Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

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 raze

      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 Spirits 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