Paradise Lost. Джон Мильтон

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       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

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