Paradise Lost. Джон Мильтон

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Intent, with jocund music charm his ear;

       At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.

       Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms

       Reduced their shapes immense, and were at large,

       Though without number still, amidst the hall

       Of that infernal court. But far within,

       And in their own dimensions like themselves,

       The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim

       In close recess and secret conclave sat,

       A thousand demi-gods on golden seats,

       Frequent and full. After short silence then,

       And summons read, the great consult began.

Book II

       Table of Contents

      High on a throne of royal state, which far

       Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,

       Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand

       Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,

       Satan exalted sat, by merit raised

       To that bad eminence; and, from despair

       Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires

       Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue

       Vain war with Heaven; and, by success untaught,

       His proud imaginations thus displayed:—

       "Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven!—

       For, since no deep within her gulf can hold

       Immortal vigour, though oppressed and fallen,

       I give not Heaven for lost: from this descent

       Celestial Virtues rising will appear

       More glorious and more dread than from no fall,

       And trust themselves to fear no second fate!—

       Me though just right, and the fixed laws of Heaven,

       Did first create your leader—next, free choice

       With what besides in council or in fight

       Hath been achieved of merit—yet this loss,

       Thus far at least recovered, hath much more

       Established in a safe, unenvied throne,

       Yielded with full consent. The happier state

       In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw

       Envy from each inferior; but who here

       Will envy whom the highest place exposes

       Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim

       Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share

       Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no good

       For which to strive, no strife can grow up there

       From faction: for none sure will claim in Hell

       Precedence; none whose portion is so small

       Of present pain that with ambitious mind

       Will covet more! With this advantage, then,

       To union, and firm faith, and firm accord,

       More than can be in Heaven, we now return

       To claim our just inheritance of old,

       Surer to prosper than prosperity

       Could have assured us; and by what best way,

       Whether of open war or covert guile,

       We now debate. Who can advise may speak."

       He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king,

       Stood up—the strongest and the fiercest Spirit

       That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair.

       His trust was with th' Eternal to be deemed

       Equal in strength, and rather than be less

       Cared not to be at all; with that care lost

       Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse,

       He recked not, and these words thereafter spake:—

       "My sentence is for open war. Of wiles,

       More unexpert, I boast not: them let those

       Contrive who need, or when they need; not now.

       For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest—

       Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait

       The signal to ascend—sit lingering here,

       Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place

       Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame,

       The prison of his tyranny who reigns

       By our delay? No! let us rather choose,

       Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at once

       O'er Heaven's high towers to force resistless way,

       Turning our tortures into horrid arms

       Against the Torturer; when, to meet the noise

       Of his almighty engine, he shall hear

       Infernal thunder, and, for lightning, see

       Black fire and horror shot with equal rage

       Among his Angels, and his throne itself

       Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,

       His own invented torments. But perhaps

       The way seems difficult, and steep to scale

       With upright wing against a higher foe!

       Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench

       Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,

       That in our proper motion we ascend

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