
| So without least impulse or shadow of fate, | |
| Or aught by me immutably foreseen, | |
| They trespass, authors to themselves in all | |
| Both what they judge, and what they choose; for so | |
| I form'd them free: and free they must remain, | |
| Till they enthrall themselves; I else must change | |
| Their nature, and revoke the high decree | |
| Unchangeable, eternal, which ordain'd | |
| $THeir freedom: they themselves ordain'd their fall. | |
| The first sort by their own suggestion fell, | |
| Self-tempted, self-deprav'd: Man falls, deceiv'd | |
| By the other first: Man therefore shall find grace, | |
| The other none: In mercy and justice both, | |
| Through Heaven and Earth, so shall my glory excel; | |
| But Mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine. | |
| Thus while God spake, ambrosial fragrance fill'd | |
| All Heaven, and in the blessed Spirits elect | |
| Sense of new joy ineffable diffus'd. | |
| Beyond compare the Son of God was seen | |
| Most glorious; in him all his Father shone | |
| Substantially express'd; and in his face | |
| Divine compassion visibly appear'd, | |
| Love without end, and without measure grace, | |
| Which uttering, thus he to his Father spake. | |
| O Father, gracious was that word which clos'd | |
| Thy sovran command, that Man should find grace; | |
| , that Man should find grace; | |
| For which both Heaven and earth shall high extol | |
| Thy praises, with the innumerable sound | |
| Of hymns and sacred songs, wherewith thy throne | |
| Encompass'd shall resound thee ever blest. | |
| For should Man finally be lost, should Man, | |
| Thy creature late so lov'd, thy youngest son, | |
| Fall circumvented thus by fraud, though join'd | |
| With his own folly? that be from thee far, | |
| That far be from thee, Father, who art judge | |
| Of all things made, and judgest only right. | |
| Or shall the Adversary thus obtain | |
| His end, and frustrate thine? shall he fulfill | |
| His malice, and thy goodness bring to nought, | |
| Or proud return, though to his heavier doom, | |
| Yet with revenge accomplish'd, and to Hell | |
| Draw after him the whole race of mankind, | |
| By him corrupted? or wilt thou thyself | |
| Abolish thy creation, and unmake | |
| For him, what for thy glory thou hast made? | |
| So should thy goodness and thy greatness both | |
| Be question'd and blasphem'd without defence. | |
| To whom the great Creator thus replied. | |
| O son, in whom my soul hath chief delight, | |
| Son of my bosom, Son who art alone. | |
| My word, my wisdom, and effectual might, | |
| All hast thou spoken as my thoughts are, all | |
| As my eternal purpose hath decreed; | |
| Man shall not quite be lost, but sav'd who will; | |
| Yet not of will in him, but grace in me | |
| Freely vouchsaf'd; once more I will renew | |
| His lapsed powers, though forfeit; and enthrall'd | |
| By sin to foul exorbitant desires; | |
| Upheld by me, yet once more he shall stand | |
| On even ground against his mortal foe; | |
| 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, | |
| Elect above the rest; so is my will: | |
| The rest shall hear me call, and oft be warn'd | |
| 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. | |
| To prayer, repentance, and obedience due, | |
| Though but endeavour'd with sincere intent, | |
| Mine ear shall not be slow, mine eye not shut. | |
| And I will place within them as a guide, | |
| My umpire Conscience; whom if they will hear, | |
| Light after light, well us'd, they shall attain, | |
| And to the end, persisting, safe arrive. | |
| This my long sufferance, and my day of grace, | |
| They who neglect and scorn, shall never taste; | |
| But hard be harden'd, blind be blinded more, | |
| That they may stumble on, and deeper fall; | |
| And none but such from mercy I exclude. | |
| But yet all is not done; Man disobeying, | |
| Disloyal, breaks his fealty, and sins | |
| Against the high supremacy of Heaven, | |
| Affecting God-head, and, so losing all, | |
| To expiate his treason hath nought left, | |
| But to destruction sacred and devote, | |
| 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. | |
| 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; | |
| 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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| 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, | |
| Took leave, and toward the coast of earth beneath, | |
| Down from the ecliptick, sped with hoped success, | |
| Throws his steep flight in many an aery wheel; | |
| Nor staid, till on Niphates' top he lights. | |
| Book IV | |
| O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw | |
| The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud, | |
| Then when the Dragon, put to second rout, | |
| Came furious down to be revenged on men, | |
| Woe to the inhabitants on earth! that now, | |
| While time was, our first parents had been warned | |
| The coming of their secret foe, and 'scaped, | |
| Haply so 'scaped his mortal snare: For now | |
| Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down, | |
| The tempter ere the accuser of mankind, | |
| To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss | |
| Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell: | |
| Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold | |
| Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast, | |
| Begins his dire attempt; which nigh the birth | |
| Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast, | |
| And like a devilish engine back recoils | |
| Upon himself; horrour and doubt distract | |
| His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir | |
| The Hell within him; for within him Hell | |
| He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell | |
| One step, no more than from himself, can fly | |
| By change of place: Now conscience wakes despair, | |
| That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory | |
| Of what he was, what is, and what must be | |
| Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue. | |
| Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view | |
| Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad; | |
| Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun, | |
| Which now sat high in his meridian tower: | |
| Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began. | |
| O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned, | |
| Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God | |
| Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars | |
| Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call, | |
| But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, | |
| Of Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, | |
| That bring to my remembrance from what state | |
| I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere; | |
| Till pride and worse ambition threw me down | |
| Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King: | |
| Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return | |
| From me, whom he created what I was | |
| In that bright eminence, and with his good | |
| Upbraided none; nor was his service hard. | |
| What could be less than to afford him praise, | |
| The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks, | |
| How due! yet all his good proved ill in me, | |
| And wrought but malice; lifted up so high | |
| I sdeined subjection, and thought one step higher | |
| Would set me highest, and in a moment quit | |
| The debt immense of endless gratitude, | |
| So burdensome still paying, still to owe, | |
| Forgetful what from him I still received, | |
| And understood not that a grateful mind | |
| By owing owes not, but still pays, at once | |
| Indebted and discharged; what burden then | |
| O, had his powerful destiny ordained | |
| Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood | |
| Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised | |
| Ambition! Yet why not some other Power | |
| As great might have aspired, and me, though mean, | |
| Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great | |
| Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within | |
| Or from without, to all temptations armed. | |
| Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand? | |
| Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse, | |
| But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all? | |
| Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, | |
| To me alike, it deals eternal woe. | |
| Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will | |
| Chose freely what it now so justly rues. | |
| Me miserable! which way shall I fly | |
| Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? | |
| Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; | |
| And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep | |
| Still threatening to devour me opens wide, | |
| To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven. | |
| O, then, at last relent: Is there no place | |
| Left for repentance, none for pardon left? | |
| None left but by submission; and that word | |
| Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame | |
| Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced | |
| With other promises and other vaunts | |
| Than to submit, boasting I could subdue | |
| The Omnipotent. Ay me! they little know | |
| How dearly I abide that boast so vain, | |
| Under what torments inwardly I groan, | |
| While they adore me on the throne of Hell. | |
| With diadem and scepter high advanced, | |
| The lower still I fall, only supreme | |
| In misery: Such joy ambition finds. | |
| But say I could repent, and could obtain, | |
| By act of grace, my former state; how soon | |
| Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay | |
| What feigned submission swore? Ease would recant | |
| Vows made in pain, as violent and void. | |
| For never can true reconcilement grow, | |
| Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep: | |
| Which would but lead me to a worse relapse | |
| And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear | |
| Short intermission bought with double smart. | |
| This knows my Punisher; therefore as far | |
| From granting he, as I from begging, peace; | |
| All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead | |
| Mankind created, and for him this world. | |
| So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear; | |
| Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost; | |
| Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least | |
| Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold, | |
| By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign; | |
| As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know. | |
| Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face | |
| Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair; | |
| Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed | |
| Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld. | |
| For heavenly minds from such distempers foul | |
| Are ever clear. Whereof he soon aware, | |
| Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm, | |
| Artificer of fraud; and was the first | |
| That practised falsehood under saintly show, | |
| Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge: | |
| Yet not enough had practised to deceive | |
| Uriel once warned; whose eye pursued him down | |
| The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount | |
| Saw him disfigured, more than could befall | |
| Spirit of happy sort; his gestures fierce | |
| He marked and mad demeanour, then alone, | |
| As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen. | |
| So on he fares, and to the border comes | |
| Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, | |
| Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, | |
| As with a rural mound, the champaign head | |
| Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides | |
| Access denied; and overhead upgrew | |
| Insuperable height of loftiest shade, | |
| Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, | |
| A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend, | |
| Shade above shade, a woody theatre | |
| Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops | |
| The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung; | |
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| Which to our general sire gave prospect large | |
| Into his nether empire neighbouring round. | |
| And higher than that wall a circling row | |
| Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, | |
| 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, | |
| 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: | |
| 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, | |
| 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! | |
| By thee adulterous Lust was driven from men | |
| Among the bestial herds to range; by thee | |
| Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure, | |
| Relations dear, and all the charities | |
| Of father, son, and brother, first were known. | |
| Far be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, | |
| Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, | |
| Perpetual fountain of domestick sweets, | |
| Whose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced, | |
| Present, or past, as saints and patriarchs used. | |
| Here Love his golden shafts employs, here lights | |
| His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings, | |
| Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile | |
| Of harlots, loveless, joyless, unendeared, | |
| Casual fruition; nor in court-amours, | |
| Mixed dance, or wanton mask, or midnight ball, | |
| Or serenate, which the starved lover sings | |
| To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. | |
| These, lulled by nightingales, embracing slept, | |
| And on their naked limbs the flowery roof | |
| Showered roses, which the morn repaired. Sleep on, | |
| Blest pair; and O!yet happiest, if ye seek | |
| No happier state, and know to know no more. | |
| Now had night measured with her shadowy cone | |
| Half way up hill this vast sublunar vault, | |
| And from their ivory port the Cherubim, | |
| Forth issuing at the accustomed hour, stood armed | |
| To their night watches in warlike parade; | |
| When Gabriel to his next in power thus spake. | |
| Uzziel, half these draw off, and coast the south | |
| With strictest watch; these other wheel the north; | |
| Our circuit meets full west. As flame they part, | |
| Half wheeling to the shield, half to the spear. | |
| From these, two strong and subtle Spirits he called | |
| That near him stood, and gave them thus in charge. | |
| Ithuriel and Zephon, with winged speed | |
| Search through this garden, leave unsearched no nook; | |
| But chiefly where those two fair creatures lodge, | |
| Now laid perhaps asleep, secure of harm. | |
| This evening from the sun's decline arrived, | |
| Who tells of some infernal Spirit seen | |
| Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escaped | |
| The bars of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: | |
| Such, where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. | |
| So saying, on he led his radiant files, | |
| Dazzling the moon; these to the bower direct | |
| In search of whom they sought: Him there they found | |
| Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, | |
| Assaying by his devilish art to reach | |
| The organs of her fancy, and with them forge | |
| Illusions, as he list, phantasms and dreams; | |
| Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint | |
| The animal spirits, that from pure blood arise | |
| Like gentle breaths from rivers pure, thence raise | |
| At least distempered, discontented thoughts, | |
| Vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires, | |
| Blown up with high conceits ingendering pride. | |
| Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear | |
| Touched lightly; for no falshood can endure | |
| Touch of celestial temper, but returns | |
| Of force to its own likeness: Up he starts | |
| Discovered and surprised. As when a spark | |
| Lights on a heap of nitrous powder, laid | |
| Fit for the tun some magazine to store | |
| Against a rumoured war, the smutty grain, | |
| With sudden blaze diffused, inflames the air; | |
| So started up in his own shape the Fiend. | |
| Back stept those two fair Angels, half amazed | |
| So sudden to behold the grisly king; | |
| Yet thus, unmoved with fear, accost him soon. | |
| Which of those rebel Spirits adjudged to Hell | |
| Comest thou, escaped thy prison? and, transformed, | |
| Why sat'st thou like an enemy in wait, | |
| Here watching at the head of these that sleep? | |
| Know ye not then said Satan, filled with scorn, | |
| Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate | |
| For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar: | |
| Not to know me argues yourselves unknown, | |
| The lowest of your throng; or, if ye know, | |
| Why ask ye, and superfluous begin | |
| Your message, like to end as much in vain? | |
| To whom thus Zephon, answering scorn with scorn. | |
| Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, | |
| Or undiminished brightness to be known, | |
| As when thou stoodest in Heaven upright and pure; | |
| That glory then, when thou no more wast good, | |
| Departed from thee; and thou resemblest now | |
| Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foul. | |
| But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account | |
| To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep | |
| This place inviolable, and these from harm. | |
| So spake the Cherub; and his grave rebuke, | |
| Severe in youthful beauty, added grace | |
| Invincible: Abashed the Devil stood, | |
| 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; | |
| And fly, ere evil intercept thy flight. | |
| He said; and, as the sound of waters deep, | |
| Hoarse murmur echoed to his words applause | |
| Through the infinite host; nor less for that | |
| The flaming Seraph fearless, though alone | |
| Encompassed round with foes, thus answered bold. | |
| O alienate from God, O Spirit accursed, | |
| Forsaken of all good! I see thy fall | |
| Determined, and thy hapless crew involved | |
| In this perfidious fraud, contagion spread | |
| Both of thy crime and punishment: Henceforth | |
| No more be troubled how to quit the yoke | |
| Of God's Messiah; those indulgent laws | |
| Will not be now vouchsafed; other decrees | |
| Against thee are gone forth without recall; | |
| That golden scepter, which thou didst reject, | |
| Is now an iron rod to bruise and break | |
| Thy disobedience. Well thou didst advise; | |
| Yet not for thy advice or threats I fly | |
| These wicked tents devoted, lest the wrath | |
| Impendent, raging into sudden flame, | |
| Distinguish not: For soon expect to feel | |
| His thunder on thy head, devouring fire. | |
| Then who created thee lamenting learn, | |
| When who can uncreate thee thou shalt know. | |
| So spake the Seraph Abdiel, faithful found | |
| Among the faithless, faithful only he; | |
| Among innumerable false, unmoved, | |
| Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, | |
| His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal; | |
| Nor number, nor example, with him wrought | |
| To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind, | |
| Though single. From amidst them forth he passed, | |
| Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained | |
| Superiour, nor of violence feared aught; | |
| And, with retorted scorn, his back he turned | |
| On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed. | |
| Book VI | |
| All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued, | |
| Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn, | |
| Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand | |
| Unbarred the gates of light. There is a cave | |
| Within the mount of God, fast by his throne, | |
| Where light and darkness in perpetual round | |
| Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heaven | |
| Grateful vicissitude, like day and night; | |
| Light issues forth, and at the other door | |
| Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour | |
| To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well | |
| Seem twilight here: And now went forth the Morn | |
| Such as in highest Heaven arrayed in gold | |
| Empyreal; from before her vanished Night, | |
| Shot through with orient beams; when all the plain | |
| Covered with thick embattled squadrons bright, | |
| Chariots, and flaming arms, and fiery steeds, | |
| Reflecting blaze on blaze, first met his view: | |
| War he perceived, war in procinct; and found | |
| Already known what he for news had thought | |
| To have reported: Gladly then he mixed | |
| Among those friendly Powers, who him received | |
| With joy and acclamations loud, that one, | |
| That of so many myriads fallen, yet one | |
| Returned not lost. On to the sacred hill | |
| They led him high applauded, and present | |
| Before the seat supreme; from whence a voice, | |
| From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard. | |
| Servant of God. Well done; well hast thou fought | |
| The better fight, who single hast maintained | |
| Against revolted multitudes the cause | |
| Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms; | |
| And for the testimony of truth hast borne | |
| Universal reproach, far worse to bear | |
| Than violence; for this was all thy care | |
| To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds | |
| Judged thee perverse: The easier conquest now | |
| Remains thee, aided by this host of friends, | |
| Back on thy foes more glorious to return, | |
| Than scorned thou didst depart; and to subdue | |
| By force, who reason for their law refuse, | |
| Right reason for their law, and for their King | |
| Messiah, who by right of merit reigns. | |
| Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince, | |
| And thou, in military prowess next, | |
| Gabriel, lead forth to battle these my sons | |
| Invincible; lead forth my armed Saints, | |
| By thousands and by millions, ranged for fight, | |
| Equal in number to that Godless crew | |
| Rebellious: Them with fire and hostile arms | |
| Fearless assault; and, to the brow of Heaven | |
| Pursuing, drive them out from God and bliss, | |
| Into their place of punishment, the gulf | |
| Of Tartarus, which ready opens wide | |
| His fiery Chaos to receive their fall. | |
| So spake the Sovran Voice, and clouds began | |
| To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll | |
| In dusky wreaths, reluctant flames, the sign | |
| Of wrath awaked; nor with less dread the loud | |
| Ethereal trumpet from on high 'gan blow: | |
| At which command the Powers militant, | |
| That stood for Heaven, in mighty quadrate joined | |
| Of union irresistible, moved on | |
| In silence their bright legions, to the sound | |
| Of instrumental harmony, that breathed | |
| Heroick ardour to adventurous deeds | |
| Under their God-like leaders, in the cause | |
| Of God and his Messiah. On they move | |
| Indissolubly firm; nor obvious hill, | |
| Nor straitening vale, nor wood, nor stream, divides | |
| Their perfect ranks; for high above the ground | |
| Their march was, and the passive air upbore | |
| Their nimble tread; as when the total kind | |
| Of birds, in orderly array on wing, | |
| Came summoned over Eden to receive | |
| Their names of thee; so over many a tract | |
| Of Heaven they marched, and many a province wide, | |
| Tenfold the length of this terrene: At last, | |
| Far in the horizon to the north appeared | |
| From skirt to skirt a fiery region, stretched | |
| In battailous aspect, and nearer view | |
| Bristled with upright beams innumerable | |
| Of rigid spears, and helmets thronged, and shields | |
| Various, with boastful argument portrayed, | |
| The banded Powers of Satan hasting on | |
| With furious expedition; for they weened | |
| That self-same day, by fight or by surprise, | |
| To win the mount of God, and on his throne | |
| To set the Envier of his state, the proud | |
| Aspirer; but their thoughts proved fond and vain | |
| In the mid way: Though strange to us it seemed | |
| At first, that Angel should with Angel war, | |
| And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet | |
| So oft in festivals of joy and love | |
| Unanimous, as sons of one great Sire, | |
| Hymning the Eternal Father: But the shout | |
| Of battle now began, and rushing sound | |
| Of onset ended soon each milder thought. | |
| High in the midst, exalted as a God, | |
| The Apostate in his sun-bright chariot sat, | |
| Idol of majesty divine, enclosed | |
| With flaming Cherubim, and golden shields; | |
| Then lighted from his gorgeous throne, for now | |
| "twixt host and host but narrow space was left, | |
| A dreadful interval, and front to front | |
| Presented stood in terrible array | |
| Of hideous length: Before the cloudy van, | |
| On the rough edge of battle ere it joined, | |
| Satan, with vast and haughty strides advanced, | |
| Came towering, armed in adamant and gold; | |
| Abdiel that sight endured not, where he stood | |
| Among the mightiest, bent on highest deeds, | |
| And thus his own undaunted heart explores. | |
| O Heaven! that such resemblance of the Highest | |
| Should yet remain, where faith and realty | |
| Remain not: Wherefore should not strength and might | |
| There fail where virtue fails, or weakest prove | |
| Where boldest, though to fight unconquerable? | |
| His puissance, trusting in the Almighty's aid, | |
| I mean to try, whose reason I have tried | |
| Unsound and false; nor is it aught but just, | |
| That he, who in debate of truth hath won, | |
| Should win in arms, in both disputes alike | |
| Victor; though brutish that contest and foul, | |
| When reason hath to deal with force, yet so | |
| Most reason is that reason overcome. | |
| So pondering, and from his armed peers | |
| Forth stepping opposite, half-way he met | |
| His daring foe, at this prevention more | |
| Incensed, and thus securely him defied. | |
| Proud, art thou met? thy hope was to have reached | |
| The highth of thy aspiring unopposed, | |
| The throne of God unguarded, and his side | |
| Abandoned, at the terrour of thy power | |
| Or potent tongue: Fool!not to think how vain | |
| Against the Omnipotent to rise in arms; | |
| Who out of smallest things could, without end, | |
| Have raised incessant armies to defeat | |
| Thy folly; or with solitary hand | |
| Reaching beyond all limit, at one blow, | |
| Unaided, could have finished thee, and whelmed | |
| Thy legions under darkness: But thou seest | |
| All are not of thy train; there be, who faith | |
| Prefer, and piety to God, though then | |
| To thee not visible, when I alone | |
| Seemed in thy world erroneous to dissent | |
| From all: My sect thou seest;now learn too late | |
| How few sometimes may know, when thousands err. | |
| Whom the grand foe, with scornful eye askance, | |
| Thus answered. Ill for thee, but in wished hour | |
| Of my revenge, first sought for, thou returnest | |
| From flight, seditious Angel! to receive | |
| Thy merited reward, the first assay | |
| Of this right hand provoked, since first that tongue, | |
| 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, | |
| Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled; | |
| Yet lewdly darest our ministring upbraid. | |
| 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. | |
| Book VIII | |
| 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 | |
| Him, who, to worth in women overtrusting, | |
| Lets her will rule: restraint she will not brook; | |
| And, left to herself, if evil thence ensue, | |
| She first his weak indulgence will accuse. | |
| Thus they in mutual accusation spent | |
| The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning; | |
| And of their vain contest appeared no end. | |
| Book X | |
| Mean while the heinous and despiteful act | |
| Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how | |
| He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve, | |
| Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit, | |
| Was known in Heaven; for what can 'scape the eye | |
| Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart | |
| Omniscient? who, in all things wise and just, | |
| Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind | |
| Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed, | |
| Complete to have discovered and repulsed | |
| Whatever wiles of foe or seeming friend. | |
| For still they knew, and ought to have still remembered, | |
| The high injunction, not to taste that fruit, | |
| Whoever tempted; which they not obeying, | |
| (Incurred what could they less?) the penalty; | |
| And, manifold in sin, deserved to fall. | |
| Up into Heaven from Paradise in haste | |
| The angelick guards ascended, mute, and sad, | |
| For Man; for of his state by this they knew, | |
| Much wondering how the subtle Fiend had stolen | |
| Entrance unseen. Soon as the unwelcome news | |
| From Earth arrived at Heaven-gate, displeased | |
| All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare | |
| That time celestial visages, yet, mixed | |
| With pity, violated not their bliss. | |
| About the new-arrived, in multitudes | |
| The ethereal people ran, to hear and know | |
| How all befel: They towards the throne supreme, | |
| Accountable, made haste, to make appear, | |
| With righteous plea, their utmost vigilance | |
| And easily approved; when the Most High | |
| Eternal Father, from his secret cloud, | |
| Amidst in thunder uttered thus his voice. | |
| Assembled Angels, and ye Powers returned | |
| From unsuccessful charge; be not dismayed, | |
| Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth, | |
| Which your sincerest care could not prevent; | |
| Foretold so lately what would come to pass, | |
| When first this tempter crossed the gulf from Hell. | |
| I told ye then he should prevail, and speed | |
| On his bad errand; Man should be seduced, | |
| And flattered out of all, believing lies | |
| Against his Maker; no decree of mine | |
| Concurring to necessitate his fall, | |
| Or touch with lightest moment of impulse | |
| His free will, to her own inclining left | |
| In even scale. But fallen he is; and now | |
| What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass | |
| On his transgression,--death denounced that day? | |
| Which he presumes already vain and void, | |
| Because not yet inflicted, as he feared, | |
| By some immediate stroke; but soon shall find | |
| Forbearance no acquittance, ere day end. | |
| Justice shall not return as bounty scorned. | |
| But whom send I to judge them? whom but thee, | |
| Vicegerent Son? To thee I have transferred | |
| All judgement, whether in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell. | |
| Easy it may be seen that I intend | |
| Mercy colleague with justice, sending thee | |
| Man's friend, his Mediator, his designed | |
| Both ransom and Redeemer voluntary, | |
| And destined Man himself to judge Man fallen. | |
| So spake the Father; and, unfolding bright | |
| Toward the right hand his glory, on the Son | |
| Blazed forth unclouded Deity: He full | |
| Resplendent all his Father manifest | |
| Expressed, and thus divinely answered mild. | |
| Father Eternal, thine is to decree; | |
| Mine, both in Heaven and Earth, to do thy will | |
| Supreme; that thou in me, thy Son beloved, | |
| Mayest ever rest well pleased. I go to judge | |
| On earth these thy transgressours; but thou knowest, | |
| Whoever judged, the worst on me must light, | |
| When time shall be; for so I undertook | |
| Before thee; and, not repenting, this obtain | |
| Of right, that I may mitigate their doom | |
| On me derived; yet I shall temper so | |
| Justice with mercy, as may illustrate most | |
| Them fully satisfied, and thee appease. | |
| Attendance none shall need, nor train, where none | |
| Are to behold the judgement, but the judged, | |
| Those two; the third best absent is condemned, | |
| Convict by flight, and rebel to all law: | |
| Conviction to the serpent none belongs. | |
| Thus saying, from his radiant seat he rose | |
| Of high collateral glory: Him Thrones, and Powers, | |
| Princedoms, and Dominations ministrant, | |
| Accompanied to Heaven-gate; from whence | |
| Eden, and all the coast, in prospect lay. | |
| Down he descended straight; the speed of Gods | |
| Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged. | |
| Now was the sun in western cadence low | |
| From noon, and gentle airs, due at their hour, | |
| To fan the earth now waked, and usher in | |
| The evening cool; when he, from wrath more cool, | |
| Came the mild Judge, and Intercessour both, | |
| To sentence Man: The voice of God they heard | |
| Now walking in the garden, by soft winds | |
| Brought to their ears, while day declined; they heard, | |
| And from his presence hid themselves among | |
| The thickest trees, both man and wife; till God, | |
| Approaching, thus to Adam called aloud. | |
| Where art thou, Adam, wont with joy to meet | |
| My coming seen far off? I miss thee here, | |
| Not pleased, thus entertained with solitude, | |
| Where obvious duty ere while appeared unsought: | |
| Or come I less conspicuous, or what change | |
| Absents thee, or what chance detains?--Come forth! | |
| He came; and with him Eve, more loth, though first | |
| To offend; discountenanced both, and discomposed; | |
| Love was not in their looks, either to God, | |
| Or to each other; but apparent guilt, | |
| And shame, and perturbation, and despair, | |
| Anger, and obstinacy, and hate, and guile. | |
| Whence Adam, faltering long, thus answered brief. | |
| I heard thee in the garden, and of thy voice | |
| Afraid, being naked, hid myself. To whom | |
| The gracious Judge without revile replied. | |
| My voice thou oft hast heard, and hast not feared, | |
| But still rejoiced; how is it now become | |
| So dreadful to thee? That thou art naked, who | |
| Hath told thee? Hast thou eaten of the tree, | |
| Whereof I gave thee charge thou shouldst not eat? | |
| To whom thus Adam sore beset replied. | |
| O Heaven! in evil strait this day I stand | |
| Before my Judge; either to undergo | |
| Myself the total crime, or to accuse | |
| My other self, the partner of my life; | |
| Whose failing, while her faith to me remains, | |
| I should conceal, and not expose to blame | |
| By my complaint: but strict necessity | |
| Subdues me, and calamitous constraint; | |
| Lest on my head both sin and punishment, | |
| However insupportable, be all | |
| Devolved; though should I hold my peace, yet thou | |
| Wouldst easily detect what I conceal.-- | |
| This Woman, whom thou madest to be my help, | |
| And gavest me as thy perfect gift, so good, | |
| So fit, so acceptable, so divine, | |
| That from her hand I could suspect no ill, | |
| And what she did, whatever in itself, | |
| Her doing seemed to justify the deed; | |
| She gave me of the tree, and I did eat. | |
| To whom the Sovran Presence thus replied. | |
| Was she thy God, that her thou didst obey | |
| Before his voice? or was she made thy guide, | |
| Superiour, or but equal, that to her | |
| Thou didst resign thy manhood, and the place | |
| Wherein God set thee above her made of thee, | |
| And for thee, whose perfection far excelled | |
| Hers in all real dignity? Adorned | |
| She was indeed, and lovely, to attract | |
| Thy love, not thy subjection; and her gifts | |
| Were such, as under government well seemed; | |
| Unseemly to bear rule; which was thy part | |
| And person, hadst thou known thyself aright. | |
| So having said, he thus to Eve in few. | |
| Say, Woman, what is this which thou hast done? | |
| To whom sad Eve, with shame nigh overwhelmed, | |
| Confessing soon, yet not before her Judge | |
| Bold or loquacious, thus abashed replied. | |
| The Serpent me beguiled, and I did eat. | |
| Which when the Lord God heard, without delay | |
| To judgement he proceeded on the accused | |
| Serpent, though brute; unable to transfer | |
| The guilt on him, who made him instrument | |
| Of mischief, and polluted from the end | |
| Of his creation; justly then accursed, | |
| As vitiated in nature: More to know | |
| Concerned not Man, (since he no further knew) | |
| Nor altered his offence; yet God at last | |
| To Satan first in sin his doom applied, | |
| Though in mysterious terms, judged as then best: | |
| And on the Serpent thus his curse let fall. | |
| Because thou hast done this, thou art accursed | |
| Above all cattle, each beast of the field; | |
| Upon thy belly groveling thou shalt go, | |
| And dust shalt eat all the days of thy life. | |
| Between thee and the woman I will put | |
| Enmity, and between thine and her seed; | |
| Her seed shall bruise thy head, thou bruise his heel. | |
| 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 | |
| In sorrow forth; and to thy husband's will | |
| 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 | |
| I charged thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat thereof: | |
| 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; | |
| 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; | |
| Nor he their outward only with the skins | |
| 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] |