Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

      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