Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

nowhere 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.

      Meanwhile upon the firm opacous globe

      Of this round world, whose first convex divides

      The luminous inferior 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 vulture 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 wagons 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 aerial 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