Paradise Lost. Джон Мильтон

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       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 substance, 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,

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