Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

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