Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

      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 eternal splendours flung

      For his revolt—yet faithful how they stood,

      Their glory withered; as, when heaven’s fire

      Hath scathed the forest