Paradise Lost. Джон Мильтон

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       (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 oaks or mountain pines,

       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

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