Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Джон Мильтон

      With singed top their stately growth, though bare,

      Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared

      To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend

      From wing to wing, and half enclose him round

      With all his peers: attention held them mute.

      Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn,

      Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth: at last

      Words interwove with sighs found out their way:—

      “O myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers

      Matchless, but with th’ Almighty!—and that strife

      Was not inglorious, though th’ event was dire,

      As this place testifies, and this dire change,

      Hateful to utter. But what power of mind,

      Forseeing or presaging, from the depth

      Of knowledge past or present, could have feared

      How such united force of gods, how such

      As stood like these, could ever know repulse?

      For who can yet believe, though after loss,

      That all these puissant legions, whose exile

      Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascend,

      Self-raised, and repossess their native seat?

      For me, be witness all the host of Heaven,

      If counsels different, or danger shunned

      By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns

      Monarch in Heaven till then as one secure

      Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute,

      Consent or custom, and his regal state

      Put forth at full, but still his strength concealed—

      Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall.

      Henceforth his might we know, and know our own,

      So as not either to provoke, or dread

      New war provoked: our better part remains

      To work in close design, by fraud or guile,

      What force effected not; that he no less

      At length from us may find, who overcomes

      By force hath overcome but half his foe.

      Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife

      There went a fame in Heaven that he ere long

      Intended to create, and therein plant

      A generation whom his choice regard

      Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven.

      Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps

      Our first eruption—thither, or elsewhere;

      For this infernal pit shall never hold

      Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor th’ Abyss

      Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts

      Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired;

      For who can think submission? War, then, war

      Open or understood, must be resolved.”

      He spake; and, to confirm his words, outflew

      Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs

      Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze

      Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged

      Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms

      Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war,

      Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

      There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top

      Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire

      Shone with a glossy scurf—undoubted sign

      That in his womb was hid metallic ore,

      The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed,

      A numerous brigade hastened: as when bands

      Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed,

      Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field,

      Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on—

      Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell

      From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts

      Were always downward bent, admiring more

      The riches of heaven’s pavement, trodden gold,

      Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed

      In vision beatific. By him first

      Men also, and by his suggestion taught,

      Ransacked the centre, and with impious hands

      Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth

      For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew

      Opened into the hill a spacious wound,

      And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire

      That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best

      Deserve the precious bane. And here let those

      Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell

      Of Babel, and the works of Memphian kings,

      Learn how their greatest monuments of fame

      And strength, and art, are easily outdone

      By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour

      What in an age they, with incessant toil

      And hands innumerable, scarce perform.

      Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared,

      That underneath had veins of liquid fire

      Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude

      With wondrous art founded the massy ore,

      Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion-dross.

      A third as soon had formed within the ground

      A various mould, and from the boiling cells

      By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook;

      As in an organ, from one blast of wind,

      To many a row of pipes the sound-board breathes.

      Anon out of the earth a fabric huge

      Rose like an exhalation, with the sound

      Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet—

      Built like a temple, where pilasters round

      Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid

      With golden architrave; nor did there want

      Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven;

      The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon

      Nor great Alcairo such magnificence

      Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine

      Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat

      Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove

      In wealth and luxury. Th’ ascending pile

      Stood fixed her stately height,