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. | |
00021053 | |
Thou, therefore, whom thou only canst redeem, | |
Their nature also to thy nature join; | |
And be thyself Man among men on Earth, | |
Made flesh, when time shall be, of virgin seed, | |
By wondrous birth; be thou in Adam's room | |
The head of all mankind, though Adam's son. | |
As in him perish all men, so in thee, | |
As from a second root, shall be restored | |
As many as are restored, without thee none. | |
His crime makes guilty all his sons; thy merit, | |
Imputed, shall absolve them who renounce | |
Their own both righteous and unrighteous deeds, | |
And live in thee transplanted, and from thee | |
Receive new life. So Man, as is most just, | |
Shall satisfy for Man, be judged and die, | |
And dying rise, and rising with him raise | |
His brethren, ransomed with his own dear life. | |
So heavenly love shall outdo hellish hate, | |
Giving to death, and dying to redeem, | |
So dearly to redeem what hellish hate | |
So easily destroyed, and still destroys | |
In those who, when they may, accept not grace. | |
Nor shalt thou, by descending to assume | |
Man's nature, lessen or degrade thine own. | |
Because thou hast, though throned in highest bliss | |
Equal to God, and equally enjoying | |
God-like fruition, quitted all, to save | |
A world from utter loss, and hast been found | |
By merit more than birthright Son of God, | |
Found worthiest to be so by being good, | |
Far more than great or high; because in thee | |
Love hath abounded more than glory abounds; | |
Therefore thy humiliation shall exalt | |
With thee thy manhood also to this throne: | |
Here shalt thou sit incarnate, here shalt reign | |
Both God and Man, Son both of God and Man, | |
Anointed universal King; all power | |
I give thee; reign for ever, and assume | |
Thy merits; under thee, as head supreme, | |
Thrones, Princedoms, Powers, Dominions, I reduce: | |
All knees to thee shall bow, of them that bide | |
In Heaven, or Earth, or under Earth in Hell. | |
When thou, attended gloriously from Heaven, | |
Shalt in the sky appear, and from thee send | |
The summoning Arch-Angels to proclaim | |
Thy dread tribunal; forthwith from all winds, | |
The living, and forthwith the cited dead | |
Of all past ages, to the general doom | |
Shall hasten; such a peal shall rouse their sleep. | |
Then, all thy saints assembled, thou shalt judge | |
Bad Men and Angels; they, arraigned, shall sink | |
Beneath thy sentence; Hell, her numbers full, | |
Thenceforth shall be for ever shut. Mean while | |
The world shall burn, and from her ashes spring | |
New Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell, | |
And, after all their tribulations long, | |
See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, | |
With joy and peace triumphing, and fair truth. | |
Then thou thy regal scepter shalt lay by, | |
For regal scepter then no more shall need, | |
God shall be all in all. But, all ye Gods, | |
Adore him, who to compass all this dies; | |
Adore the Son, and honour him as me. | |
No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all | |
The multitude of Angels, with a shout | |
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet | |
As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung | |
With jubilee, and loud Hosannas filled | |
The eternal regions: Lowly reverent | |
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground | |
With solemn adoration down they cast | |
Their crowns inwove with amarant and gold; | |
Immortal amarant, a flower which once | |
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, | |
Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence | |
To Heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, | |
And flowers aloft shading the fount of life, | |
And where the river of bliss through midst of Heaven | |
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream; | |
With these that never fade the Spirits elect | |
Bind their resplendent locks inwreathed with beams; | |
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright | |
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone, | |
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled. | |
Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took, | |
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side | |
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet | |
Of charming symphony they introduce | |
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high; | |
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join | |
Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven. | |
Thee, Father, first they sung Omnipotent, | |
Immutable, Immortal, Infinite, | |
Eternal King; the Author of all being, | |
Fonntain of light, thyself invisible | |
Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sit'st | |
Throned inaccessible, but when thou shadest | |
The full blaze of thy beams, and, through a cloud | |
Drawn round about thee like a radiant shrine, | |
Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear, | |
Yet dazzle Heaven, that brightest Seraphim | |
Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes. | |
Thee next they sang of all creation first, | |
Begotten Son, Divine Similitude, | |
In whose conspicuous countenance, without cloud | |
Made visible, the Almighty Father shines, | |
Whom else no creature can behold; on thee | |
Impressed the effulgence of his glory abides, | |
Transfused on thee his ample Spirit rests. | |
He Heaven of Heavens and all the Powers therein | |
By thee created; and by thee threw down | |
The aspiring Dominations: Thou that day | |
Thy Father's dreadful thunder didst not spare, | |
Nor stop thy flaming chariot-wheels, that shook | |
Heaven's everlasting frame, while o'er the necks | |
Thou drovest of warring Angels disarrayed. | |
Back from pursuit thy Powers with loud acclaim | |
Thee only extolled, Son of thy Father's might, | |
To execute fierce vengeance on his foes, | |
Not so on Man: Him through their malice fallen, | |
Father of mercy and grace, thou didst not doom | |
So strictly, but much more to pity incline: | |
No sooner did thy dear and only Son | |
Perceive thee purposed not to doom frail Man | |
So strictly, but much more to pity inclined, | |
He to appease thy wrath, and end the strife | |
Of mercy and justice in thy face discerned, | |
Regardless of the bliss wherein he sat | |
Second to thee, offered himself to die | |
For Man's offence. O unexampled love, | |
Love no where to be found less than Divine! | |
Hail, Son of God, Saviour of Men! Thy name | |
Shall be the copious matter of my song | |
Henceforth, and never shall my heart thy praise | |
Forget, nor from thy Father's praise disjoin. | |
Thus they in Heaven, above the starry sphere, | |
Their happy hours in joy and hymning spent. | |
Mean while upon the firm opacous globe | |
Of this round world, whose first convex divides | |
The luminous inferiour orbs, enclosed | |
From Chaos, and the inroad of Darkness old, | |
Satan alighted walks: A globe far off | |
It seemed, now seems a boundless continent | |
Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of Night | |
Starless exposed, and ever-threatening storms | |
Of Chaos blustering round, inclement sky; | |
Save on that side which from the wall of Heaven, | |
Though distant far, some small reflection gains | |
Of glimmering air less vexed with tempest loud: | |
Here walked the Fiend at large in spacious field. | |
As when a vultur on Imaus bred, | |
Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds, | |
Dislodging from a region scarce of prey | |
To gorge the flesh of lambs or yeanling kids, | |
On hills where flocks are fed, flies toward the springs | |
Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams; | |
But in his way lights on the barren plains | |
Of Sericana, where Chineses drive | |
With sails and wind their cany waggons light: | |
So, on this windy sea of land, the Fiend | |
Walked up and down alone, bent on his prey; | |
Alone, for other creature in this place, | |
Living or lifeless, to be found was none; | |
None yet, but store hereafter from the earth | |
Up hither like aereal vapours flew | |
Of all things transitory and vain, when sin | |
With vanity had filled the works of men: | |
Both all things vain, and all who in vain things | |
Built their fond hopes of glory or lasting fame, | |
Or happiness in this or the other life; | |
All who have their reward on earth, the fruits | |
Of painful superstition and blind zeal, | |
Nought seeking but the praise of men, here find | |
Fit retribution, empty as their deeds; | |
All the unaccomplished works of Nature's hand, | |
Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixed, | |
Dissolved on earth, fleet hither, and in vain, | |
Till final dissolution, wander here; | |
Not in the neighbouring moon as some have dreamed; | |
Those argent fields more likely habitants, | |
Translated Saints, or middle Spirits hold | |
Betwixt the angelical and human kind. | |
Hither of ill-joined sons and daughters born | |
First from the ancient world those giants came | |
With many a vain exploit, though then renowned: | |
The builders next of Babel on the plain | |
Of Sennaar, and still with vain design, | |
New Babels, had they wherewithal, would build: | |
Others came single; he, who, to be deemed | |
A God, leaped fondly into Aetna flames, | |
Empedocles; and he, who, to enjoy | |
Plato's Elysium, leaped into the sea, | |
Cleombrotus; and many more too long, | |
Embryos, and idiots, eremites, and friars | |
White, black, and gray, with all their trumpery. | |
Here pilgrims roam, that strayed so far to seek | |
In Golgotha him dead, who lives in Heaven; | |
And they, who to be sure of Paradise, | |
Dying, put on the weeds of Dominick, | |
Or in Franciscan think to pass disguised; | |
They pass the planets seven, and pass the fixed, | |
And that crystalling sphere whose balance weighs | |
The trepidation talked, and that first moved; | |
And now Saint Peter at Heaven's wicket seems | |
To wait them with his keys, and now at foot | |
Of Heaven's ascent they lift their feet, when lo | |
A violent cross wind from either coast | |
Blows them transverse, ten thousand leagues awry | |
Into the devious air: Then might ye see | |
Cowls, hoods, and habits, with their wearers, tost | |
And fluttered into rags; then reliques, beads, | |
Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, | |
The sport of winds: All these, upwhirled aloft, | |
Fly o'er the backside of the world far off | |
Into a Limbo large and broad, since called | |
The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown | |
Long after; now unpeopled, and untrod. | |
All this dark globe the Fiend found as he passed, | |
And long he wandered, till at last a gleam | |
Of dawning light turned thither-ward in haste | |
His travelled steps: far distant he descries | |
Ascending by degrees magnificent | |
Up to the wall of Heaven a structure high; | |
At top whereof, but far more rich, appeared | |
The work as of a kingly palace-gate, | |
With frontispiece of diamond and gold | |
Embellished; thick with sparkling orient gems | |
The portal shone, inimitable on earth | |
By model, or by shading pencil, drawn. | |
These stairs were such as whereon Jacob saw | |
Angels ascending and descending, bands | |
Of guardians bright, when he from Esau fled | |
To Padan-Aram, in the field of Luz | |
Dreaming by night under the open sky | |
And waking cried, This is the gate of Heaven. | |
Each stair mysteriously was meant, nor stood | |
There always, but drawn up to Heaven sometimes | |
Viewless; and underneath a bright sea flowed | |
Of jasper, or of liquid pearl, whereon | |
Who after came from earth, failing arrived | |
Wafted by Angels, or flew o'er the lake | |
Rapt in a chariot drawn by fiery steeds. | |
The stairs were then let down, whether to dare | |
The Fiend by easy ascent, or aggravate | |
His sad exclusion from the doors of bliss: | |
Direct against which opened from beneath, | |
Just o'er the blissful seat of Paradise, | |
A passage down to the Earth, a passage wide, | |
Wider by far than that of after-times | |
Over mount Sion, and, though that were large, | |
Over the Promised Land to God so dear; | |
By which, to visit oft those happy tribes, | |
On high behests his angels to and fro | |
Passed frequent, and his eye with choice regard | |
From Paneas, the fount of Jordan's flood, | |
To Beersaba, where the Holy Land | |
Borders on Egypt and the Arabian shore; | |
So wide the opening seemed, where bounds were set | |
To darkness, such as bound the ocean wave. | |
Satan from hence, now on the lower stair, | |
That scaled by steps of gold to Heaven-gate, | |
Looks down with wonder at the sudden view | |
Of all this world at once. As when a scout, | |
Through dark?;nd desart ways with?oeril gone | |
All?might,?;t?kast by break of cheerful dawn | |
Obtains the brow of some high-climbing hill, | |
Which to his eye discovers unaware | |
The goodly prospect of some foreign land | |
First seen, or some renowned metropolis | |
With glistering spires and pinnacles adorned, | |
Which now the rising sun gilds with his beams: | |
Such wonder seised, though after Heaven seen, | |
The Spirit malign, but much more envy seised, | |
At sight of all this world beheld so fair. | |
Round he surveys (and well might, where he stood | |
So high above the circling canopy | |
Of night's extended shade,) from eastern point | |
Of Libra to the fleecy star that bears | |
Andromeda far off Atlantick seas | |
Beyond the horizon; then from pole to pole | |
He views in breadth, and without longer pause | |
Down right into the world's first region throws | |
His flight precipitant, and winds with ease | |
Through the pure marble air his oblique way | |
Amongst innumerable stars, that shone | |
Stars distant, but nigh hand seemed other worlds; | |
Or other worlds they seemed, or happy isles, | |
Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old, | |
Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales, | |
Thrice happy isles; but who dwelt happy there | |
He staid not to inquire: Above them all | |
The golden sun, in splendour likest Heaven, | |
Allured his eye; thither his course he bends | |
Through the calm firmament, (but up or down, | |
By center, or eccentrick, hard to tell, | |
Or longitude,) where the great luminary | |
Aloof the vulgar constellations thick, | |
That from his lordly eye keep distance due, | |
Dispenses light from far; they, as they move | |
Their starry dance in numbers that compute | |
Days, months, and years, towards his all-cheering lamp | |
Turn swift their various motions, or are turned | |
By his magnetick beam, that gently warms | |
The universe, and to each inward part | |
With gentle penetration, though unseen, | |
Shoots invisible virtue even to the deep; | |
So wonderously was set his station bright. | |
There lands the Fiend, a spot like which perhaps | |
Astronomer in the sun's lucent orb | |
Through his glazed optick tube yet never saw. | |
The place he found beyond expression bright, | |
Compared with aught on earth, metal or stone; | |
Not all parts like, but all alike informed | |
With radiant light, as glowing iron with fire; | |
If metal, part seemed gold, part silver clear; | |
If stone, carbuncle most or chrysolite, | |
Ruby or topaz, to the twelve that shone | |
In Aaron's breast-plate, and a stone besides | |
Imagined rather oft than elsewhere seen, | |
That stone, or like to that which here below | |
Philosophers in vain so long have sought, | |
In vain, though by their powerful art they bind | |
Volatile Hermes, and call up unbound | |
In various shapes old Proteus from the sea, | |
Drained through a limbeck to his native form. | |
What wonder then if fields and regions here | |
Breathe forth Elixir pure, and rivers run | |
Potable gold, when with one virtuous touch | |
The arch-chemick sun, so far from us remote, | |
Produces, with terrestrial humour mixed, | |
Here in the dark so many precious things | |
Of colour glorious, and effect so rare? | |
Here matter new to gaze the Devil met | |
Undazzled; far and wide his eye commands; | |
For sight no obstacle found here, nor shade, | |
But all sun-shine, as when his beams at noon | |
Culminate from the equator, as they now | |
Shot upward still direct, whence no way round | |
Shadow from body opaque can fall; and the air, | |
No where so clear, sharpened his visual ray | |
To objects distant far, whereby he soon | |
Saw within ken a glorious Angel stand, | |
The same whom John saw also in the sun: | |
His back was turned, but not his brightness hid; | |
Of beaming sunny rays a golden tiar | |
Circled his head, nor less his locks behind | |
Illustrious on his shoulders fledge with wings | |
Lay waving round; on some great charge employed | |
He seemed, or fixed in cogitation deep. | |
Glad was the Spirit impure, as now in hope | |
To find who might direct his wandering flight | |
To Paradise, the happy seat of Man, | |
His journey's end and our beginning woe. | |
But first he casts to change his proper shape, | |
Which else might work him danger or delay: | |
And now a stripling Cherub he appears, | |
Not of the prime, yet such as in his face | |
Youth smiled celestial, and to every limb | |
Suitable grace diffused, so well he feigned: | |
Under a coronet his flowing hair | |
In curls on either cheek played; wings he wore | |
Of many a coloured plume, sprinkled with gold; | |
His habit fit for speed succinct, and held | |
Before his decent steps a silver wand. | |
He drew not nigh unheard; the Angel bright, | |
Ere he drew nigh, his radiant visage turned, | |
Admonished by his ear, and straight was known | |
The Arch-Angel Uriel, one of the seven | |
Who in God's presence, nearest to his throne, | |
Stand ready at command, and are his eyes | |
That run through all the Heavens, or down to the Earth | |
Bear his swift errands over moist and dry, | |
O'er sea and land: him Satan thus accosts. | |
Uriel, for thou of those seven Spirits that stand | |
In sight of God's high throne, gloriously bright, | |
The first art wont his great authentick will | |
Interpreter through highest Heaven to bring, | |
Where all his sons thy embassy attend; | |
And here art likeliest by supreme decree | |
Like honour to obtain, and as his eye | |
To visit oft this new creation round; | |
Unspeakable desire to see, and know | |
All these his wonderous works, but chiefly Man, | |
His chief delight and favour, him for whom | |
All these his works so wonderous he ordained, | |
Hath brought me from the quires of Cherubim | |
Alone thus wandering. Brightest Seraph, tell | |
In which of all these shining orbs hath Man | |
His fixed seat, or fixed seat hath none, | |
But all these shining orbs his choice to dwell; | |
That I may find him, and with secret gaze | |
Or open admiration him behold, | |
On whom the great Creator hath bestowed | |
Worlds, and on whom hath all these graces poured; | |
That both in him and all things, as is meet, | |
The universal Maker we may praise; | |
Who justly hath driven out his rebel foes | |
To deepest Hell, and, to repair that loss, | |
Created this new happy race of Men | |
To serve him better: Wise are all his ways. | |
So spake the false dissembler unperceived; | |
For neither Man nor Angel can discern | |
Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks | |
Invisible, except to God alone, | |
By his permissive will, through Heaven and Earth: | |
And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps | |
At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity | |
Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill | |
Where no ill seems: Which now for once beguiled | |
Uriel, though regent of the sun, and held | |
The sharpest-sighted Spirit of all in Heaven; | |
Who to the fraudulent impostor foul, | |
In his uprightness, answer thus returned. | |
Fair Angel, thy desire, which tends to know | |
The works of God, thereby to glorify | |
The great Work-master, leads to no excess | |
That reaches blame, but rather merits praise | |
The more it seems excess, that led thee hither | |
From thy empyreal mansion thus alone, | |
To witness with thine eyes what some perhaps, | |
Contented with report, hear only in Heaven: | |
For wonderful indeed are all his works, | |
Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all | |
Had in remembrance always with delight; | |
But what created mind can comprehend | |
Their number, or the wisdom infinite | |
That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep? | |
I saw when at his word the formless mass, | |
This world's material mould, came to a heap: | |
Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar | |
Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined; | |
Till at his second bidding Darkness fled, | |
Light shone, and order from disorder sprung: | |
Swift to their several quarters hasted then | |
The cumbrous elements, earth, flood, air, fire; | |
And this ethereal quintessence of Heaven | |
Flew upward, spirited with various forms, | |
That rolled orbicular, and turned to stars | |
Numberless, as thou seest, and how they move; | |
Each had his place appointed, each his course; | |
The rest in circuit walls this universe. | |
Look downward on that globe, whose hither side | |
With light from hence, though but reflected, shines; | |
That place is Earth, the seat of Man; that light | |
His day, which else, as the other hemisphere, | |
Night would invade; but there the neighbouring moon | |
So call that opposite fair star) her aid | |
Timely interposes, and her monthly round | |
Still ending, still renewing, through mid Heaven, | |
With borrowed light her countenance triform | |
Hence fills and empties to enlighten the Earth, | |
And in her pale dominion checks the night. | |
That spot, to which I point, is Paradise, | |
Adam's abode; those lofty shades, his bower. | |
Thy way thou canst not miss, me mine requires. | |
Thus said, he turned; and Satan, bowing low, | |
As to superiour Spirits is wont in Heaven, | |
Where honour due and reverence none neglects, | |
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] |