Harvard Classics
Volume IV

  AMONG English men of letters there is none whose life and work stand in more intimate relation with the history of his times than those of Milton. Not only was he for a long period immersed in political controversy and public business, but there are few of his important works which do not become more significant in the light of contemporary events, and in turn help the understanding of these events themselves. It is evidence of this intimate relation, that the periods into which his life naturally falls coincide with the periods into which English history in the seventeenth century divides itself. The first of these extends from Milton’s birth to his return from Italy, and corresponds with that period in the reigns of James I and Charles I during which the religious and political differences which culminated in the Civil War were working up to a climax. The second ends with his retirement into private life, in 1660, and coincides with the period of the Civil War and the Commonwealth. The third closes with his death in 1674, and falls within the period of the Restoration.

  John Milton was born in Bread Street, London, on the ninth of December, 1608. He was the son of John Milton, a prosperous scrivener (i. e., attorney and law-stationer), a man of good family and considerable culture, especially devoted to music. In the education of the future poet the elder Milton was exceptionally generous. From childhood he destined him for the Church, and the preparation begun at home was continued at St. Paul ’s School and at Cambridge. We have abundant evidence that the boy was from the first a quick and diligent student, and the late study to which he was addicted from childhood was the beginning of that injury to his eyes which ended in blindness. He entered Christ’s College, Cambridge, in 1625, took the degree of B.A. in 1629, and that of M.A. in 1632, when he left the University after seven years’ residence. But the development of affairs in the English Church had overturned his plans, and the interference of Laud with freedom of thought and preaching among the clergy led Milton “to prefer a blameless silence before the sacred office of speaking bought with servitude and forswearing.” So he retired to his father’s house at Horton in Buckinghamshire, and devoted the next six years to quiet study and the composition of a few poems.

  In 1638 Milton set out on a journey to Italy. After some days in Paris, he passed on by way of Nice to Genoa, Leghorn, Pisa, and Florence, in which last city he spent about two months in the society of wits and men of letters. After two months more spent in Rome, he visited Naples, and had intended to cross to Sicily and go thence to Greece, when rumors of civil war in England led him to turn his face homeward, “inasmuch,” he says, “as I thought it base to be traveling at my ease for intellectual culture while my countrymen at home were fighting for liberty.” His writings produced abroad were all in Italian or Latin, and seem to have brought him considerable distinction among the Italian men of letters whom he met.

  Yet Milton did not plunge rashly into the political conflict. After he returned from the Continent, the household at Horton was broken up, and he went to London to resume his studies, and decide on the form and subject of his great poem. Part of his time was occupied in teaching his two nephews, and afterward he took under his care a small number of youths, sons of his friends. In 1643 he married Mary Powell, the daughter of an Oxfordshire Royalist. In about a month she left him and remained away for two years, at the end of which time she sought and obtained a reconciliation. She died in 1653 or 1654, leaving him three little daughters.

  The main occupation of his first years in London was controversy. Liberty was Milton ’s deepest passion, and in liberty we sum up the theme of his prose writings. There are “three species of liberty,” he says, “which are essential to the happiness of social life—religious, domestic, and civil,” and for all three he fought. His most important prose works may, indeed, be roughly classed under these heads: under religious, his pamphlets against Episcopacy; under domestic, his works on Education, Divorce, and the Freedom of the Press; under civil, his controversial writings on the overthrow of the monarchy. In all of these he strove for freedom and toleration; and when England became a Republic, he became officially associated with the new government as Secretary of Foreign Tongues, in which capacity he not only conducted its foreign correspondence, but also acted as its literary adviser and champion in the controversies by pamphlet that arose in connection with the execution of the King and the theory of the Commonwealth. It was in the midst of these activities that a great calamity overtook him. The defence of the late King had been undertaken by the famous Dutch Latinist Salmasius in a “Defensio Regis,” and to Milton fell the task of replying to it. His eyesight, weakened even in childhood by overstudy, was now failing fast, and he was warned by physicians that it would go altogether if he persisted in this work. But to Milton the fight he had entered on was no mere matter of professional employment as it was to his opponent, and he deliberately sacrificed what remained to him of light in the service of the cause to which he was devoted. The reply was a most effective one, but it left Milton hopelessly blind. With the aid of an assistant, however, he retained his office through the Protectorate of Cromwell, until the eve of the Restoration.

  Oliver Cromwell died in 1658, his son Richard succeeded him for a short time, and in 1660 Charles II was restored to the throne. To the last Milton fought with tremendous earnestness against this catastrophe. For, to him, it was indeed a catastrophe. The return of the Stuarts meant to him not only great personal danger, but, what was far more important, it meant the overthrow of all that he had for twenty years spent himself to uphold. It meant the setting up in government, in religion, and in society, of ideals and institutions that he could not but regard as the extreme of reaction and national degradation. Almost by a miracle he escaped personal violence, but he was of necessity forced into obscure retirement; and there, reduced in fortune, blind, and broken-hearted, he devoted himself to the production of “Paradise Lost” and “Paradise Regained.” The great schemes which in his early manhood he had planned and dreamed over had for years been laid aside; but now at last he had a mournful leisure, and with magnificent fortitude he availed himself of the opportunity.

  “Paradise Lost” had been begun even before the King’s return; in 1665 it was finished, and in 1667 the first edition appeared. “Paradise Regained” and “Samson Agonistes” were published in 1671.

  In 1657 Milton ’s second wife, Catherine Woodcock, had died. For about seven years after, he lived alone with his three daughters, whom he trained to read to him not merely in English, but in Latin, Greek, Italian, French, Spanish, and Hebrew, though they did not understand a word of what they read. What little we know of their relations to their father is not pleasant. They seem to have been rebellious and undutiful, though doubtless there was much provocation. In 1663 Milton took a third wife, Elizabeth Minshull, who did much to give ease and comfort to his last years, and who long survived him.

  The retirement in which he lived during this third period, when public affairs seemed to him to have gone all wrong, was not absolutely solitary. The harshness that appears in his controversial writings, and the somewhat unsympathetic austerity that seems to be indicated by his relations with his first wife and his children, are to be counterbalanced in our minds by the impression of companionableness that we derive from the picture of the old blind poet, sought out by many who not merely admired his greatness, but found pleasure in his society, and counted it a privilege to talk with him and read to him. Stern and sad he could hardly fail to be, but his old age was peaceful and not bitter. He died on November 8, 1674, and was buried in the Church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, London.

  In spite of Milton ’s association with the Puritan party in the political struggles of his time, the common habit of referring to him as “the Puritan Poet” is seriously misleading. The Puritans of the generation of Milton’s father were indeed often men of culture and love of the arts, but the Puritans of the Civil War, the Puritans whom we think of to-day in our ordinary use of the term, were, in general, men who had not only no interest in art, but who regarded beauty itself as a temptation of the evil one. Even a slight study of Milton ’s works will convince the reader that to this class Milton could never have belonged. Side by side with his love of liberty and his enthusiasm for moral purity—qualities in which even then the Puritans had no monopoly—Milton was passionately devoted to beauty; and the reason why his work survives to-day is not because part of it expresses the Puritan theology, but because of its artistic qualities—above all because it is at once more faultless and more nobly sustained in music than that of any other English poet.

  THIS is the month, and this the happy morn,

  Wherein the Son of Heaven’s eternal King,

  Of wedded maid and Virgin Mother born,

  Our great redemption from above did bring;

  For so the holy sages once did sing,

  That he our deadly forfeit should release,

  And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

  That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,

  And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,

  Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table

  To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

  He laid aside, and, here with us to be,

  Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day,

  And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

  Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein

  Afford a present to the Infant God—

  Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,

  To welcome him to this his new abode,

  Now while the heaven, by the Sun’s team untrod,

  Hath took no print of the approaching light,

  And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright—

  See how from far upon the Eastern road

  The star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet!

  Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode,

  And lay it lowly at his blessèd feet;

  Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,

  And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire,

  From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

  It was the winter wild,

  While the heaven-born child

  All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;

  Nature, in awe to him,

  Had doffed her gaudy trim,

  With her great Master so to sympathize:

  It was no season then for her

  To wanton with the Sun, her lusty Paramour.

  Only with speeches fair

  She woos the gentle air

  To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,

  And on her naked shame,

  Pollute with sinful blame,

  The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;

  Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes

  Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

  But he, her fears to cease,

  Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:

  She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding

  Down through the turning sphere,

  His ready Harbinger,

  With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;

  And, waving wide her myrtle wand,

  She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

  No war, or battail’s sound,

  Was heard the world around;

  The idle spear and shield were high uphung;

  The hookèd chariot stood,

  Unstained with hostile blood;

  The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;

  And Kings sat still with awful eye,

  As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

  But peaceful was the night

  Wherein the Prince of Light

  His reign of peace upon the earth began.

  The winds, with wonder whist,

  Smoothly the waters kissed,

  Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,

  Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

  While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

  The stars, with deep amaze,

  Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,

  Bending one way their precious influence,

  And will not take their flight,

  For all the morning light,

  Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;

  But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

  Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

  And, though the shady gloom

  Had given day her room,

  The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

  And hid his head of shame,

  As his inferior flame

  The new-enlightened world no more should need:

  He saw a greater Sun appear

  Than his bright Throne or burning axletree could bear.

  The Shepherds on the lawn,

  Or ere the point of dawn,

  Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;

  Full little thought they than

  That the mighty Pan

  Was kindly come to live with them below:

  Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,

  Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

  When such music sweet

  Their hearts and ears did greet

  As never was by mortal finger strook,

  Divinely-warbled voice

  Answering the stringèd noise,

  As all their souls in blissful rapture took:

  The air, such pleasure loth to lose,

  With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

  Nature, that heard such sound

  Beneath the hollow round

  Of Cynthia’s seat the airy Region thrilling,

  Now was almost won

  To think her part was done,

  And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:

  She knew such harmony alone

  Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

  At last surrounds their sight

  A globe of circular light,

  That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed;

  The helmèd Cherubim

  And sworded Seraphim

  Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,

  Harping in loud and solemn quire,

  With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s newborn Heir.

  Such music (as ’tis said)

  Before was never made,

  But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,

  While the Creator great

  His constellations set,

  And the well-balanced World on hinges hung,

  And cast the dark foundations deep,

  And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

  Ring out, ye crystal spheres!

  Once bless our human ears,

  If ye have power to touch our senses so;

  And let your silver chime

  Move in melodious time;

  And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow;

  And with your ninefold harmony

  Make up full consort of the angelic symphony.

  For, if such holy song

  Enwrap our fancy long,

  Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;

  And speckled Vanity

  Will sicken soon and die,

  And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;

  And Hell itself will pass away,

  And leave her dolorous mansions of the peering day.

  Yes, Truth and Justice then

  Will down return to men,

  The enamelled arras of the rainbow wearing;

  And Mercy set between,

  Throned in celestial sheen,

  With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;

  And Heaven, as at some festival,

  Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

  But wisest Fate says No,

  This must not yet be so;

  The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy

  That on the bitter cross

  Must redeem our loss,

  So both himself and us to glorify:

  Yet first, to those chained in sleep,

  The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

  With such a horrid clang

  As on Mount Sinai rang,

  While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:

  The aged Earth, aghast

  With terror of that blast,

  Shall from the surface to the centre shake,

  When, at the world’s last sessiön,

  The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

  And then at last our bliss

  Full and perfect is,

  But now begins; for from this happy day

  The Old Dragon under ground,

  In straiter limits bound,

  Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,

  And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,

  Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

  The Oracles are dumb;

  No voice or hideous hum

  Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving.

  Apollo from his shrine

  Can no more divine,

  Will hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.

  No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,

  Inspires the pale-eyed Priest from the prophetic cell.

  The lonely mountains o’er,

  And the resounding shore,

  A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;

  Edgèd with poplar pale,

  From haunted spring, and dale

  The parting Genius is with sighing sent;

  With flower-inwoven tresses torn

  The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

  In consecrated earth,

  And on the holy hearth,

  The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;

  In urns, and altars round,

  A drear and dying sound

  Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;

  And the chill marble seems to sweat,

  While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

  Peor and Baälim

  Forsake their temples dim,

  With that twice-battered god of Palestine;

  And moonèd Ashtaroth,

  Heaven’s Queen and Mother both,

  Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine:

  The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;

  In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

  And sullen Moloch, fled,

  Hath left in shadows dread

  His burning idol all of blackest hue;

  In vain with cymbals’ ring

  They call the grisly king,

  In dismal dance about the furnace blue;

  The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

  Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

  Nor is Osiris seen

  In Memphian grove or green,

  Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;

  Nor can he be at rest

  Within his sacred chest;

  Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;

  In vain, with timbreled anthems dark,

  The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.

  He feels from Juda’s land

  The dreaded Infant’s hand;

  The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

  Nor all the gods beside

  Longer dare abide,

  Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:

  Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

  Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.

  So, when the Sun in bed,

  Curtained with cloudy red,

  Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

  The flocking shadows pale

  Troop to the infernal jail,

  Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,

  And the yellow-skirted Fays

  Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

  But see! the Virgin blest

  Hath laid her Babe to rest,

  Time is our tedious song should here have ending:

  Heaven’s youngest-teemèd star

  Hath fixed her polished car,

  Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;

  And all about the courtly stable

  Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.

  WHEN the blest seed of Terah’s faithful Son

  After long toil their liberty had won,

  And passed from Pharian fields to Canaanland,

  Led by the strength of the Almighty’s hand,

  Jehovah’s wonders were in Israel shown,

  His praise and glory was in Israel known.

  That saw the troubled sea, and shivering fled,

  And sought to hide his froth-becurlèd head

  Low in the earth; Jordan’s clear streams recoil,

  As a faint host that hath received the foil.

  The high huge-bellied mountains skip like rams

  Amongst their ewes, the little hills like lambs.

  Why fled the ocean— and why skipped the mountains—

  Why turnèd Jordan toward his crystal fountains—

  Shake, Earth, and at the presence be aghast

  Of Him that ever was and aye shall last,

  That glassy floods from rugged rocks can crush,

  And make soft rills from fiery flint-stones gush.

  LET us with a gladsome mind

  Praise the Lord for he is kind;

  For his mercies aye endure,

  Ever faithful, ever sure.

  Let us blaze his Name abroad,

  For of gods he is the God;

  For his, &c.

  O let us his praises tell,

  That doth the wrathful tyrants quell;

  For his, &c.

  That with his miracles doth make

  Amazèd Heaven and Earth to shake;

  For his, &c.

  That by his wisdom did create

  The painted heavens so full of state;

  For his, &c.

  That did the solid Earth ordain

  To rise above the watery plain;

  For his, &c.

  That by his all-commanding might,

  Did fill the new-made world with light;

  For his, &c.

  And caused the golden-tressèd Sun

  All the day long his course to run;

  For his, &c.

  The hornèd Moon to shine by night

  Amongst her spangled sisters bright;

  For his, &c.

  He, with his thunder-clasping hand,

  Smote the first-born of Egypt land;

  For his, &c.

  And, in despite of Pharao fell,

  He brought from thence his Israel;

  For his, &c.

  The ruddy waves he cleft in twain

  Of the Erythraean main;

  For his, &c.

  The floods stood still, like walls of glass,

  While the Hebrew bands did pass;

  For his, &c.

  But full soon they did devour

  The tawny King with all his power;

  For his, &c.

  His chosen people he did bless

  In the wasteful Wilderness;

  For his, &c.

  In bloody battail he brought down

  Kings of prowess and renown;

  For his, &c.

  He foiled bold Seon and his host,

  That ruled the Amorrean coast;

  For his, &c.

  And large-limbed Og he did subdue,

  With all his over-hardy crew;

  For his, &c.

  And to his servant Israel

  He gave their land, therein to dwell;

  For his, &c.

  He hath, with a piteous eye,

  Beheld us in our misery;

  For his, &c.

  And freed us from the slavery

  Of the invading enemy;

  For his, &c.

  All living creatures he doth feed,

  And with full hand supplies their need;

  For his, &c.

  Let us, therefore, warble forth

  His mighty majesty and worth;

  For his, &c.

  That his mansion hath on high,

  Above the reach of mortal eye;

  For his, &c.

  O FAIREST Flower, no sooner blown but blasted,

  Soft silken Primrose fading timelessly,

  Summer’s chief honour, if thou hadst outlasted

  Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry;

  For he, being amorous on that lovely dye

  That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss

  But killed, alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss.

  For since grim Aquilo, his charioter,

  By boisterous rape the Athenian damsel got,

  He thought it touched his Deity full near,

  If likewise he some fair one wedded not,

  Thereby to wipe away the infámous blot

  Of long uncoupled bed and childless eld,

  Which, ’mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held.

  So, mounting up in icy-pearlèd car,

  Through middle empire of the freezing air

  He wandered long, till thee he spied from far;

  There ended was his quest, there ceased his care;

  Down he descended from his snow-soft chair,

  But, all un’wares, with his cold-kind embrace,

  Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place.

  Yet thou art not inglorious in thy fate;

  For so Apollo, with unweeting hand,

  Whilom did slay his dearly-lovèd mate,

  Young Hyacinth, born on Eurotas’ strand,

  Young Hyacinth, the pride of Spartan land;

  But then transformed him to a purple flower:

  Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power!

  Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,

  Or that thy corse corrupts in earth’s dark womb,

  Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed

  Hid from the world in a low-delvèd tomb;

  Could Heaven, for pity, thee so strictly doom—

  Oh no! for something in thy face did shine

  Above mortality, that showed thou wast divine.

  Resolve me, then, O Soul most surely blest

  (If so be it that thou these plaints dost hear)

  Tell me, bright Spirit, where’er thou hoverest,

  Whether above that high first-moving sphere,

  Or in the Elysian fields (if such there were),

  Oh, say me true if thou wert mortal wight,

  And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight.

  Wert thou some Star, which from the ruined roof

  Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall;

  Which careful Jove in nature’s true behoof

  Took up, and in fit place did reinstall—

  Or did of late Earth’s sons besiege the wall

  Of sheeny Heaven, and thou some Goddess fled

  Amongst us here below to hide thy nectared head—

  Or wert thou that just Maid who once before

  Forsook the hated earth, oh! tell me sooth,

  And camest again to visit us once more—

  Or wert thou [Mercy], that sweet smiling Youth—

  Or that crowned Matron, sage white-robèd Truth—

  Or any other of that heavenly brood

  Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some good—

  Or wert thou of the golden-wingèd host,

  Who, having clad thyself in human weed,

  To earth from thy prefixèd seat didst post,

  And after short abode fly back with speed,

  As if to shew what creatures Heaven doth breed;

  Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire

  To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heaven aspire—

  But oh! why didst thou not stay here below

  To bless us with thy heaven-loved innocence,

  To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe,

  To turn swift-rushing black perdition hence,

  Or drive away the slaughtering pestilence,

  To stand ’twixt us and our deservèd smart—

  But thou canst best perform that office where thou art.

  Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child,

  Her false-imagined loss cease to lament,

  And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild;

  Think what a present thou to God hast sent,

  And render him with patience what he lent:

  This if thou do, he will an offspring give

  That till the world’s last end shall make thy name to live.

  The Latin speeches ended, the English thus began:—

  HAIL, Native Language, that by sinews weak,

  Didst move my first-endeavouring tongue to speak,

  And madest imperfect words, with childish trips,

  Half unpronounced, slide through my infant lips,

  Driving dumb Silence from the portal door,

  Where he had mutely sat two years before:

  Here I salute thee, and thy pardon ask,

  That now I use thee in my latter task:

  Small loss it is that thence can come unto thee,

  I know my tongue but little grace can do thee.

  Thou need’st not be ambitious to be first,

  Believe me, I have thither packed the worst:

  And, if it happen as I did forecast,

  The daintiest dishes shall be served up last.

  I pray thee then deny me not thy aid,

  For this same small neglect that I have made;

  But haste thee straight to do me once a pleasure,

  and from thy wardrobe bring thy chieftest treasure;

  Not those new-fangled toys, and trimming slight

  Which takes our late fantastics with delight;

  But cull those richest robes and gayest attire,

  Which deepest spirits and choicest wits desire.

  I have some naked thoughts that rove about,

  And loudly knock to have their passage out,

  And, weary of their place, do only stay

  Till thou hast decked them in thy best array;

  That so they may, without suspect or fears,

  Fly swiftly to this fair Assembly’s ears.

  Yet I had rather, if I were to choose,

  Thy service in some graver subject use,

  Such as may make thee search thy coffers round,

  Before thou clothe my fancy in fit sound:

  Such where the deep transported mind may soar

  Above the wheeling poles, and at Heaven’s door

  Look in, and see each blissful Deity

  How he before the thunderous throne doth lie,

  Listening to what unshorn Apollo sings

  To the touch of golden wires, while Hebe brings

  Immortal nectar to her kingly Sire;

  Then, passing through the spheres of watchful fire,

  And misty regions of wide air next under,

  And hills of snow and lofts of piled thunder,

  May tell at length how green-eyed Neptune raves,

  In heaven’s defiance mustering all his waves;

  Then sing of secret things that came to pass

  When beldam Nature in her cradle was;

  And last of Kings and Queens and Heroes old,

  Such as the wise Demodocus once told

  In solemn songs at King Alcinoüs’ feast,

  While sad Ulysses’ soul and all the rest

  Are held, with his melodious harmony,

  In willing chains and sweet captivity.

  But fie, my wandering Muse, how thou dost stray!

  Expectance calls thee now another way.

  Thou know’st it must be now thy only bent

  To keep in compass of thy Predicament.

  Then quick about thy purposed business come,

  That to the next I may resign my room.

  Then ENS is represented as Father of the Predicaments, his ten Sons; whereof the eldest stood for SUBSTANCE with his Canons; which ENS, thus speaking, explains:—

  Good luck befriend thee, son; for at thy birth

  The faery Ladies danced upon the hearth.

  The drowsy Nurse hath sworn she did them spy

  Come tripping to the room where thou didst lie,

  And, sweetly singing round about thy bed,

  Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping head.

  She heard them give thee this, that thou shouldst still

  From eyes of mortals walk invisible.

  Yet there is something that doth force my fear;

  For once it was my dismal hap to hear

  A Sibyl old, bow-bent with crooked age,

  That far events full wisely could presage,

  And, in Time’s long and dark prospective-glass,

  Foresaw that future days should bring to pass.

  “Your Son,” said she, “(nor can you it prevent,)

  Shall subject be to many an Accident.

  O’er all his Brethren he shall reign as King;

  Yet every one shall make him underling,

  And those that cannot live from him asunder

  Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under.

  In worth and excellence he shall outgo them;

  Yet, being above them, he shall be below them.

  From others he shall stand in need of nothing,

  Yet on his Brothers shall depend for clothing.

  To find a foe it shall not be his hap,

  And peace shall lull him in her flowery lap;

  Yet shall he live in strife, and at his door

  Devouring war shall never cease to roar;

  Yea, it shall be his natural property

  To harbour those that are at enmity.”

  What power, what force, what mighty spell, if not

  Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian knot—

  The next, QUANTITY and QUALITY, spake in prose: then RELATION was called by his name.

  Rivers, arise: whether thou be the son

  Of utmost Tweed, or Ouse, or gulfy Dun,

  Or Trent, who, like some earth-born Giant, spreads

  His thirty arms along the indented meads,

  Or sullen Mole, that runneth underneath,

  Or Sevren swift, guilty of maiden’s death,

  Or rocky Avon, or of sedgy Lea,

  Or coaly Tyne, or ancient hallowed Dee,

  Or Humber loud, that keeps the Scythian’s name,

  Or Medway smooth, or royal-towered Thame.

  The rest was prose.

  EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,

  Wherewith the stage of Air and Earth did ring,

  And joyous news of heavenly Infant’s birth,

  My muse with Angels did divide to sing;

  But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

  In wintry solstice like the shortened light

  Soon swallowed up in dark and long outliving night.

  For now to sorrow must I tune my song,

  And set my Harp to notes of saddest woe,

  Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,

  Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so,

  Which he for us did freely undergo:

  Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight

  Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

  He, sovran Priest, stooping his regal head,

  That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,

  Poor fleshly Tabernacle enterèd,

  His starry front low-roofed beneath the skies:

  Oh, what a mask was there, what a disguise!

  Yet more: the stroke of death he must abide;

  Then lies him meekly down fast by his Brethren’s side.

  These latest scenes confine my roving verse;

  To this horizon is my Phbus bound.

  His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,

  And former sufferings, otherwhere are found;

  Loud o’er the rest Cremona’s trump doth sound:

  Me softer airs befit, and softer strings

  Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.

  Befriend me, Night, best Patroness of grief!

  Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,

  And work my flattered fancy to belief

  That Heaven and Earth are coloured with my woe;

  My sorrows are too dark for day to know:

  The leaves should all be black whereon I write,

  And letters, where my tears have washed, a wannish white.

  See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,

  That whirled the prophet up at Chebar flood;

  My spirit some transporting Cherub feels

  To bear me where the Towers of Salem stood,

  Once glorious towers, now sunk in guiltless blood.

  There doth my soul in holy vision sit,

  In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.

  Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock

  That was the casket of Heaven’s richest store,

  And here, though grief my feeble hands up-lock,

  Yet on the softened quarry would I score

  My plaining verse as lively as before;

  For sure so well instructed are my tears

  That they would fitly fall in ordered characters.

  Or, should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,

  Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,

  The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring

  Would soon unbosom all their Echoes mild;

  And I (for grief is easily beguiled)

  Might think the infection of my sorrows loud

  Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

  This Subject the Author finding to be above the years he had when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished.

  WHAT needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones,

  The labour of an age in pilèd stones—

  Or that his hollowed relics should be hid

  Under a stary-pointing pyramid—

  Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,

  What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name—

  Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

  Hast built thyself a livelong monument.

  For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,

  Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart

  Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,

  Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;

  Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,

  Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving;

  And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

  That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

  HERE lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt,

  And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt;

  Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one

  He’s here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.

  ’T was such a shifter that, if truth were known,

  Death was half glad when he had got him down;

  For he had any time this ten years full

  Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull.

  And surely Death could never have prevailed,

  Had not his weekly course of carriage failed;

  But lately, finding him so long at home,

  And thinking now his journey’s end was come,

  And that he had ta’en up his latest Inn,

  In the kind office of a Chamberlin

  Showed him his room where he must lodge that night,

  Pulled off his boots, and took away the light.

  If any ask for him, it shall be said,

  “Hobson has supped, and ’s newly gone to bed.”

  HERE lieth one who did most truly prove

  That he could never die while he could move;

  So hung his destiny, never to rot

  While he might still jog on and keep his trot;

  Made of sphere-metal, never to decay

  Until his revolution was at stay.

  Time numbers Motion, yet (without a crime

  ’Gainst old truth) Motion numbered out his time;

  And, like an engine moved with wheel and weight,

  His principles being ceased, he ended straight.

  Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,

  And too much breathing put him out of breath;

  Nor were it contradiction to affirm

  Too long vacation hastened on his term.

  Merely to drive the time away he sickened,

  Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened.

  “Nay,” quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched,

  “If I may n’t carry, sure I ’ll ne’er be fetched,

  But vow, though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,

  For one carrier put down to make six bearers.”

  Ease was his chief disease; and, to judge right,

  He died for heaviness that his cart went light.

  His leisure told him that his time was come,

  And lack of load made his life burdensome,

  That even to his last breath (there be that say ’t),

  As he were pressed to death, he cried, “More weight!”

  But, had his doings lasted as they were,

  He had been an immortal Carrier.

  Obedient to the moon he spent his date

  In course reciprocal, and had his fate

  Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas;

  Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase.

  His letters are delivered all and gone;

  Only remains this superscription.

  THIS rich marble doth inter

  The honoured wife of Winchester,

  A viscount’s daughter, an earl’s heir,

  Besides what her virtues fair

  Added to her noble birth,

  More than she could own from earth.

  Summers three times eight save one

  She had told; alas! too soon,

  After so short time of breath,

  To house with darkness and with death!

  Yet, had the number of her days

  Been as complete as was her praise,

  Nature and Fate had had no strife

  In giving limit to her life.

  Her high birth and her graces sweet

  Quickly found a lover meet;

  The virgin quire for her request

  The god that sits at marriage-feast;

  He at their invoking came,

  But with a scarce well-lighted flame;

  And in his garland, as he stood,

  Ye might discern a cypress-bud.

  Once had the early Matrons run

  To greet her of a lovely son,

  And now with second hope she goes,

  And calls Lucina to her throes;

  But, whether by mischance or blame,

  Atropos for Lucina came,

  And with remorseless cruelty

  Spoiled at once both fruit and tree.

  The hapless babe before his birth

  Had burial, yet not laid in earth;

  And the languished mother’s womb

  Was not long a living tomb.

  So have I seen some tender slip,

  Saved with care from Winter’s nip,

  The pride of her carnation train,

  Plucked up by some unheedy swain,

  Who only thought to crop the flower

  New shot up from vernal shower;

  But the fair blossom hangs the head

  Sideways, as on a dying bed,

  And those pearls of dew she wears

  Prove to be presaging tears

  Which the sad morn had let fall

  On her hastening funeral.

  Gentle Lady, may thy grave

  Peace and quiet ever have!

  After this thy travail sore,

  Sweet rest seize thee evermore,

  That, to give the world encrease,

  Shortened hast thy own life’s lease!

  Here, besides the sorrowing

  That thy noble House doth bring,

  Here be tears of perfect moan

  Wept for thee in Helicon;

  And some flowers and some bays

  For thy hearse, to strew the ways,

  Sent thee from the banks of Came,

  Devoted to thy virtuous name;

  Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitt’st in glory,

  Next her, much like to thee in story,

  That fair Syrian Shepherdess,

  Who, after years of barrenness,

  The highly-favoured Joseph bore

  To him that served for her before,

  And at her next birth, much like thee,

  Through pangs fled to felicity,

  Far within the bosom bright

  Of blazing Majesty and Light:

  There with thee, new-welcome Saint,

  Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,

  With thee there clad in radiant sheen,

  No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

  HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

  Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!

  My hasting days fly on with full career,

  But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.

  Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,

  That I to manhood am arrived so near,

  And inward ripeness doth much less appear,

  That some more timely-happy spirits indu’th.

  Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

  It shall be still in strictest measure even

  To that same lot, however mean or high,

  Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven,

  All is, if I have grace to use it so,

  As ever in my great Task-master’s eye

  HENCE, loathèd Melancholy,

  Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,

  In Stygian cave forlorn

  ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy,

  Find out some uncouth cell,

  Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

  And the night-raven sings;

  There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,

  As ragged as thy locks,

  In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

  But come, thou Goddess fair and free,

  In heaven yclep’d Euphrosyne,

  And by men, heart-easing Mirth,

  Whom lovely Venus at a birth

  With two sister Graces more

  To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;

  Or whether (as some sager sing)

  The frolic Wind that breathes the spring,

  Zephyr with Aurora playing,

  As he met her once a-Maying,

  There on beds of violets blue,

  And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,

  Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,

  So buxom, blithe and debonair.

  Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

  Jest and youthful Jollity,

  Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,

  Nods, and Becks, and wreathèd Smiles,

  Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,

  And love to live in dimple sleek;

  Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

  And Laughter holding both his sides.

  Come, and trip it as ye go,

  On the light fantastic toe;

  And in thy right hand lead with thee

  The mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;

  And, if I give thee honour due,

  Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

  To live with her, and live with thee,

  In unreprovèd pleasures free;

  To hear the lark begin his flight,

  And singing startle the dull night,

  From his watch-tower in the skies,

  Till the dappled Dawn doth rise;

  Then to come, in spite of sorrow,

  And at my window bid good-morrow,

  Through the sweet-briar or the vine,

  Or the twisted eglantine;

  While the cock with lively din

  Scatters the rear of Darkness thin;

  And to the stack, or the barn-door,

  Stoutly struts his dames before:

  Oft listening how the hounds and horn

  Cheerily rouse the slumbering Morn,

  From the side of some hoar hill,

  Through the high wood echoing shrill:

  Sometime walking, not unseen,

  By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,

  Right against the eastern gate,

  Where the great Sun begins his state,

  Robed in flames and amber light,

  The clouds in thousand liveries dight;

  While the ploughman, near at hand,

  Whistles o’er the furrowed land,

  And the milkmaid singeth blithe,

  And the mower whets his scythe,

  And every shepherd tells his tale

  Under the hawthorn in the dale.

  Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,

  Whilst the lantskip round it measures:

  Russet lawns, and fallows gray,

  Where the nibbling flocks do stray;

  Mountains on whose barren breast

  The labouring clouds do often rest;

  Meadows trim with daisies pied;

  Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

  Towers and battlements it sees

  Bosomed high in tufted trees,

  Where perhaps some Beauty lies,

  The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

  Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes

  From betwixt two aged oaks,

  Where Corydon and Thyrsis met

  Are at their savoury dinner set

  Of hearbs and other country messes,

  Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;

  And then in haste her bower she leaves,

  With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;

  Or, if the earlier season lead,

  To the tanned haycock in the mead.

  Sometimes with secure delight

  The upland hamlets will invite,

  When the merry bells ring round,

  And the jocond rebecks sound

  To many a youth and many a maid

  Dancing in the chequered shade;

  And young and old come forth to play

  On a sunshine holyday,

  Till the livelong daylight fail:

  Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,

  With stories told of many a feat,

  How fairy Mab the junkets eat:

  She was pinched and pulled, she said;

  And he, by Friar’s lanthorn led,

  Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat

  To earn his cream-bowl duly set,

  When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,

  His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn

  That ten day-labourers could not end;

  Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,

  And, stretched out all the chimney’s length,

  Basks at the fire his hairy strength,

  And crop-full out of doors he flings,

  Ere the first cock his matin rings.

  Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,

  By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.

  Towered cities please us then,

  And the busy hum of men,

  Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,

  In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,

  With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes

  Rain influence, and judge the prize

  Of wit or arms, while both contend

  Of win her grace whom all commend.

  There let Hymen oft appear

  In saffron robe, with taper clear,

  And pomp, and feast, and revelry,

  With mask and antique pageantry;

  Such sights as youthful Poets dream

  On summer eves by haunted stream.

  Then to the well-trod stage anon,

  If Johnson’s learned sock be on,

  Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child,

  Warble his native wood-notes wild.

  And ever, against eating cares,

  Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

  Married to immortal verse,

  Such as the meeting soul may pierce,

  In notes with many a winding bout

  Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out

  With wanton heed and giddy cunning,

  The melting voice through mazes running,

  Untwisting all the chains that tie

  The hidden soul of harmony;

  That Orpheus’ self may heave his head

  From golden slumber on a bed

  Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear

  Such strains as would have won the ear

  Of Pluto to have quite set free

  His half-regained Eurydice.

  These delights if thou canst give,

  Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

  HENCE, vain deluding Joys,

  The brood of Folly without father bred!

  How little you bested,

  Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys!

  Dwell in some idle brain,

  And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

  As thick and numberless

  As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,

  Or likest hovering dreams,

  The fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train.

  But hail! thou Goddess sage and holy!

  Hail, divinest Melancholy!

  Whose saintly visage is too bright

  To hit the sense of human sight,

  And therefore to our weaker view

  O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue;

  Black, but such as in esteem

  Prince Memnon’s sister might beseem,

  Or that starred Ethiop Queen that strove

  To set her beauty’s praise above

  The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended.

  Yet thou art higher far descended:

  Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore

  To solitary Saturn bore;

  His daughter she; in Saturn’s reign

  Such mixture was not held a stain.

  Oft in glimmering bowers and glades

  He met her, and in secret shades

  Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,

  Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.

  Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,

  Sober, steadfast, and demure,

  All in a robe of darkest grain,

  Flowing with majestic train,

  And sable stole of cypress lawn

  Over thy decent shoulders drawn.

  Come; but keep thy wonted state,

  With even step, and musing gait,

  And looks commercing with the skies,

  Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:

  There, held in holy passion still,

  Forget thyself to marble, till

  With a sad leaden downward cast

  Thou fix them on the earth as fast.

  And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet,

  Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,

  And hears the Muses in a ring

  Aye round about Jove’s altar sing;

  And add to these retirèd Leisure,

  That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;

  But, first and chieftest, with thee bring

  Him that yon soars on golden wing,

  Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,

  The Cherub Contemplation;

  And the mute Silence hist along,

  ’Less Philomel will deign a song,

  In her sweetest saddest plight,

  Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,

  While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke

  Gently o’er the accustomed oak.

  Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly,

  Most musical, most melancholy!

  Thee, Chauntress, oft the woods among

  I woo, to hear they even-song;

  And, missing thee, I walk unseen

  On the dry smooth-shaven green,

  To behold the wandering Moon,

  Riding near her highest noon,

  Like one that had been led astray

  Through the heaven’s wide pathless way,

  And oft, as if her head she bowed,

  Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

  Oft, on a plat of rising ground,

  I hear the far-off curfew sound,

  Over some wide-watered shore,

  Swinging slow with sullen roar;

  Or, if the air will not permit,

  Some still removèd place will fit,

  Where glowing embers through the room

  Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

  Far from all resort of mirth,

  Save the cricket on the hearth,

  Or the Bellman’s drowsy charm

  To bless the doors from nightly harm.

  Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,

  Be seen in some high lonely tower,

  Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,

  With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere

  The spirit of Plato, to unfold

  What worlds or what vast regions hold

  The immortal mind that hath forsook

  Her mansion in this fleshly nook;

  And of those Daemons that are found

  In fire, air, flood, or underground,

  Whose power hath a true consent

  With planet or with element.

  Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

  In sceptred pall come sweeping by,

  Presenting Thebs, or Pelops’ line,

  Or the tale of Troy divine,

  Or what (though rare) or later age

  Ennobled hath the buskined stage.

  But, O sad Virgin! that thy power

  Might raise Musaeus from his bower;

  Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

  Such notes as, warbled to the string,

  Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,

  And made Hell grant what Love did seek;

  Or call up him that left half-told

  The story of Cambuscan bold,

  Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

  And who had Canace to wife,

  That owned the virtuous ring and glass,

  And of the wondrous horse of brass

  On which the Tartar King did ride;

  And if aught else great Bards beside

  In sage and solemn tunes have sung,

  Of turneys, and of trophies hung,

  Of forests, and inchantments drear,

  Where more is meant than meets the ear.

  Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,

  Till civil-suited Morn appear,

  Not tricked and frounced, as she wont

  With the Attic boy to hunt,

  But kerchieft in a comely cloud,

  While rocking winds are piping loud,

  Or ushered with a shower still,

  When the gust hath blown his fill,

  Ending on the rustling leaves,

  With minute drops from off the eaves.

  And, when the sun begins to fling

  His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring

  To archèd walks of twilight groves,

  And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,

  Of pine, or monumental oak,

  Where the rude axe with heaved stroke

  Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,

  Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.

  There, in close covert, by some brook,

  Where no profaner eye may look,

  Hide me from Day’s garish eye,

  While the bee with honeyed thigh,

  That at her flowery work doth sing,

  And the waters murmuring,

  With such consort as they keep,

  Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.

  And let some strange mysterious dream,

  Wave at his wings in airy stream,

  Of lively portraiture displayed,

  Softly on my eyelids laid.

  And as I wake, sweet music breathe

  Above, about, or underneath,

  Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,

  Or the unseen Genius of the wood.

  But let my due feet never fail

  To walk the studious cloister’s pale,

  And love the high embowèd roof,

  With antick pillars massy proof,

  And storied windows richly dight,

  Casting a dim religious light.

  There let the pealing organ blow,

  To the full voiced Quire below,

  In service high and anthems clear,

  As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

  Dissolve me into ecstasies,

  And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

  And may at last my weary age

  Find out the peaceful hermitage,

  The hairy gown and mossy cell,

  Where I may sit and rightly spell,

  Of every star that Heaven doth shew,

  And every hearb that sips the dew;

  Till old experience do attain

  To something like prophetic strain.

  These pleasures, Melancholy, give

  And I with thee will choose to live.

  O NIGHTINGALE that on yon blooming spray

  Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

  Thou with fresh hopes the Lover’s heart dost fill,

  While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.

  Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,

  First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,

  Portend success in love. O if Jove’s will

  Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,

  Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

  Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;

  As thou from year to year hast sung too late

  For my relief, yet had’st no reason why.

  Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,

  Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

  NOW the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger,

  Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her

  The flowery May, who from her green lap throws

  The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

  Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire

  Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!

  Woods and groves are of thy dressing;

  Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.

  Thus we salute thee with our early song,

  And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

  FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race:

  Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours,

  Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace;

  And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,

  Which is no more than what is false and vain,

  And merely mortal dross;

  So little is our loss,

  So little is thy gain!

  For, whenas each thing bad thou hast entombed,

  And, last of all, thy greedy Self consumed,

  Then long eternity shall greet our bliss

  With an individual kiss,

  And joy shall undertake us as a flood;

  When everything that is sincerely good

  And perfectly divine,

  With Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shine

  About the supreme Throne

  Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone

  When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,

  Then, all this earthly grossness quit,

  Attired with stars we shall forever sit,

  Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,

  O Time!

  BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven’s joy,

  Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse,

  Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,

  Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;

  And to our high-raised phantasy present

  That undisturbèd Song of pure consent,

  Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured Throne

  To Him that sits thereon,

  With saintly shout and solemn jubily;

  Where the bright Seraphim in burning row

  Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow,

  And the Cherubic host in thousand quires

  Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,

  With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,

  Hymns devout and holy psalms

  Singing everlastingly:

  That we on Earth, with undiscording voice,

  May rightly answer that melodious noise;

  As once we did, till disproportioned Sin

  Jarred against Nature’s chime, and with harsh din

  Broke the fair music that all creatures made

  To their great Lord, whose love their motions swayed

  In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

  In first obedience, and their state of good.

  O, may we soon again renew that song,

  And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long

  To his celestial consort us unite,

  To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

  YE flaming Powers, and wingèd Warriors bright,

  That erst with music, and triumphant song,

  First heard by happy watchful Shepherds’ ear,

  So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along,

  Through the soft silence of the listening night,—

  Now mourn; and if sad share with us to bear

  Your fiery essence can distill no tear,

  Burn in your sighs, and borrow

  Seas wept from our deep sorrow,

  He who with all Heaven’s heraldry whilere

  Entered the world, now bleeds to give us ease.

  Alas! how soon our sin

  Sore doth begin

  His infancy to seize!

  O more exceeding Love, or Law more just—

  Just Law indeed, but more exceeding Love!

  For we, by rightful doom remediless,

  Were lost in death, till He, that dwelt above

  High-throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust

  Emptied his glory, even to nakedness;

  And that great Covenant which we still transgress

  Intirely satisfied,

  And the full wrath beside

  Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess,

  And seals obedience first with wounding smart

  This day; but oh! ere long,

  Huge pangs and strong

  Will pierce more near his heart.

  Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield by some Noble Persons of her Family; who appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song:

  LOOK, Nymphs and Shepherds, look!

  What sudden blaze of majesty

  Is that which we from hence descry,

  Too divine to be mistook—

  This, this is she

  To whom our vows and wishes bend:

  Here our solemn search hath end.

  Fame, that her high worth to raise

  Seemed erst so lavish and profuse,

  We may justly now accuse

  Of detraction from her praise:

  Less than half we find expressed;

  Envy bid conceal the rest.

  Mark what radiant state she spreads,

  In circle round her shining throne

  Shooting her beams like silver threads:

  This, this is she alone,

  Sitting like a Goddess bright

  In the centre of her light.

  Might she the wise Latona be,

  Or the towered Cybele,

  Mother of a hundred gods—

  Juno dares not give her odds:

  Who had thought this clime had held

  A Deity so unparalleled—

  As they came forward, the Genius of the Wood appears, and, turning toward them, speaks.

  Gen. Stay, gentle Swains, for, though in this disguise,

  I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes;

  Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung

  Of that renowned flood so often sung,

  Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice,

  Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse;

  And ye, the breathing roses of the wood,

  Fair silver-buskind Nymphs, as great and good.

  I know this quest of yours and free intent

  Was all in honour and devotion meant

  To the great Mistress of yon princely shrine,

  Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,

  And with all helpful service will comply

  To further this night’s glad solemnity,

  And lead ye where ye may more near behold

  What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;

  Which I full oft, midst these shades alone,

  Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon.

  For know, by lot from Jove, I am the Power

  Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,

  To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove

  With ringlets quaint and wanton windings wove;

  And all my plants I save from nightly ill

  Of noisome winds and blasting vapours chill;

  And from the boughs brush off the evil dew,

  And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,

  Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites,

  Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites.

  When Evening grey doth rise, I fetch my round

  Over the mount, and all this hallowed ground;

  And early, ere the odorous breath of morn

  Awakes the slumbering leaves, or tasselled horn

  Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about,

  Number my ranks, and visit every sprout

  With puissant words and murmurs made to bless.

  But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness

  Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I

  To the celestial Sirens’ harmony,

  That sit upon the nine enfolded spheres,

  And sing to those that hold the vital shears,

  And turn the adamantine spindle round

  On which the fate of gods and men is wound.

  Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie,

  To lull the daughters of Necessity,

  And keep unsteady Nature to her law,

  And the low world in measured motion draw

  After the heavenly tune, which none can hear

  Of human mould with gross unpurged ear.

  And yet such music worthiest were to blaze

  The peerless height of her immortal praise

  Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,

  If my inferior hand or voice could hit

  Inimitable sounds. Yet, as we go,

  Whate’er the skill of lesser gods can show

  I will assay, her worth to celebrate,

  And so attend ye toward her glittering state;

  Where ye may all, that are of noble stem,

  Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture’s hem.

  O’er the smooth enamelled green,

  Where no print of step hath been,

  Follow me, as I sing

  And touch the warbled string.

  Under the shady roof

  Of branching elm star-proof

  Follow me.

  I will bring you where she sits,

  Clad in splendour as befits

  Her deity.

  Such a rural Queen

  All Arcadia hath not seen.

  Nymphs and Shepherds, dance no more

  By sandy Ladon’s lilied banks;

  On old Lycaeus, or Cyllene hoar,

  Trip no more in twilight ranks;

  Though Erymanth your loss deplore,

  A better soil shall give ye thanks.

  From the stony Maenalus

  Bring your flocks, and live with us;

  Here ye shall have greater grace,

  To serve the Lady of this place.

  Through Syrinx your Pan’s mistress were,

  Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.

  Such a rural Queen

  All Arcadia hath not seen.

  Comus, a Mask

  THE PERSONS

  THE ATTENDANT SPIRIT, afterwards in the habit of THYRSIS.

  Comus, with his Crew.

  THE LADY.

  FIRST BROTHER.

  SECOND BROTHER.

  SABRINA, the Nymph.

  PRESENTED AT LUDLOW CASTLE, 1634, BEFORE THE EARL OF BRIDGEWATER, THEN PRESIDENT OF WALES

  The Chief Person which presented were:—The Lord Brackley; Mr. Thomas Egerton, his Brother;The Lady Alice Egerton.

  The first Scene discovers a wild wood.The ATTENDANT SPIRIT descends or enters.

  BEFORE the starry threshold of Jove’s court

  My mansion is, where those immortal shapes

  Of bright aerial Spirits live insphered

  In regions mild of calm and serene air,

  Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot

  Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care,

  Confined and pestered in this pinfold here,

  Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,

  Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives,

  After this mortal change, to her true servants

  Amongst the enthronèd gods on sainted seats.

  Yet some there be that by due steps aspire

  To lay their just hands on that golden key

  That opes the Palace of Eternity.

  To such my errand is; and, but for such,

  I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds

  With the rank vapours of this sin-worn mould.

  But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway

  Of every salt flood and each ebbing stream,

  Took in, by lot ’twixt high and nether Jove,

  Imperial rule of all the sea-girt Isles

  That, like to rich and various gems, inlay

  The unadornèd bosom of the Deep;

  Which he, to grace his tributary gods,

  By course commits to several government,

  And gives them leave to wear their sapphire crowns

  And wield their little tridents. But this Isle,

  The greatest and the best of all the main,

  He quarters to his blue-haired deities;

  And all this tract that fronts the falling sun

  A noble Peer of mickle trust and power

  Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide

  An old and haughty Nation, proud in arms:

  Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore,

  Are coming to attend their father’s state,

  And new-intrusted sceptre. But their way

  Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood,

  The nodding horror of whose shady brows

  Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger;

  And here their tender age might suffer peril,

  But that, by quick command from sovran Jove,

  I was despatched for their defence and guard!

  And listen why; for I will tell you now

  What never yet was heard in tale or song,

  From old or modern bard, in hall or bower.

  Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape

  Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,

  After the Tuscan mariners transformed,

  Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed,

  On Circe’s island fell. (Who knows not Circe,

  The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup

  Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,

  And downward fell into a grovelling swine—)

  This Nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks,

  With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth,

  Had by him, ere he parted thence, a Son

  Much like his Father, but his Mother more,

  Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named:

  Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age,

  Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,

  At last betakes him to this ominous wood,

  And, in thick shelter of black shades imbowered,

  Excels his Mother at her mighty art;

  Offering to every weary traveller

  His orient liquor in a crystal glass,

  To quench the drouth of Phbus; which as they taste

  (For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst),

  Soon as the potion works, their human count’nance,

  The express resemblance of the gods, is changed

  Into some brutish form of wolf or bear,

  Or ounce or tiger, hog, or bearded goat

  All other parts remaining as they were.

  And they, so perfect is their misery,

  Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,

  But boast themselves more comely than before,

  And all their friends and native home forget,

  To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.

  Therefore, when any favoured of high Jove

  Chances to pass through this adventrous glade,

  Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star

  I shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy,

  As now I do. But first I must put off

  These my sky-robes, spun out of Iris’ woof,

  And take the weeds and likeness of a swain

  That to the service of this house belongs,

  Who, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song,

  Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar,

  And hush the waving woods; nor of less faith,

  And in this office of his mountain watch

  Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid

  Of this occasion. But I hear the tread

  Of hateful steps; I must be viewless now.

  COMUS enters with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of Monsters, headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts, but otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistering. They come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands.

  Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold

  Now the top of heaven doth hold;

  And the gilded car of Day

  His glowing axle doth allay

  In the steep Atlantic stream:

  And the slope Sun his upward beam

  Shoots against the dusky pole,

  Pacing toward the other goal

  Of his chamber in the east.

  Meanwhile, welcome joy and feast,

  Midnight shout and revelry,

  Tipsy dance and jollity.

  Braid your locks with rosy twine,

  Dropping odours, dropping wine.

  Rigour now is gone to bed;

  And Advice with scrupulous head,

  Strict Age, and sour Severity,

  With their grave saws, in slumber lie.

  We, that are of purer fire,

  Imitate the starry Quire,

  Who, in their nightly watchful spheres,

  Lead in swift round the months and years.

  The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove,

  Now to the Moon in wavering morrice move;

  And on the tawny sands and shelves

  Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves.

  By dimpled brook and fountain-brim,

  The Wood-Nymphs, decked with daisies trim,

  Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:

  What hath night to do with sleep—

  Night hath better sweets to prove;

  Venus now wakes, and wakens Love

  Come, let us our rites begin;

  ’T is only daylight that makes sin,

  Which these dun shades will ne’er report.

  Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport,

  Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flame

  Of midnight torches burns! mysterious Dame,

  That ne’er art called but when the dragon womb

  Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom,

  And makes one blot of all the air!

  Stay thy cloudy ebon chair,

  Wherein thou ridest with Hecat’, and befriend

  Us thy vowed priests, till utmost end

  Of all thy dues be done, and none left out

  Ere the blabbing eastern scout,

  The nice Morn on the Indian steep,

  From her cabined loop-hole peep,

  And to the tell-tale Sun descry

  Our concealed solemnity.

  Come, knit hands, and beat the ground

  In a light fantastic round.

  Break off, break off! I feel the different pace

  Of some chaste footing near about this ground.

  Run to your shrouds within these brakes and trees;

  Our number may affright. Some virgin sure

  (For so I can distinguish by mine art)

  Benighted in these woods! Now to my charms,

  And to my wily trains: I shall ere long

  Be well stocked with as fair a herd as grazed

  About my Mother Circe. Thus I hurl

  My dazzling spells into the spongy air,

  Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion,

  And give it false presentments, lest the place

  And my quaint habits breed astonishment,

  And put the Damsel to suspicious flight;

  Which must not be, for that’s against my course.

  I, under fair pretence of friendly ends,

  And well-placed words of glozing courtesy,

  Baited with reasons not unplausible,

  Wind me into the easy-hearted man,

  And hug him into snares. When once her eye

  Hath met the virtue of this magic dust

  I shall appear some harmless villager,

  Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.

  But here she comes; I fairly step aside,

  And hearken, if I may her business hear.

  Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true,

  My best guide now. Methought it was the sound

  Of riot and ill-managed merriment,

  Such as the jocond flute or gamesome pipe

  Stirs up among the loose unlettered hinds,

  When, for their teeming flocks and granges full,

  In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,

  And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth

  To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence

  Of such late wassailers; yet, oh! where else

  Shall I inform my unacquainted feet

  In the blind mazes of this tangled wood—

  My brothers, when they saw me wearied out

  With this long way, resolving here to lodge

  Under the spreading favour of these pines,

  Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket side

  To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit

  As the kind hospitable woods provide.

  They left me then when the grey-hooded Even,

  Like a sad Votarist in palmer’s weed,

  Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phbus’ wain.

  But where they are, and why they came not back,

  Is now the labour of my thoughts. ’T is likeliest

  They had ingaged their wandering steps too far;

  And envious darkness, ere they could return,

  Had stole them from me. Else, O thievish Night,

  Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end,

  In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars

  That Nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps

  With everlasting oil, to give due light

  To the misled and lonely travailler—

  This is the place, as well as I may guess,

  Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth

  Was rife, and perfet in my listening ear;

  Yet nought but single darkness do I find.

  What might this be— A thousand fantasies

  Begin to throng into my memory,

  Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,

  And airy tongues that syllable men’s names

  On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.

  These thoughts may startle well, but not astound

  The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended

  By a strong siding champion, Conscience.

  O welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,

  Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings,

  And thou unblemished form of Chastity!

  I see ye visibly, and now believe

  That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill

  Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,

  Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,

  To keep my life and honour unassailed…

  Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud

  Turn forth her silver lining on the night—

  I did not err: there does a sable cloud

  Turn forth her silver lining on the night,

  And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.

  I cannot hallo to my brothers, but

  Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest

  I’ll venter; for my new-enlivened spirits

  Prompt me, and they perhaps are not far off.

  Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that liv’st unseen

  Within thy airy shell

  By slow Meander’s margent green,

  And in the violet-embroidered vale

  Where the love-lorn Nightingale

  Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:

  Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

  That likest thy Narcissus are—

  O if thou have

  Hid them in some flowery cave,

  Tell me but where,

  Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the Sphere!

  So may’st thou be translated to the skies,

  And give resounding grace to all Heaven’s harmonies!

  Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould

  Breathe such divine inchanting ravishment—

  Sure something holy lodges in that breast,

  And with these raptures moves the vocal air

  To testify his hidden residence.

  How sweetly did they float upon the wings

  Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night,

  At every fall smoothing the raven down

  Of darkness till it smiled! I have oft heard

  My mother Circe with the Sirens three,

  Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,

  Culling their potent hearbs and baleful drugs,

  Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul,

  And lap it in Elysium: Scylla wept,

  And child her barking waves into attention,

  And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause.

  Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense,

  And in sweet madness robbed it of itself;

  But such a sacred and home-felt delight,

  Such sober certainty of waking bliss,

  I never heard till now. I’ll speak to her,

  And she shall be my Queen.-Hail, foreign wonder!

  Whom certain these rough shades did never breed,

  Unless the Goddess that in rural shrine

  Dwell’st here with Pan or Sylvan, by blest song

  Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog

  To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood.

  Lady. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise

  That is addressed to unattending ears.

  Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift

  How to regain my severed company,

  Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo

  To give me answer from her mossy couch.

  Comus. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you thus—

  Lady. Dim darkness and this leavy labyrinth.

  Comus. Could that divide you from near-ushering guides—

  Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf.

  Comus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why—

  Lady. To seek i’ the valley some cool friendly spring.

  Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady—

  Lady. They were but twain, and purposed quick return.

  Comus. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them.

  Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit!

  Comus. Imports their loss, beside the present need—

  Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose.

  Comus. Where they of manly prime, or youthful bloom—

  Lady. As smooth as Hebe’s their unrazored lips.

  Comus. Two such I saw, what time the laboured ox

  In his loose traces from the furrow came,

  And the swinked hedger at his supper sat.

  I saw them under a green mantling vine,

  That crawls along the side of yon small hill,

  Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots;

  Their port was more than human, as they stood.

  I took it for a faery vision

  Of some gay creatures of the element,

  That in the colours of the rainbow live,

  And play i’ the plighted clouds. I was awe-strook,

  And, as I passed, I worshiped. If those you seek,

  It were a journey like the path to Heaven

  To help you find them.

  Lady. Gentle villager,

  What readiest way would bring me to that place—

  Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point.

  Lady. To find out that, good Shepherd, I suppose,

  In such a scant allowance of star-light,

  Would overtask the best land-pilot’s art,

  Without the sure guess of well-practised feet.

  Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green,

  Dingle, or bushy dell, of this wild wood,

  And every bosky bourn from side to side,

  My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood;

  And, if your stray attendance be yet lodged,

  Or shroud within these limits, I shall know

  Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark

  From her thatched pallet rouse. If otherwise,

  I can conduct you, Lady, to a low

  But loyal cottage, where you may be safe

  Till further quest.

  Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word,

  And trust thy honest-offered courtesy,

  Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds,

  With smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls

  And courts of princes, where it first was named,

  And yet is most pretended. In a place

  Less warranted than this, or less secure,

  I cannot be, that I should fear to change it.

  Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial

  To my proportioned strength! Shepherd, lead on…

  The TWO BROTHERS.

  Eld. Bro. Unmuffle, ye faint stars; and thou, fair Moon,

  That wont’st to love the travailler’s benison,

  Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,

  And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here

  In double night of darkness and of shades;

  Or, if your influence be quite dammed up

  With black usurping mists, some gentle taper,

  Though a rush-candle from the wicker hole

  Of some clay habitation, visit us

  With thy long levelled rule of streaming light,

  And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,

  Or Tyrian Cynosure.

  Sec. Bro. Or, if our eyes

  Be barred that happiness, might we but hear

  The folded flocks, penned in their wattled cotes,

  Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,

  Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock

  Count the night-watches to his feathery dames,

  ’Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering,

  In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.

  But, Oh, that hapless virgin, our lost sister!

  Where may she wander now, whither betake her

  From the chill dew, amongst rude burs and thistles—

  Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now,

  Or ’gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm

  Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears.

  What if in wild amazement and affright,

  Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp

  Of savage hunger, or of savage heat!

  Eld. Bro. Peace, brother: be not over-exquisite

  To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;

  For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown,

  What need a man forestall his date of grief,

  And run to meet what he would most avoid—

  Or, if they be but false alarms of fear,

  How bitter is such self-delusion!

  I do not think my sister so to seek,

  Or so unprincipled in virtue’s book,

  And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever,

  As that the single want of light and noise

  (Not being in danger, as I trust she is not)

  Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts,

  And put them into misbecoming plight.

  Virtue could see to do what Virtue would

  By her own radiant light, though sun and moon

  Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom’s self

  Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude,

  Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,

  She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings,

  That, in the various bustle of resort,

  Were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.

  He that has light within his own clear breast

  May sit i’ the centre, and enjoy bright day:

  But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts

  Benighted walks under the mid-day sun;

  Himself is his own dungeon.

  Sec. Bro. ’Tis most true

  That musing Meditation most affects

  The pensive secrecy of desert cell,

  Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds,

  And sits as safe as in a senate-house;

  For who would rob a Hermit of his weeds,

  His few books, or his beads, or maple dish,

  Or do his grey hairs any violence—

  But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian Tree

  Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard

  Of dragon-watch with uninchanted eye

  To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit,

  From the rash hand of bold Incontinence.

  You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps

  Of miser’s treasure by an outlaw’s den,

  And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope

  Danger will wink on Opportunity,

  And let a single helpless maiden pass

  Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste.

  Of night or loneliness it recks me not;

  I fear the dread events that dog them both,

  Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the person

  Of our unownèd sister.

  Eld. Bro. I do not, brother,

  Infer as if I thought my sister’s state

  Secure without all doubt or controversy;

  Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fear

  Does arbitrate the event, my nature is

  That I encline to hope rather than fear,

  And gladly banish squint suspicion.

  My sister is not so defenceless left

  As you imagine; she has a hidden strength,

  Which you remember not.

  Sec. Bro. What hidden strength,

  Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that—

  Eld. Bro. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength,

  Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her own:

  ’Tis Chastity, my brother, Chastity:

  She that has that is clad in com’plete steel,

  And, like a quivered nymph with arrows keen,

  May trace huge forests, and unharboured heaths,

  Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds;

  Where, through the sacred rays of chastity,

  No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer,

  Will dare to soil her virgin purity.

  Yea, there, where very desolation dwells,

  By grots and caverns shagged with horrid shades,

  She may pass on with unblenched majesty,

  Be it not done in pride, or in presumption.

  Some say no evil thing that walks by night,

  In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen,

  Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost,

  That breaks his magic chains at curfew time,

  No goblin or swart faery of the mine,

  Hath hurtful power o’er true virginity.

  Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call

  Antiquity from the old schools of Greece

  To testify the arms of Chastity—

  Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow,

  Fair silver-shafted Queen for ever chaste,

  Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness

  And spotted mountain-pard, but set at nought

  The frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods and men

  Feared her stern frown, and she was queen o’ the woods.

  What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield

  That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin,

  Wherewith she freezed her foes to con’gealed stone,

  But rigid looks of chaste austerity,

  And noble grace that dashed brute violence

  With sudden adoration and blank awe—

  So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity

  That, when a soul is found sincerely so,

  A thousand liveried angels lackey her,

  Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,

  And in clear dream and solemn vision

  Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear;

  Till oft converse with heavenly habitants

  Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape,

  The unpolluted temple of the mind,

  And turns it by degrees to the soul’s essence,

  Till all be made immortal. But, when lust,

  By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,

  But most by lewd and lavish act of sin,

  Lets in defilement to the inward parts,

  The soul grows clotted by contagion,

  Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose

  The divine property of her first being.

  Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp

  Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,

  Lingering and sitting by a new-made grave,

  As loth to leave the body that it loved,

  And linked itself by carnal sensuality

  To a degenerate and degraded state.

  Sec. Bro. How charming is divine Philosophy!

  Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,

  But musical as is Apollo’s lute,

  And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,

  Where no crude surfeit reigns.

  Eld. Bro. List! list! I hear

  Some far-off hallo break the silent air.

  Sec. Bro. Methought so too; what should it be—

  Eld. Bro. For certain,

  Either some one, like us, night-foundered here,

  Or else some neighbour woodman, or, at worst,

  Some roving robber calling to his fellows.

  Sec. Bro. Heaven keep my sister!

  Again, again, and near!

  Best draw, and stand upon our guard.

  Eld. Bro. I’ll hallo.

  If he be friendly, he comes well: if not,

  Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be for us!

  The ATTENDANT SPIRIT, habited like a shepherd.

  That hallo I should know. What are you— speak.

  Come not too near; you fall on iron stakes else.

  Spir. What voice is that— my young Lord— speak again.

  Sec. Bro. O brother, ’tis my father’s Shepherd, sure.

  Eld. Bro. Thyrsis! whose artful strains have oft delayed

  The huddling brook to hear his madrigal,

  And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale.

  How camest thou here, good swain— Hath any ram

  Slipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam,

  Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook—

  How couldst thou find this dark sequestered nook—

  Spir. O my loved master’s heir, and his next joy,

  I came not here on such a trivial toy

  As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth

  Of pilfering wolf; not all the fleecy wealth

  That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought

  To this my errand, and the care it brought.

  But, oh! my virgin Lady, where is she—

  How chance she is not in your company—

  Eld. Bro. To tell thee sadly, Shepherd, without blame

  Or our neglect, we lost her as we came.

  Spir. Ay me unhappy! then my fears are true.

  Eld. Bro. What fears, good Thyrsis—

  Prithee briefly shew.

  Spir. I’ll tell ye, ’tis not vain or fabulous

  (Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance)

  What the sage poets, taught by the heavenly Muse,

  Storied of old in high immortal verse

  Of dire Chimeras and inchanted Isles,

  And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to Hell;

  For such there be, but unbelief is blind.

  Within the navel of this hideous wood,

  Immured in cypress shades, a Sorcerer dwells,

  Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus,

  Deep skilled in all his mother’s witcheries,

  And here to every thirsty wanderer

  By sly enticement gives his baneful cup,

  With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poision

  The visage quite transforms of him that drinks,

  And the inglorious likeness of a beast

  Fixes instead, unmoulding reason’s mintage

  Charactered in the face. This have I learnt

  Tending my flocks hard by i’ the hilly crofts

  That brow this bottom glade; whence night by night

  He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl

  Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey,

  Doing abhorrèd rites to Hecate

  In their obscurèd haunts of inmost bowers.

  Yet have they many baits and guileful spells

  To inveigle and invite the unwary sense

  Of them that pass unweeting by the way.

  This evening late, by then the chewing flocks

  Had ta’en their supper on the savoury herb

  Of knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in fold,

  I sat me down to watch upon a bank

  With ivy canopied, and interwove

  With flaunting honeysuckle, and began,

  Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy,

  To meditate my rural minstrelsy,

  Till fancy had her fill. But ere a close

  The wonted roar was up amidst the woods,

  And filled the air with barbarous dissonance;

  At which I ceased, and listened them a while,

  Till an unusual stop of sudden silence

  Gave respite to the drowsy-flighted steeds

  That draw the litter of close-curtained Sleep.

  At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound

  Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes,

  And stole upon the air, that even Silence

  Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might

  Deny her nature, and be never more,

  Still to be so displaced. I was all ear,

  And took in strains that might create a soul

  Under the ribs of Death. But, oh! ere long

  Too well I did perceive it was the voice

  Of my most honoured Lady, your dear sister.

  Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear;

  And “O poor hapless Nightingale,” thought I,

  “How sweet thou sing’st, how near the deadly snare!”

  Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste,

  Through paths and turnings often trod by day,

  Till, guided by mine ear, I found the place

  Where that damned wisard, hid in sly disguise

  (For so by certain signs I knew), had met

  Already, ere my best speed could prevent,

  The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey;

  Who gently asked if he had seen such two,

  Supposing him some neighbour villager.

  Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed

  Ye were the two she meant; with that I sprung

  Into swift flight, till I had found you here;

  But furder know I not.

  Sec. Bro. O night and shades,

  How are ye joined with hell in triple knot

  Against the unarmèd weakness of one virgin,

  Alone and helpless! Is this the confidence

  You gave me, brother—

  Eld. Bro. Yes, and keep it still;

  Lean on it safely; not a period

  Shall be unsaid for me. Against the threats

  Of malice or of sorcery, or that power

  Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm:

  Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt,

  Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled;

  Yea, even that which Mischief meant most harm

  Shall in the happy trial prove most glory.

  But evil on itself shall back recoil,

  And mix no more with goodness, when at last,

  Gathered like scum, and settled to itself,

  It shall be in eternal restless change

  Self-fed and self-consumed. If this fail,

  The pillared firmament is rottenness,

  And earth’s base built on stubble. But come, let’s on!

  Against the opposing will and arm of Heaven

  May never this just sword be lifted up;

  But, for that damned magician, let him be girt

  With all the griesly legiöns that troop

  Under the sooty flag of Acheron,

  Harpies and Hydras, or all the monstrous forms

  ’Twixt Africa and Ind. I’ll find him out,

  And force him to restore his purchase back,

  Or drag him by the curls to a foul death,

  Cursed as his life.

  Spir. Alas! good ventrous youth,

  I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise;

  But here thy sword can do thee little stead.

  Far other arms and other weapons must

  Be those that quell the might of hellish charms.

  He with his bare wand can unthread thy joints,

  And crumble all thy sinews.

  Eld. Bro. Why, prithee Shepherd,

  How durst thou then thyself approach so near

  As to make this relation—

  Spir. Care and utmost shifts

  How to secure the Lady from surprisal

  Brought to my mind a certain shepherd lad,

  Of small regard to see to, yet well skilled

  In every virtuous plant and healing hearb

  That spreads her verdant leaf to the morning ray.

  He loved me well, and oft would beg me sing;

  Which when I did, he on the tender grass

  Would sit, and hearken even to ecstasy,

  And in requital ope his leathern scrip,

  And shew me simples of a thousand names,

  Telling their strange and vigorous faculties.

  Amongst the rest a small unsightly root,

  But of divine effect, he culled me out.

  The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,

  But in another country, as he said,

  Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil:

  Unknown, and like esteemed, and the dull swain

  Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon;

  And yet more med’cinal is it than that Moly

  That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave.

  He called it Haemony, and give it me,

  And bade me keep it as of sovran use

  ’Gainst all inchantments, mildew blast, or damp,

  Or ghastly Furies’ apparition.

  I pursed it up, but little reckoning made,

  Till now that this extremity compelled.

  But now I find it true; for by this means

  I knew the foul inchanter, though disguised,

  Entered the very lime-twigs of his spells,

  And yet came off. If you have this about you

  (As I will give you when we go) you may

  Boldly assault the necromancer’s hall;

  Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood

  And brandished blade rush on him: break his glass,

  And shed the luscious liquor on the ground;

  But seize his wand. Though he and his curst crew

  Fierce sign of battail make, and menace high,

  Or, like the sons of Vulcan, vomit smoke,

  Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink.

  Eld. Bro. Thyrsis, lead on apace; I’ll follow thee;

  And some good angel bear a shield before us!

  The Scene changes to a stately palace, set out with all manner of deliciousness: soft music, tables spread with all dainties. COMUS appears with his rabble, and the LADY set in an inchanted chair; to whom he offers his glass; which she puts by, and goes about to rise.

  Comus. Nay, Lady, sit. If I but wave this wand,

  Your nerves are all chained up in alabaster,

  And you a statue, or as Daphne was,

  Root-bound, that fled Apollo.

  Lady. Fool, do not boast.

  Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind

  With all thy charms, although this corporal rind

  Thou hast immanacled while Heaven sees good.

  Comus. Why are you vexed, Lady— why do you frown—

  Here dwell no frowns, nor anger; from these gates

  Sorrow flies far. See, here be all the pleasures

  That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts,

  When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns

  Brisk as the April buds in primrose season.

  And first behold this cordial julep here,

  That flames and dances in his crystal bounds,

  With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed.

  Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone

  In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena

  Is of such power to stir up joy as this,

  To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst.

  Why should you be so cruel to yourself,

  And to those dainty limbs, which Nature lent

  For gentle usage and soft delicacy—

  But you invert the covenants of her trust,

  And harshly deal, like an ill borrower,

  With that which you received on other terms,

  Scorning the unexempt condition

  By which all mortal frailty must subsist,

  Refreshment after toil, ease after pain,

  That have been tired all day without repast,

  And timely rest have wanted. But, fair virgin,

  This will restore all soon.

  Lady. ’T will not, false traitor!

  ’T will not restore the truth and honesty

  That thou has banished from thy tongue with lies.

  Was this the cottage and the safe abode

  Thou told’st me of— What grim aspects’ are these,

  These oughly-headed monsters— Mercy guard me!

  Hence with thy brewed inchantments, foul deceiver!

  Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocence

  With vizored falsehood and base forgery—

  And wouldst thou seek again to trap me here

  With lickerish baits, fit to ensnare a brute—

  Were it a draught for Juno when she banquets,

  I would not taste thy treasonous offer. None

  But such as are good men can give good things;

  And that which is not good is not delicious

  To a well-governed and wise appetite.

  Comus. O foolishness of men! that lend their ears

  To those budge doctors of the Stoic fur,

  And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub,

  Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence

  Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth

  With such a full and unwithdrawing hand,

  Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,

  Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,

  But all to please and sate the curious taste—

  And set to work millions of spinning worms,

  That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired silk,

  To deck her sons; and, that no corner might

  Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins

  She hutched the all-worshiped ore and precious gems,

  To store here children with. If all the world

  Should in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse,

  Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze,

  The All-giver would be unthanked, would be unpraised

  Not half his riches known, and yet despised;

  And we should serve him as a grudging master,

  As a penurious niggard of his wealth,

  And live like Nature’s bastards, not her sons,

  Who would be quite surcharged with her own weight,

  And strangled with her waste fertility:

  The earth cumbered, and the winged air darked with plumes;

  The herds would over-multitude their lords;

  The sea o’erfraught would swell, and the unsought diamonds

  Would so emblaze the forehead of the Deep,

  And so bestud with stars, that they below

  Would grow inured to light, and come at last

  To gaze upon the Sun with shameless brows.

  List, Lady; be not coy, and be not cozened

  With that same vaunted name, Virginity.

  Beauty is Nature’s coin; must not be hoarded,

  But must be current; and the good thereof

  Consists in mutual and partaken bliss,

  Unsavoury in the injoyment of itself.

  If you let slip time, like a neglected rose

  It withers on the stalk with languished head.

  Beauty is Nature’s brag, and must be shown

  In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities,

  Where most may wonder at the workmanship.

  It is for homely features to keep home;

  They had their name thence: coarse complexions

  And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply

  The sampler, and to tease the housewife’s wool.

  What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that,

  Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the Morn—

  There was another meaning in these gifts;

  Think what, and be advised; you are but young yet.

  Lady. I had not thought to have unlocked my lips

  In this unhallowed air, but that this Juggler

  Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes,

  Obtruding false rules pranked in reason’s garb.

  I hate when Vice can bolt her arguments

  And Virtue has no tongue to check her pride.

  Impostor! do not charge most innocent Nature,

  As if she would her children should be riotous

  With her abundance. She, good Cateress,

  Means her provision only to the good,

  That live according to her sober law’s

  And holy dictate of spare Temperance.

  If every just man that now pines with want

  Had but a moderate and beseeming share

  Of that which lewdly-pampered Luxury

  Now heaps upon some few with vast excess,

  Nature’s full blessings would be well-dispensed

  In unsuperfluous even proportion,

  And she no whit encumbered with her store;

  And then the Giver would be better thanked,

  His praise due paid: for swinish Gluttony

  Ne’er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous feast,

  But with besotted base ingratitude

  Crams and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on—

  Or have I said enow— to him that dares

  Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words

  Against the sun-clad power of Chastity

  Fain would I something say;-yet to what end—

  Thou hast nor ear, nor soul, to apprehend

  The sublime notion and high mystery

  That must be uttered to unfold the sage

  And serious doctrine of Virginity;

  And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know

  More happiness than this thy present lot.

  Enjoy your dear Wit, and gay Rhetoric,

  That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence;

  Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced.

  Yet, should I try, the uncontrollèd worth

  Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits

  To such a flame of sacred vehemence

  That dumb things would be moved to sympathize,

  And the brute Earth would lend her nerves, and shake,

  Till all thy magic structures, reared so high,

  Were shattered into heaps o’er thy false head.

  Comus. She fables not. I feel that I do fear

  Her words set of by some superior power;

  And, though not mortal, yet a cold shuddering dew

  Dips me all o’er, as when the wrath of Jove

  Speaks thunder and the chains of Erebus

  To some of Saturn’s crew. I must dissemble,

  And try her yet more strongly.—Come, no more!

  This is mere moral babble, and direct

  Against the canon laws of our foundation.

  I must not suffer this; yet ’t is but the lees

  And settlings of a melancholy blood.

  But this will cure all straight; one sip of this

  Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight

  Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste…

  The BROTHERS rush in with swords drawn, wrest his glass out of his hand, and break it against the ground: his rout make sign of resistance, but are all driven in. The ATTENDANT SPIRIT comes in.

  Spir. What! have you let the false Enchanter scape—

  O ye mistook; ye should have snatched his wand,

  And bound him fast. Without his rod reversed,

  And backward mutters of dissevering power,

  We cannot free the Lady that sits here

  In stony fetters fixed and motionless.

  Yet stay: be not disturbed; now I bethink me,

  Some other means I have which may be used,

  Which once of Melibus old I learnt,

  The soothest Shepherd that ere piped on plains.

  There is a gentle Nymph not far from hence,

  That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream:

  Sabrina is her name: a virgin pure;

  Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,

  That had the sceptre from his father Brute.

  She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit

  Of her enragèd stepdame, Guendolen,

  Commended her fair innocence to the flood

  That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course.

  The water-Nymphs, that in the bottom played,

  Held up their pearlèd wrists, and took her in,

  Bearing her straight to aged Nereus’ hall;

  Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head,

  And gave her to his daughters to imbathe

  In nectared lavers strewed with asphodil,

  And through the porch and inlet of each sense

  Dropt in ambrosial oils, till she revived.

  And underwent a quick immortal change,

  Made Goddess of the river. Still she retains

  Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve

  Visits the herds along with twilight meadows,

  Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs

  That the shrewd meddling Elf delights to make,

  Which she with pretious vialed liquors heals:

  For which the Shepherds, at their festivals,

  Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,

  And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream,

  Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffadils.

  And, as the old Swain said, she can unlock

  The clasping charm, and thaw the numbing spell,

  If she be right invoked in warbled song;

  For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift

  To aid a virgin, such as was herself,

  In hard-besetting need. This will I try,

  And add the power of some adjuring verse.

  Sabrina fair,

  Listen where thou art sitting

  Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

  In twisted braids of lilies knitting

  The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;

  Listen for dear honour’s sake,

  Goddess of the silver lake,

  Listen and save!

  Listen, and appear to us,

  In name of great Oceanus,

  By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace

  And Tethys’ grave majestic pace;

  By hoary Nereus’ wrinkled look,

  And the Carpathian wizard’s hook;

  By scaly Triton’s winding shell,

  And old soothsaying Glaucus’ spell;

  By Leucothea’s lovely hands,

  And her son that rules the strands;

  By Thetis’ tinsel-slippered feet,

  And the songs of Sirens sweet;

  By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,

  And fair Ligea’s golden comb,

  Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks

  Sleeking her soft alluring locks;

  By all the nymphs that nightly dance

  Upon thy streams with wily glance;

  Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head

  From thy coral-paven bed,

  And bridle in thy headlong wave,

  Till thou our summons answered have.

  Listen and save!

  SABRINA rises, attended by Water-nymphs, and sings.

  By the rushy-fringèd bank,

  Where grows the willow and the oiser dank,

  My sliding chariot stays,

  Thick set with agate, and the azurn sheen

  Of turkis blue, and emerald green,

  That in the channel strays:

  Whilst from off the waters fleet

  Thus I set my printless feet

  O’er the cowslip’s velvet head,

  That bends not as I tread.

  Gentle swain, at thy request

  I am here!

  Spir. Goddess dear,

  We implore thy powerful hand

  To undo the charmed band

  Of true virgin here distressed

  Through the force and through the wile

  Of unblessed enchanter vile.

  Sabr. Shepherd, ’t is my office best

  To help insnarèd Chastity,

  Brightest Lady, look on me.

  Thus I sprinkle on thy breast

  Drops that from my fountain pure

  I have kept of pretious cure;

  Thrice upon thy finger’s tip,

  Thrice upon thy rubied lip:

  Next this marble venomed seat,

  Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,

  I touch with chaste palms moist and cold.

  Now the spell hath lost his hold;

  And I must haste ere morning hour

  To wait in Amphitrite’s bower.

  SABRINA descends, and the LADY rises out of her seat.

  Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locrine,

  Sprung of old Anchises’ line,

  May thy brimmed waves for this

  Their full tribute never miss

  From a thousand petty rills,

  That tumble down the snowy hills:

  Summer drouth or singed air

  Never scorch thy tresses fair,

  Nor wet October’s torrent flood

  Thy molten crystal fill with mud;

  May thy billows roll ashore

  The beryl and the golden ore;

  May thy lofty head be crowned

  With many a tower and terrace round,

  And here and there thy banks upon

  With groves of myrrh and cinnamon.

  Come, Lady; while Heaven lends us grace,

  Let us fly this cursed place,

  Lest the Sorcerer us entice

  With some other new device.

  Not a waste or needless sound

  Till we come to holier ground.

  I shall be your faithful guide

  Through this gloomy covert wide;

  And not many furlongs thence

  Is your Father’s residence,

  Where this night are met in state

  Many a friend to gratulate

  His wished presence, and beside

  All the Swains that there abide

  With jigs and rural dance resort.

  We shall catch them at their sport,

  And our sudden coming there

  Will double all their mirth and cheer.

  Come, let us haste; the stars grow high,

  But Night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.

  The Scene changes, presenting Ludlow Town, and the President’s Castle: then come in Country Dancers; after them the ATTENDANT SPIRIT, with the two BROTHERS and the LADY.

  

  Till next sun-shine holiday.

  Here be, without duck or nod,

  Other trippings to be trod

  Of lighter toes, and such court guise

  As Mercury did first devise

  With the mincing Dryades

  On the lawns and on the leas.

  This second Song presents them to their Father and Mother.

  Noble Lord and Lady bright,

  I have brought ye new delight.

  Here behold so goodly grown

  Three fair branches of your own.

  Heaven hath timely tried their youth,

  Their faith, their patience, and their truth,

  And sent them here through hard assays

  With a crown of deathless praise,

  To triumph in victorious dance

  O’er sensual Folly and Intemperance.

  The dances ended, the SPIRIT epiloguizes.

  Spir. To the ocean now I fly,

  And those happy climes that lie

  Where day never shuts his eye,

  Up in the broad fields of the sky.

  There I suck the liquid air,

  All amidst the Gardens fair

  Of Hesperus, and his daughters three

  That sing about the Golden Tree.

  Along the crispèd shades and bowers

  Revels the spruce and jocond Spring;

  The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours

  Thither all their bounties bring.

  There eternal Summer dwells,

  And west winds with musky wing

  About the cedarn alleys fling

  Nard and cassia’s balmy smells.

  Iris there with humid bow

  Waters the odorous banks, that blow

  Flowers of more mingled hue

  Than her purfled scarf can shew,

  And drenches with Elysian dew

  (List mortals, if your ears be true)

  Beds of hyacinth and roses,

  Where young Adonis oft reposes,

  Waxing well of his deep wound

  In slumber soft, and on the ground

  Sadly sits the Assyrian queen;

  But far above in spangled sheen

  Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,

  Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranced,

  After her wandring labours long,

  Till free consent the gods among

  Make her his eternal Bride,

  And from her fair unspotted side

  Two blissful twins are to be born,

  Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.

  But now my task is smoothly done,

  I can fly, or I can run

  Quickly to the green earth’s end,

  Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,

  And from thence can soar as soon

  To the corners of the Moon.

  Mortals, that would follow me,

  Love Virtue, she alone is free;

  She can teach ye how to climb

  Higher than the spheary chime:

  Or, if Virtue feeble were,

  Heaven itself would stoop to her.

  In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.

  YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more,

  Ye Myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

  I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,

  And with forced fingers rude

  Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

  Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear

  Compels me to disturb your season due;

  For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,

  Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.

  Who would not sing for Lycidas— he knew

  Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

  He must not float upon his watery bier

  Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,

  Without the meed of some melodious tear.

  Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well

  That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;

  Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.

  Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:

  So may some gentle Muse

  With lucky words favour my destined urn,

  And as he passes turn,

  And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!

  For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,

  Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill;

  Together both, ere the high lawns appeared

  Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,

  We drove a-field, and both together heard

  What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,

  Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

  Oft till the star that rose at evening bright

  Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.

  Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;

  Tempered to the oaten flute

  Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel

  From the glad sound would not be absent long;

  And old Damtas loved to hear our song.

  But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,

  Now thou art gone and never must return!

  Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,

  With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,

  And all their echoes, mourn.

  The willows, and the hazel copses green,

  Shall now no more be seen

  Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

  As killing as the canker to the rose,

  Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

  Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,

  When first the white-thorn blows;

  Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear.

  Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep

  Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas—

  For neither were ye playing on the steep

  Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,

  Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

  Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream.

  Ay me! I fondly dream

  “Had ye been there,”… for what could that have done—

  What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,

  The Muse herself, for her inchanting son,

  Whom universal nature did lament,

  When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,

  His gory visage down the stream was sent,

  Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore—

  Alas! what boots it with uncessant care

  To tend the homely, slighted, Shepherd’s trade,

  And strictly meditate the thankless Muse—

  Were it not better done, as others use,

  To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

  Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair—

  Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

  (That last infirmity of noble mind)

  To scorn delights and live laborious days;

  But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

  And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

  Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears,

  And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,”

  Phbus replied, and touched my trembling ears:

  “Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

  Nor in the glistering foil

  Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,

  But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes

  And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

  As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

  Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.”

  O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,

  Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,

  That strain I heard was of a higher mood.

  But now my oat proceeds,

  And listens to the Herald of the Sea,

  That came in Neptune’s plea.

  He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds.

  What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain—

  And questioned every gust of rugged wings

  That blows from off each beaked promontory.

  They knew not of his story;

  And sage Hippotades their answer brings,

  That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:

  The air was calm, and on the level brine

  Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

  It was that fatal and perfidious bark,

  Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,

  That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

  Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,

  His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,

  Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge

  Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.

  “Ah! who hath reft,” quoth he, “my dearest pledge—”

  Last came, and last did go,

  The pilot of the Galilean Lake;

  Two massy keys he bore of metals twain

  (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

  He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:—

  “How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,

  Anow of such as, for their bellies’ sake,

  Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!

  Of other care they little reckoning make

  Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,

  And shove away the worthy bidden guest.

  Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold

  A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least

  That to the faithful Herdman’s art belongs!

  What recks it them— What need they— They are sped;

  And, when they list, their lean and fleshy songs

  Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;

  The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,

  But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,

  Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;

  Besides what the grim Wolf with privy paw

  Daily devours apace, and nothing said.

  But that two-handed engine at the door

  Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.”

  Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past

  That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,

  And call the vales, and bid them hither cast

  Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.

  Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use

  Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,

  On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,

  Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,

  That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,

  And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

  Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

  The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine,

  The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,

  The glowing violet,

  The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,

  With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

  And every flower that sad embroidery wears;

  Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

  And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

  To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.

  For so, to interpose a little ease,

  Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.

  Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas

  Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled;

  Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

  Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide

  Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;

  Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,

  Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,

  Where the great Vision of the guarded mount

  Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold.

  Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with ruth:

  And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

  Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,

  For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

  Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.

  So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

  And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

  And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore

  Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

  So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

  Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,

  Where, other groves and other streams along,

  With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,

  And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

  In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.

  There entertain him all the Saints above,

  In solemn troops, and sweet societies,

  That sing, and singing in their glory move,

  And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

  Now, Lycidas, the Shepherds weep no more;

  Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,

  In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

  To all that wander in that perilous flood.

  Thus sang the uncouth Swain to the oaks and rills,

  While the still Morn went out with sandals grey:

  He touched the tender stops of various quills,

  With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:

  And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,

  And now was dropt into the western bay.

  At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:

  To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

  CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms,

  Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,

  If deed of honour did thee ever please,

  Guard them, and him within protect from harms.

  He can requite thee, for he knows the charms

  That call fame on such gentle acts as these,

  And he can spread thy name o’er lands and seas,

  Whatever clime the sun’s bright circle warms.

  Lift not thy spear against the Muse’s bower;

  The great Emathian conqueror bid spare

  The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower

  Went to the ground; and the repeated air

  Of sad Electra’s Poet had the power

  To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

  LADY! that in the prime of earliest youth

  Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green,

  And with those few art eminently seen,

  That labour up the Hill of Heavenly Truth,

  The better part with Mary and with Ruth

  Chosen thou hast, and they that overween,

  And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,

  No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.

  Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends

  To fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light.

  And Hope that reaps not shame; therefore be sure,

  Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends

  Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,

  Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.

  DAUGHTER to that good Earl, one President

  Of England’s Council and her Treasury,

  Who lived in both unstained with gold or fee,

  And left them both, more in himself content,

  Till the sad breaking of that Parliament

  Broke him, as that dishonest victory

  At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty,

  Killed with report that old man eloquent,

  Though later born than to have known the days

  Wherein your father flourished, yet by you,

  Madam, methinks I see him living yet:

  So well your words his noble virtues praise

  That all both judge you to relate them true

  And to possess them, honoured Margaret.

  A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon,

  And woven close, both matter, form, and style;

  The subject new: it walked the town a while,

  Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on.

  Cries the stall-reader, “Bless us! what a word on

  A title-page is this!; and some in file

  Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile—

  End Green. Why, is it harder, sirs, than Gordon,

  Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp—

  Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek

  That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.

  Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek,

  Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,

  When thou taught’st Cambridge and King Edward Greek.

  I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs

  By the known rules of ancient liberty,

  When straight a barbarous noise environs me

  Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs;

  As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs

  Railed at Latona’s twin-born progeny,

  Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee.

  But this is got by casting pearl to hogs,

  That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,

  And still revolt when Truth would set them free.

  Licence they mean when they cry Liberty;

  For who loves that must first be wise and good:

  But from that mark how far they rove we see,

  For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.

  BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord,

  And with stiff vows renounced his Liturgy,

  To seize the widowed whore Plurality,

  From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred,

  Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword

  To force our consciences that Christ set free,

  And ride us with a Classic Hierarchy,

  Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rutherford—

  Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent,

  Would have been held in high esteem with Paul

  Must now be named and printed heretics

  By shallow Edwards and Scotch What-d’ye-call!

  But we do hope to find out all your tricks,

  Your plots and packing, worse than those of Trent,

  That so the Parliament

  May with their wholesome and preventive shears

  Clip your phylacteries, though baulk your ears,

  And succour our just fears,

  When they shall read this clearly in your charge:

  New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.

  HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song

  First taught our English music how to span

  Words with just note and accent, not to scan

  With Midas’ ears, committing short and long,

  Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,

  With praise enough for Envy to look wan;

  To after age thou shalt be writ the man

  That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.

  Thou honour’st Verse, and Verse must lend her wing

  To honour thee, the priest of Phbus’ quire,

  That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.

  Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher

  Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,

  Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.

  WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,

  Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,

  Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

  Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.

  Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,

  Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;

  But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,

  Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.

  Love led them on; and Faith, who knew them best

  Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams

  And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,

  And speak the truth of thee on glorious themes

  Before the Judge; who henceforth bid thee rest,

  And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

  FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,

  Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,

  And all her jealous monarchs with amaze,

  And rumours loud that daunt remotest kings,

  Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings

  Victory home, though new rebellions raise

  Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays

  Her broken league to imp their serpent wings.

  O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand

  (For what can war but endless war still breed—)

  Till truth and right from violence be freed,

  And public faith cleared from the shameful brand

  Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed,

  While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

  CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud

  Not of war only, but detractions rude,

  Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

  To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,

  And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

  Hast reared God’s trophies, and his work pursued,

  While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,

  And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,

  And Worcester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains

  To conquer still; Peace hath her victories

  No less renowned than War: new foes arise,

  Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.

  Help us to save free conscience from the paw

  Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw.

  VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old,

  Than whom a better senator ne’er held

  The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled

  The fierce Epirot and the African bold,

  Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

  The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled;

  Then to advise how war may best, upheld,

  Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,

  In all her equipage; besides, to know

  Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,

  What severs each, thou hast learned, which few have done.

  The bounds of either sword to thee we owe:

  Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans

  In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

  AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones

  Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;

  Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,

  When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones,

  Forget not: in thy book record their groans

  Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

  Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled

  Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

  The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

  To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow

  O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway

  The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow

  A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,

  Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

  WHEN I consider how my light is spent

  Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

  And that one Talent which is death to hide

  Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

  To serve therewith my Maker, and present

  My true account, lest He returning chide,

  “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied—”

  I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

  That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need

  Either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best

  Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

  Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

  And post o’er land and ocean without rest;

  They also serve who only stand and wait.”

  LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,

  Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,

  Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire

  Help waste a sullen day, what may be won

  From the hard season gaining— Time will run

  On smoother, till Favonius reinspire

  The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire

  The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.

  What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

  Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise

  To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice

  Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air—

  He who of those delights can judge, and spare

  To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

  CYRIACK, whose grandsire on the royal bench

  Of British Themis, with no mean applause,

  Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,

  Which others at their bar so often wrench,

  To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench

  In mirth that after no repenting draws;

  Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,

  And what the Swede intend, and what the French.

  To measure life learn thou betimes, and know

  Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;

  For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,

  And disapproves that care, though wise in show,

  That with superfluous burden loads the day,

  And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

  CYRIACK, this three years’ day these eyes, though clear,

  To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

  Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;

  Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear

  Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,

  Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

  Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate a jot

  Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer

  Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask—

  The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied

  In liberty’s defence, my noble task,

  Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

  This thought might lead me through the world’s vain mask

  Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

  METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint

  Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

  Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,

  Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint.

  Mine, as whom washed from spot of childbed taint

  Purification in the Old Law did save,

  And such as yet once more I trust to have

  Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,

  Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.

  Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight

  Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined

  So clear as in no face with more delight.

  But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined,

  I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

  The measure is English heroic verse without rime, as that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin—rime being no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse, in longer works especially, but the invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame metre; graced indeed since by the use of some famous modern poets, carried away by custom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse, than else they would have expressed them. Not without cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish poets of prime note have rejected rime both in longer and shorter works, as have also long since our best English tragedies, as a thing of itself, to all judicious ears, trivial and of no true musical delight; which consists only in apt numbers, fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings—a fault avoided by the learned ancients both in poetry and all good oratory. This neglect then of rime so little is to be taken for a defect, though it may seem so perhaps to vulgar readers, that it rather is to be esteemed an example set, the first in English, of ancient liberty recovered to heroic poem from the troublesome and modern bondage of riming.

  THE ARGUMENT.—This First Book proposes, first in brief, the whole subject—Man’s disobedience, and the loss thereupon of Paradise, wherein he was placed: then touches the prime cause of his fall—the Serpent, or rather Satan in the Serpent; who, revolting from God, and drawing to his side many legions of Angels, was, by the command of God, driven out of Heaven, with all his crew, into the great Deep. Which action passed over, the Poem hastes into the midst of things; presenting Satan, with his Angels, now fallen into Hell—described here not in the Centre (for heaven and earth may be supposed as yet not made, certainly not yet accursed), but in a place of utter darkness, fitliest called Chaos. Here Satan, with his Angels lying on the burning lake, thunderstruck and astonished after a certain space recovers, as from confusion; calls up him who, next in order and dignity, lay by him: they confer of their miserable fall. Satan awakens all his legions, who lay till then in the same manner confounded. They rise: their numbers; array of battle; their chief leaders named, according to the idols known afterwards in Canaan and the countries adjoining. To these Satan directs his speech; comforts them with hope yet of regaining Heaven; but tells them, lastly, of a new world and new kind of creature to be created, according to an ancient prophecy, or report, in Heaven—for that Angels were long before this visible creation was the opinion of many ancient Fathers. To find out the truth of this prophecy, and what to determine thereon, he refers to a full council. What his associates thence attempt. Pandemonium, the palace of Satan, rises, suddenly built out of the Deep: the infernal Peers there sit in council.

  OF MAN’S first disobedience, and the fruit

  Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

  Brought death into the World, and all our woe,

  With loss of Eden, till one greater Man

  Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,

  Sing, Heavenly Muse, that, on the secret top

  Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire

  That Shepherd who first taught the chosen seed

  In the beginning how the heavens and earth

  Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill

  Delight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flowed

  Fast by the oracle of God, I thence

  Invoke thy aid to my adventrous song,

  That with no middle flight intends to soar

  Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues

  Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

  And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer

  Before all temples the upright heart and pure,

  Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the first

  Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread,

  Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast Abyss,

  And mad’st it pregnant: what in me is dark

  Illumine, what is low raise and support;

  That, to the highth of this great argument,

  I may assert Eternal Providence,

  And justify the ways of God to men.

  Say first—for Heaven hides nothing from thy view,

  Nor the deep tract of Hell—say first what cause

  Moved our grand Parents, in that happy state,

  Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off

  From their Creator, and transgress his will

  For one restraint, lords of the World besides.

  Who first seduced them to that foul revolt—

  The infernal Serpent; he it was whose guile,

  Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived

  The mother of mankind, what time his pride

  Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host

  Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring

  To set himself in glory above his peers,

  He trusted to have equalled the Most High,

  If he opposed, and, with ambitious aim

  Against the throne and monarchy of God,

  Raised impious war in Heaven and battle proud,

  With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power

  Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,

  With hideous ruin and combustion, down

  To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

  In adamantine chains and penal fire,

  Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.

  Nine times the space that measures day and night

  To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew,

  Lay vanquished, rowling in the fiery gulf,

  Confounded, though immortal. But his doom

  Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought

  Both of lost happiness and lasting pain

  Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes,

  That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,

  Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.

  At once, as far as Angel’s ken, he views

  The dismal situation waste and wild.

  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 had 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 the 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

  Beëlzebub. To whom the Arch-Enemy,

  And thence in Heaven called Satan, with bold words

  Breaking the horrid silence, thus began:—

  “If thou beest he—but Oh 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 highth 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 contention 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 the excess of joy

  Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven.”

  So spake the 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 thronèd Powers

  That led the 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,

  Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire,

  Or do errands in the gloomy Deep—

  What can it then avail though yet we feel

  Strength undiminished, or eternal being

  To undergo eternal punishment—”

  Whereto with speedy words the Arch-Fiend replied:—

  “Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable,

  Doing or suffering: but of this be sure—

  To do aught good never will be our task,

  But ever to do ill our sole delight,

  As being the contrary to His high will

  Whom we resist. If then His providence

  Out of our evil seek to bring forth good,

  Our labour must be to pervert that end,

  And out of good still to find means of evil;

  Which ofttimes may succeed so as perhaps

  Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb

  His inmost counsels from their destined aim.

  But see! the angry Victor hath recalled

  His ministers of vengeance and pursuit

  Back to the gates of Heaven: the sulphurous hail,

  Shot after us in storm, o’erblown hath laid

  The fiery surge that from the precipice

  Of Heaven received us falling; and the thunder,

  Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage,

  Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now

  To bellow through the vast and boundless Deep.

  Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn

  Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe.

  Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,

  The seat of desolation, void of light,

  Save what the glimmering of these livid flames

  Casts pale and dreadful— Thither let us tend

  From off the tossing of these fiery waves;

  There rest, if any rest can harbour there;

  And, re-assembling our afflicted powers,

  Consult how we may henceforth most offend

  Our Enemy, our own loss how repair,

  How overcome this dire calamity,

  What reinforcement we may gain from hope,

  If not what resolution from despair.”

  Thus Satan, talking to his nearest Mate,

  With head uplift above the wave, and eyes

  That sparkling blazed; his other parts besides

  Prone on the flood, extended long and large,

  Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge

  As whom the fables name of monstrous size,

  Titanian or Earth-born, that warred on Jove,

  Briareos or Typhon, whom the den

  By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast

  Leviathan, which God of all his works

  Created hugest that swim the ocean-stream.

  Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam,

  The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff,

  Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell,

  With fixèd anchor in his scaly rind,

  Moors by his side under the lee, while night

  Invests the sea, and wishèd morn delays.

  So stretched out huge in length the Arch-Fiend lay,

  Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thence

  Had risen, or heaved his head, but that the will

  And high permission of all-ruling Heaven

  Left him at large to his own dark designs,

  That with reiterated crimes he might

  Heap on himself damnation, while he sought

  Evil to others, and enraged might see

  How all his malice served but to bring forth

  Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn

  On Man by him seduced, but on himself

  Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured.

  Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool

  His mighty stature; on each hand the flames

  Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and, rowled

  In billows, leave i’ the midst a horrid vale.

  Then with expanded wings he steers his flight

  Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air,

  That felt unusual weight; till on dry land

  He lights—if it were land that ever burned

  With solid, as the lake with liquid fire,

  And such appeared in hue as when the force

  Of subterranean wind transports a hill

  Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side

  Of thundering AEtna, whose combustible

  And fuelled entrails, thence conceiving fire,

  Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds,

  And leave a singèd bottom all involved

  With stench and smoke. Such resting found the sole

  Of unblest feet. Him followed his next Mate;

  Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood

  As gods, and by their own recovered strength,

  Not by the sufferance of supernal power.

  “Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,”

  Said then the lost Archangel, “this the seat

  That we must change for Heaven——this mournful gloom

  For that celestial light— Be it so, since He

  Who now is sovran can dispose and bid

  What shall be right: fardest from Him is best,

  Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme

  Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,

  Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,

  Infernal World! and thou, profoundest Hell,

  Receive thy new possessor—one who brings

  A mind not to be changed by place or time.

  The mind is its own place, and in itself

  Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

  What matter where, if I be still the same,

  And what I should be, all but less than he

  Whom thunder hath made greater— Here at least

  We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built

  Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:

  Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,

  To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:

  Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

  But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,

  The associates and co-partners of our loss,

  Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,

  And call them not to share with us their part

  In this unhappy mansion, or once more

  With rallied arms to try what may be yet

  Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell—”

  So Satan spake; and him Beëlzebub

  Thus answered:—“Leader of those armies bright

  Which, but the Omnipotent, none could have foiled!

  If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge

  Of hope in fears and dangers—heard so oft

  In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge

  Of battle, when it raged, in all assaults

  Their surest signal—they will soon resume

  New courage and revive, though now they lie

  Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire,

  As we erewhile, astounded and amazed;

  No wonder, fallen such a pernicious highth!”

  He scarce had ceased when the superior Fiend

  Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield,

  Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,

  Behind him cast. The broad circumference

  Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb

  Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views

  At evening, from the top of Fesolè,

  Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,

  Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.

  His spear—to equal which the tallest pine

  Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast

  Of some great Ammiral, were but a wand—

  He walked with, to support uneasy steps

  Over the burning marle, not like those steps

  On Heaven’s azure; and the torrid clime

  Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.

  Nathless he so endured, till on the beach

  Of that inflamèd sea he stood, and called

  His legions—Angel Forms, who lay entranced

  Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks

  In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades

  High over-arched imbower; or scattered sedge

  Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed

  Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves o’erthrew

  Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,

  While with perfidious hatred they pursued

  The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld

  From the safe shore their floating carcases

  And broken chariot-wheels. So thick bestrown,

  Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood,

  Under amazement of their hideous change.

  He called so loud that all the hollow deep

  Of Hell resounded:—“Princes, Potentates,

  Warriors, the Flower of Heaven—once yours; now lost,

  If such astonishment as this can seize

  Eternal Spirits! Or have ye chosen this place

  After the toil of battle to repose

  Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find

  To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven—

  Or in this abject posture have ye sworn

  To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds

  Cherub and Seraph rowling in the flood

  With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon

  His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern

  The advantage, and, descending tread us down

  Thus drooping, or with linkèd thunderbolts

  Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf——

  Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen!”

  They heard, and were abashed, and up they sprung

  Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch,

  On duty sleeping found by whom they dread,

  Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.

  Nor did they not perceive the evil plight

  In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel;

  Yet to their General’s voice they soon obeyed

  Innumerable. As when the potent rod

  Of Amram’s son, in Egypt’s evil day,

  Waved round the coast, up-called a pitchy cloud

  Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind,

  That o’er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung

  Like Night, and darkened all the land of Nile;

  So numberless were those bad Angels seen

  Hovering on wing under the cope of Hell,

  ’Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires;

  Till, as a signal given, the uplifted spear

  Of their great Sultan waving to direct

  Their course, in even balance down they light

  On the firm brimstone, and fill the plain:

  A multitude like which the populous North

  Poured never from her frozen loins to pass

  Rhene or the Danaw, when her barbarous sons

  Came like a deluge on the South, and spread

  Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.

  Forthwith, from every squadron and each band,

  The heads and leaders thither haste where stood

  Their great Commander—godlike Shapes, and Forms

  Excelling human; princely Dignities;

  And powers that erst in Heaven sat on thrones,

  Though of their names in Heavenly records now

  Be no memorial, blotted out and rased

  By their rebellion from the Books of Life.

  Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve

  Got them new names, till, wondering o’er the earth,

  Through God’s high sufferance for the trial of man,

  By falsities and lies the greatest part

  Of mankind they corrupted to forsake

  God their Creator, and the invisible

  Glory of Him that made them to transform

  Oft to the image of a brute, adorned

  With gay religions full of pomp and gold,

  And devils to adore for deities:

  Then were they known to men by various names,

  And various idols through the heathen world.

  Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, who last,

  Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch,

  At their great Emperor’s call, as next in worth

  Came singly where he stood on the bare strand,

  While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof.

  The chief were those who, from the pit of Hell

  Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix

  Their seats, long after, next the seat of God,

  Their altars by His altar, gods adored

  Among the nations round, and durst abide

  Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned

  Between the Cherubim; yea, often placed

  Within His sanctuary itself their shrines,

  Abominations; and with cursed things

  His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned,

  And with their darkness durst affront His light.

  First, Moloch, horrid King, besmeared with blood

  Of human sacrifice, and parents’ tears;

  Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud,

  Their children’s cries unheard that passed through fire

  To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite

  Worshiped in Rabba and her watery plain,

  In Argob and in Basan, to the stream

  Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such

  Audacious neighbourhood, the wisest heart

  Of Solomon he led by fraud to build

  His temple right against the temple of God

  On that opprobrious hill, and made his grove

  The pleasant valley of Hinnom, Tophet thence

  And black Gehenna called, the type of Hell.

  Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab’s sons,

  From Aroar to Nebo and the wild

  Of southmost Abarim; in Hesebon

  And Horonaim, Seon’s realm, beyond

  The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines,

  And Elealè to the Asphaltick Pool:

  Peor his other name, when he enticed

  Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile,

  To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe.

  Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged

  Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove

  Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate,

  Till good Josiah drove them thence to Hell.

  With these came they who, from the bordering flood

  Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts

  Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names

  Of Baalim and Ashtaroth—those male,

  These feminine. For Spirits, when they please,

  Can either sex assume, or both; so soft

  And uncompounded is their essence pure,

  Not tied or manacled with joint or limb,

  Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,

  Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape they choose,

  Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure,

  Can execute their aery purposes,

  And works of love or enmity fulfil.

  For those the race of Israel oft forsook

  Their Living Strength, and unfrequented left

  His righteous altar, bowing lowly down

  To bestial gods; for which their heads, as low

  Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear

  Of despicable foes. With these in troop

  Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians called

  Astarte, queen of heaven, with cresent horns;

  To whose bright image nightly by the moon

  Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs;

  In Sion also not unsung, where stood

  Her temple on the offensive mountain, built

  By that uxorious king whose heart, though large,

  Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell

  To idols foul. Thammuz came next behind,

  Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured

  The Syrian damsels to lament his fate

  In amorous ditties all a summer’s day,

  While smooth Adonis from his native rock

  Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood

  Of Thammuz yearly wounded: the love-tale

  Infected Sion’s daughters with like heat,

  Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch

  Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led,

  His eye surveyed the dark idolatries

  Of alienated Judah. Next came one

  Who mourned in earnest, when the captive Ark

  Maimed his brute image, head and hands lopt off,

  In his own temple, on the grunsel-edge,

  Where he fell flat and shamed his worshipers:

  Dagon his name, sea-monster, upward man

  And downward fish; yet had his temple high

  Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast

  Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon,

  And Accaron and Gaza’s frontier bounds.

  Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat

  Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks

  Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.

  He also against the house of God was bold:

  A leper once he lost, and gained a king—

  Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew

  God’s altar to disparage and displace

  For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn

  His odious offerings, and adore the gods

  Whom he had vanquished. After these appeared

  A crew who, under names of old renown—

  Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train—

  With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused

  Fanatic Egypt and her priests to seek

  Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms

  Rather than human. Nor did Israel scape

  The infection, when their borrowed gold composed

  The calf in Oreb; and the rebel king

  Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan,

  Likening his Maker to the grazèd ox—

  Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passed

  From Egypt marching, equalled with one stroke

  Both her first-born and all her bleating gods.

  Belial came last; than whom a Spirit more lewd

  Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love,

  Vice for itself. To him no temple stood

  Or altar smoked; yet who more oft than he

  In temples and at altars, when the priest

  Turns atheist, as did Eli’s sons, who filled

  With lust and violence the house of God—

  In courts and palaces he also reigns,

  And in luxurious cities, where the noise

  Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers,

  And injury and outrage; and, when night

  Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons

  Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

  Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night

  In Gibeah, when the hospitable door

  Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape.

  These were the prime in order and in might:

  The rest were long to tell; though far renowned

  The Ionian gods—of Javan’s issue held

  Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and Earth,

  Their boasted parents;—Titan, Heaven’s first-born,

  With his enormous brood, and birthright seized

  By younger Saturn: he from mightier Jove,

  His own and Rhea’s son, like measure found;

  So Jove unsurping reigned. These, first in Crete

  And Ida known, thence on the snowy top

  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 the 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, nor substance, gently raised

  Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears:

  Then straight commands that, at the war-like 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

  The imperial ensign; which, full high advanced,

  Shon like a meteor streaming to the wind,

  With gems and golden lustre rich imblazed,

  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 highth 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 imbodied force as, named with these,

  Could merit more than that small infantry

  Warred on by cranes—though all the giant brood

  Of Phlegra with the 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 the 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 shon

  Above them all the 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

  The fellows of his crime, the followers rather

  (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 singèd 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 the Almighty!—and that strife

  Was not inglorious, though the event was dire,

  As this place testifies, and this dire change,

  Hateful to utter. But what power of mind,

  Foreseeing 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 reascend,

  Self-raised, and re-possess 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

  Caelestial Spirits in bondage, nor the 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, out-flew

  Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs

  Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze

  Far around illumined Hell. Highly they raged

  Again the Highest and fierce with graspèd arms

  Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war,

  Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

  There stood a hill not far, whose griesly top

  Belched fire and rowling smoke; the rest entire

  Shown with a glossy scurf—undoubted sign

  That in his womb was hid metallic ore,

  The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed,

  A numerous brigad hastened: as when bands

  Of pioners, 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 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 pretious 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 Babilon

  Nor great Alcairo such magnificence

  Equalled in all their glories, to inshrine

  Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat

  Their kings, when AEgypt with Assyria strove

  In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile

  Stood fixed her stately highth; and straight the doors

  Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide

  Within, her ample spaces o’er the smooth

  And level pavement: from the arched roof,

  Pendent by subtle magic, many a row

  Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed

  With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light

  As from a sky. The hasty multitude

  Admiring entered; and the work some praise,

  And some the Architect. His hand was known

  In Heaven by many a towered structure high,

  Where sceptred Angels held their residence,

  And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King

  Exalted to such power, and gave to rule,

  Each in his hierarchy, the Orders bright.

  Nor was his name unheard or unadored

  In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land

  Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell

  From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry Jove

  Sheer o’er the crystal battlements: from morn

  To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,

  A summer’s day, and with the setting sun

  Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star,

  On Lemnos, the AEgaean isle. Thus they relate,

  Erring; for he with this rebellious rout

  Fell long before; nor aught availed him now

  To have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he scape

  By all his engines, but was headlong sent,

  With his industrious crew, to build in Hell.

  Meanwhile the wingèd Haralds, by command

  Of sovran power, with awful ceremony

  And trumpet’s sound, throughout the host proclaim

  A solemn council forthwith to be held

  At Pandaemonium, the high capital

  Of Satan and his peers. Their summons called

  From every band and squarèd regiment

  By place or choice the worthiest: they anon

  With hundreds and with thousands trooping came

  Attended. All access was thronged; the gates

  And porches wide, but chief the spacious hall

  (Though like a covered field, where champions bold

  Wont ride in armed, and at the Soldan’s chair

  Defied the best of Panim chivalry

  To mortal combat, or career with lance),

  Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air,

  Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As bees

  In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus rides,

  Pour forth their populous youth about the hive

  In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers

  Fly to and fro, or on the smoothèd plank,

  The suburb of their straw-built citadel,

  New rubbed with balm, expatiate, and confer

  Their state-affairs: so thick the aerie crowd

  Swarmed and were straitened; till, the signal given,

  Behold a wonder! They but now who seemed

  In bigness to surpass Earth’s giant sons,

  Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room

  Throng numberless—like that pygmean race

  Beyond the Indian mount; or faery elves,

  Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side

  Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,

  Or dreams he sees, while overhead the Moon

  Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth

  Wheels her pale course: they, on their mirth and dance

  Intent, with jocond 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.

  THE ARGUMENT.—The consultation begun, Satan debates whether another battle is to be hazarded for the recovery of Heaven: some advise it, others dissuade. A third proposal is preferred, mentioned before by Satan—to search the truth of that prophecy or tradition in Heaven concerning another world, and another kind of creature, equal, or not much inferior, to themselves, about this time to be created. Their doubt who shall be sent on this difficult search: Satan, their chief, undertakes alone the voyage; is honoured and applauded. The council thus ended, the rest betake them several ways and to several imployments, as their inclinations lead them, to entertain the time till Satan return. He passes on his journey to Hell-gates; finds them shut, and who sat there to guard them; by whom at length they are opened, and discover to him the great gulf between Hell and Heaven. With what difficulty he passes through, directed by Chaos, the Power of that place, to the sight of this new World which he sought.

  HIGH on a throne of royal state, which far

  Outshon 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 the 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

  Up to our native seat; descent and fall

  To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,

  When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear

  Insulting, and pursued us through the Deep,

  With what compulsion and laborious flight

  We sunk thus low— The ascent is easy, then;

  The event is feared! Should we again provoke

  Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find

  To our destruction, if there be in Hell

  Fear to be worse destroyed! What can be worse

  Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned

  In this abhorred deep to utter woe;

  Where pain of unextinguishable fire

  Must exercise us without hope of end

  The vassals of his anger, when the scourge

  Inexorably, and the torturing hour,

  Calls us to penance— More destroyed than thus,

  We should be quite abolished, and expire.

  What fear we then— what doubt we to incense

  His utmost ire— which, to the highth enraged,

  Will either quite consume us, and reduce

  To nothing this essential—happier far

  Than miserable to have eternal being!—

  Or, if our substance be indeed Divine,

  And cannot cease to be, we are at worst

  On this side nothing; and by proof we feel

  Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven,

  And with perpetual inroads to alarm,

  Though inaccessible, his fatal Throne:

  Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.”

  He ended frowning, and his look denounced

  Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous

  To less than gods. On the other side up rose

  Belial, in act more graceful and humane.

  A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed

  For dignity composed, and high exploit.

  But all was false and hollow, though his tongue

  Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear

  The better reason, to perplex and dash

  Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low—

  To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds

  Timorous and slothful. Yet he pleased the ear,

  And with persuasive accent thus began:—

  “I should be much for open war, O Peers,

  As not behind in hate, if what was urged

  Main reason to persuade immediate war

  Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast

  Ominous conjecture on the whole success;

  When he who most excels in fact of arms,

  In what he counsels and in what excels

  Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair

  And utter dissolution, as the scope

  Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.

  First, what revenge— The towers of Heaven are filled

  With armèd watch, that render all access

  Impregnable: oft on the bordering Deep

  Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing

  Scout far and wide into the realm of Night,

  Scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way

  By force, and at our heels all Hell should rise

  With blackest insurrection to confound

  Heaven’s purest light, yet our great Enemy,

  All incorruptible, would on his throne

  Sit unpolluted, and the ethereal mould,

  Incapable of stain, would soon expel

  Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,

  Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope

  Is flat despair: we must exasperate

  The Almighty Victor to spend all his rage:

  And that must end us; that must be our cure—

  To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose,

  Though full of pain, this intellectual being,

  Those thoughts that wander through eternity,

  To perish rather, swallowed up and lost

  In the wide womb of uncreated Night,

  Devoid of sense and motion— and who knows,

  Let this be good, whether our angry Foe

  Can give it, or will ever— How he can

  Is doubtful; that he never will is sure.

  Will He, so wise, let loose at once his ire,

  Belike through impotence or unaware,

  To give his enemies their wish, and end

  Them in his anger whom his anger saves

  To punish endless— ‘Wherefore cease we, then—’

  Say they who counsel war; ‘we are decreed,

  Reserved, and destined to eternal woe;

  Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,

  What can we suffer worse—’ Is this, then, worst—

  Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms—

  What when we fled amain, pursued and strook

  With Heaven’s afflicting thunder, and besought

  The Deep to shelter us— This Hell then seemed

  A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay

  Chained on the burning lake— That sure was worse.

  What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,

  Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,

  And plunge us in the flames; or from above

  Should intermitted vengeance arm again

  His red right hand to plague us— What if all

  Her stores were opened, and this firmament

  Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire,

  Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall

  One day upon our heads; while we perhaps,

  Designing or exhorting glorious war,

  Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled.

  Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey

  Of racking whirlwinds, or for ever sunk

  Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains,

  There to converse with everlasting groans,

  Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,

  Ages of hopeless end— This would be worse.

  War, therefore, open or concealed, alike

  My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile

  With Him, or who deceive His mind, whose eye

  Views all things at one view— He from Heaven’s highth

  All these our motions vain sees and derides,

  Not more almighty to resist our might

  Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles.

  Shall we, then, live thus vile—the race of Heaven

  Thus trampled, thus expelled, to suffer here

  Chains and these torments— Better these than worse

  By my advice; since fate inevitable

  Subdues us, and omnipotent decree,

  The Victor’s will. To suffer, as to do,

  Our strength is equal; nor the law unjust

  That so ordains. This was at first resolved,

  If we were wise, against so great a foe

  Contending, and so doubtful what might fall.

  I laugh when those who at the spear are bold

  And ventrous, if that fail them, shrink, and fear

  What yet they know must follow—to endure

  Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain,

  The sentence of their conqueror. This is now

  Our doom; which if we can sustain and bear,

  Our Supreme Foe in time may such remit

  His anger, and perhaps, thus far removed,

  Not mind us not offending, satisfied

  With what is punished; whence these raging fires

  Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames.

  Our purer essence then will overcome

  Their noxious vapour; or, inured, not feel;

  Or, changed at length, and to the place conformed

  In temper and in nature, will receive

  Familiar the fierce heat; and void of pain,

  This horror will grow mild, this darkness light;

  Besides what hope the never-ending flight

  Of future days may bring, what chance, what change

  Worth waiting—since our present lot appears

  For happy though but ill, for ill not worst,

  If we procure not to ourselves more woe.”

  Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason’s garb,

  Counselled ignoble ease and peaceful sloth,

  Not peace; and after him thus Mammon spake:—

  “Either to disinthrone the King of Heaven

  We war, if war be best, or to regain

  Our own right lost. Him to unthrone we then

  May hope, when everlasting Fate shall yield

  To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.

  The former, vain to hope, argues as vain

  The latter; for what place can be for us

  Within Heaven’s bound, unless Heaven’s Lord Supreme

  We overpower— Suppose he should relent,

  And publish grace to all, on promise made

  Of new subjection; with what eyes could we

  Stand in his presence humble, and receive

  Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne

  With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead sing

  Forced Halleluiahs, while he lordly sits

  Our envied sovran, and his altar breathes

  Ambrosial odours and ambrosial flowers,

  Our servile offerings— This must be our task

  In Heaven, this our delight. How wearisome

  Eternity so spent in worship paid

  To whom we hate! Let us not then pursue,

  By force impossible, by leave obtained

  Unacceptable, though in Heaven, our state

  Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek

  Our own good from ourselves, and from our own

  Live to ourselves, though in this vast recess,

  Free and none accountable, preferring

  Hard liberty before the easy yoke

  Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear

  Then most conspicuous when great things of small,

  Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse,

  We can create, and in what place soe’er

  Thrive under evil, and work ease out of pain

  Through labour and indurance. This deep world

  Of darkness do we dread— How oft amidst

  Thick clouds and dark doth Heaven’s all-ruling Sire

  Choose to reside, his glory unobscured,

  And with the majesty of darkness round

  Covers his throne, from whence deep thunders roar,

  Mustering their rage, and Heaven resembles Hell!

  As He our darkness, cannot we His light

  Imitate when we please— This desart soil

  Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold;

  Nor want we skill or art from whence to raise

  Magnificence; and what can Heaven shew more—

  Our torments also may, in length of time,

  Become our elements, these piercing fires

  As soft as now severe, our temper changed

  Into their temper; which must needs remove

  The sensible of pain. All things invite

  To peaceful counsels, and the settled state

  Of order, how in safety best we may

  Compose our present evils, with regard

  Of what we are and where, dismissing quite

  All thoughts of war. Ye have what I advise.”

  He scarce had finished, when such murmur filled

  The assembly as when hollow rocks retain

  The sound of blustering winds, which all night long

  Had roused the sea, now with hoarse cadence lull

  Seafaring men o’erwatched, whose bark by chance,

  Or pinnace, anchors in a craggy bay

  After the tempest. Such applause was heard

  As Mammon ended, and his sentence pleased,

  Advising peace: for such another field

  They dreaded worse than Hell; so much the fear

  Of thunder and the sword of Michaël

  Wrought still within them; and no less desire

  To found this nether empire, which might rise,

  By policy and long process’ of time,

  In emulation opposite to Heaven.

  Which when Beëlzebub perceived—than whom,

  Satan except, none higher sat—with grave

  Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed

  A pillar of state. Deep on his front engraven

  Deliberation sat, and public care;

  And princely counsel in his face yet shon,

  Majestic, though in ruin. Sage he stood,

  With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear

  The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look

  Drew audience and attention still as night

  Or summer’s noontide air, while thus he spake:—

  “Thrones and Imperial Powers, Offspring of Heaven,

  Ethereal Virtues! or these titles now

  Must we renounce, and, changing style, be called

  Princes of Hell— for so the popular vote

  Inclines—here to continue, and build up here

  A growing empire; doubtless! while we dream;

  And know not that the king of Heaven hath doomed

  This place our dungeon—not our safe retreat

  Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt

  From Heaven’s high jurisdiction, in new league

  Banded against his throne, but to remain

  In strictest bondage, though thus far removed,

  Under the inevitable curb, reserved

  His captive multitude. For He, be sure,

  In highth of depth, still first and last will reign

  Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part

  By our revolt, but over Hell extend

  His empire, and with iron sceptre rule

  Us here, as with his golden those in Heaven,

  What sit we then projecting peace and war—

  War hath determined us and foiled with loss

  Irreparable; terms of peace yet none

  Voutsafed or sought; for what peace will be given

  To us enslaved, but custody severe,

  And stripes and arbitrary punishment

  Inflicted— and what peace can we return,

  But, to out power, hostility and hate,

  Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though slow,

  Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least

  May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice

  In doing what we most in suffering feel—

  Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need

  With dangerous expedition to invade

  Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault or siege,

  Or ambush from the Deep. What if we find

  Some easier enterprise— There is a place

  (If ancient and prophetic fame in Heaven

  Err not)—another World, the happy seat

  Of some new rave, called Man, about this time

  To be created like to us, though less

  In power and excellence, but favoured more

  Of Him who rules above; so was His will

  Pronounced among the gods, and by an oath

  That shook Heaven’s whole circumference confirmed.

  Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to learn

  What creatures there inhabit, of what mould

  Or substance, how endued, and what their power

  And where their weakness; how attempted best,

  By force or subtlety. Though Heaven be shut,

  And Heaven’s high Arbitrator sit secure

  In his own strength, this place may lie exposed,

  The utmost border of his kingdom, left

  To their defence who hold it: here, perhaps,

  Some advantageous act may be achieved

  By sudden onset—either with Hell-fire

  To waste his whole creation, or possess

  All as our own, and drive, as we are driven,

  The puny habitants; or, if not drive,

  Seduce them to our party, that their God

  May prove their foe, and with repenting hand

  Abolish his own works. This would surpass

  Common revenge, and interrupt His joy

  In our confusion, and our joy upraise

  In His disturbance; when his darling sons,

  Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall curse

  Their frail original, and faded bliss—

  Faded so soon! Advise if this be worth

  Attempting, or to sit in darkness here

  Hatching vain empires.” Thus Beëlzebub,

  Pleaded his devilish counsel—first devised

  By Satan, and in part proposed: for whence,

  But from the author of all ill, could spring

  So deep a malice, to confound the race

  Of mankind in one root, and Earth with Hell

  To mingle and involve, done all to spite

  The great Creator— But their spite still serves

  His glory to augment. The bold design

  Pleased highly those Infernal States, and joy

  Sparkled in all their eyes: with full assent

  They vote: whereat his speech he thus renews:—

  “Well have ye judged, well ended long debate,

  Synod of Gods and, like to what ye are,

  Great things resolved, which from the lowest deep

  Will once more lift us up, in spite of Fate,

  Nearer our ancient Seat—perhaps in view

  Of those bright confines, whence, with neighbouring arms,

  And opportune excursion, we may chance

  Re-enter Heaven; or else in some mild zone

  Dwell, not unvisited of Heaven’s fair light,

  Secure, and at the brightening orient beam

  Purge off this gloom: the soft delicious air,

  To heal the scar of these corrosive fires,

  Shall breathe her balm. But, first, whom shall we send

  In search of this new World— whom shall we find

  Sufficient— who shall tempt with wandering feet

  The dark, unbottomed, infinite Abyss,

  And through the palpable obscure find out

  His uncouth way, or spread his aerie flight,

  Upborne with indefatigable wings

  Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive

  The happy Isle— What strength, what art, can then

  Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe

  Through the strict senteries and stations thick

  Of Angels watching round— Here he had need

  All circumspection: and we now no less

  Choice in our suffrage; for on whom we send

  The weight of all, and our last hope, relies.”

  This said, he sat; and expectation held

  His look suspense, awaiting who appeared

  To second, or oppose, or undertake

  The perilous attempt. But all sat mute,

  Pondering the danger with deep thoughts; and each

  In other’s countenance read his own dismay,

  Astonished. None among the choice and prime

  Of those Heaven-warring champions could be found

  So hardy as to proffer or accept,

  Alone, the dreadful voyage; till, at last,

  Satan, whom now transcendent glory raised

  Above his fellows, with monarchal pride

  Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus spake:—

  “O Progeny of Heaven! Empyreal Thrones!

  With reason hath deep silence and demur

  Seized us, though undismayed. Long is the way

  And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.

  Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire,

  Outrageous to devour, immures us round

  Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant,

  Barred over us, prohibit all egress.

  These passed, if any pass, the void profound

  Of unessential Night receives him next,

  Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being

  Threatens him, plunged in that abortive gulf.

  If thence he scape, into whatever world,

  Or unknown region, what remains him less

  Than unknown dangers, and as hard escape—

  But I should ill become this throne, O Peers,

  And this imperial sovranty, adorned

  With splendour, armed with power, if aught proposed

  And judged of public moment in the shape

  Of difficulty or danger, could deter

  Me from attempting. Wherefore do I assume

  These royalties, and not refuse to reign,

  Refusing to accept as great a share

  Of hazard as of honour, due alike

  To him who reigns, and so much to him due

  Of hazard more as he above the rest

  High honoured sits— Go, therefore, mighty Powers,

  Terror of Heaven, though fallen; intend at home,

  While here shall be our home, what best may ease

  The present misery, and render Hell

  More tolerable; if there be cure or charm

  To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain

  Of this ill mansion: intermit no watch

  Against a wakeful Foe, while I abroad

  Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek

  Deliverance for us all. This enterprise

  None shall partake with me.” Thus saying, rose

  The Monarch, and prevented all reply;

  Prudent lest, from his resolution raised,

  Others among the chief might offer now,

  Certain to be refused, what erst they feared,

  And, so refused, might in opinion stand

  His rivals, winning cheap the high repute

  Which he through hazard huge must earn. But they

  Dreaded not more the adventure than his voice

  Forbidding; and at once with him they rose.

  Their rising all at once was as the sound

  Of thunder heard remote. Towards him they bend

  With awful reverence prone, and as a God

  Extol him equal to the Highest in Heaven.

  Nor failed they to express how much they praised

  That for the general safety he despised

  His own: for neither do the Spirits damned

  Lose all their virtue; lest bad men should boast

  Their specious deeds on earth, which glory excites,

  Or close ambition varnished o’er with zeal.

  Thus they their doubtful consultations dark

  Ended, rejoicing in their matchless Chief:

  As, when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds

  Ascending, while the North-wind sleeps, o’erspread

  Heaven’s cheerful face, the louring element

  Scowls o’er the darkened lantskip snow or shower,

  If chance the radiant sun, with farewell sweet,

  Extend his evening beam, the fields revive,

  The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds

  Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.

  O shame to men! Devil with devil damned

  Firm concord holds; men only disagree

  Of creatures rational, though under hope

  Of heavenly grace, and, God proclaiming peace,

  Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife

  Among themselves, and levy cruel wars

  Wasting the earth, each other to destroy:

  As if (which might induce us to accord)

  Man had not hellish foes enow besides,

  That day and night for his destruction wait!

  The Stygian council thus dissolved; and forth

  In order came the grand Infernal Peers:

  Midst came their mighty Paramount, and seemed

  Alone the Antagonist of Heaven, nor less

  Than Hell’s dread Emperor, with pomp supreme,

  And god-like imitated state: him round

  A globe of fiery Seraphim inclosed

  With bright imblazonry, and horrent arms.

  Then of their session ended they bid cry

  With trumpet’s regal sound the great result:

  Toward the four winds four speedy Cherubim

  Put to their mouths the sounding alchemy,

  By harald’s voice explained; the hollow Abyss

  Heard far and wide, and all the host of Hell

  With deafening shout returned them loud acclaim.

  Thence more at ease their minds, and somewhat raised

  By false presumptuous hope, the rangèd Powers

  Disband; and, wandering, each his several way

  Pursues, as inclination or sad choice,

  Leads him perplexed, where he may likeliest find

  Truce to his restless thoughts, and entertain

  The irksome hours, till his great Chief return.

  Part on the plain, or in the air sublime,

  Upon the wing or in swift race contend,

  As at the Olympian games or Pythian fields;

  Part curb their fiery steeds, or shun the goal

  With rapid wheels, or fronted brigades form:

  As when, to warn proud cities, war appears

  Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush

  To battle in the clouds; before each van

  Prick forth the aerie knights, and couch their spears,

  Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms

  From either end of heaven the welkin burns.

  Others, with vast Typhan rage, more fell,

  Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air

  In whirlwind; Hell scarce holds the wild uproar:—

  As when Alcides, from Oechalia crowned

  With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and tore

  Through pain up by the roots Thessalian pines,

  And Lichas from the top of Oeta threw

  Into the Euboic sea. Others, more mild,

  Retreated in a silent valley, sing

  With notes angelical to many a harp

  Their own heroic deeds, and hapless fall

  By doom of battle, and complain that Fate

  Free Virtue should enthrall to Force or Chance.

  Their song was partial; but the harmony

  (What could it less when Spirits immortal sing—)

  Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment

  The thronging audience. In discourse more sweet

  (For Eloquence the Soul, Song charms the Sense)

  Others apart sat on a hill retired,

  In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high

  Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, and Fate—

  Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute—

  And found no end, in wandering mazes lost.

  Of good and evil much they argued then,

  Of happiness and final misery,

  Passion and apathy, and glory and shame:

  Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy!—

  Yet, with a pleasing sorcery, could charm

  Pain for a while or anguish, and excite

  Fallacious hope, or arm the obdured breast

  With stubborn patience as with triple steel.

  Another part, in squadrons and gross bands,

  On bold adventure to discover wide

  That dismal world, if any clime perhaps

  Might yield them easier habitation, bend

  Four ways their flying march, along the banks

  Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge

  Into the burning lake their baleful streams—

  Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate;

  Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;

  Cocytus, named of lamentation loud

  Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegeton,

  Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.

  Far off from these, a slow and silent stream,

  Lethe, the river of oblivion, rowls

  Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks

  Forthwith his former state and being forgets—

  Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.

  Beyond this flood a frozen continent

  Lies dark and wild, beat with perpetual storms

  Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm land

  Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems

  Of ancient pile; all else deep snow and ice,

  A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog

  Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old,

  Where armies whole have sunk: the parching air

  Burns frore, and cold performs the effect of fire.

  Thither, by harpy-footed Furies haled,

  At certain revolutions all the damned

  Are brought; and feel by turns the bitter change

  Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more fierce,

  From beds of raging fire to starve in ice

  Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine

  Immovable, infixed, and frozen round

  Periods of time,—thence hurried back to fire.

  They ferry over this Lethean sound

  Both to and fro, their sorrow to augment,

  And wish and struggle, as they pass, to reach

  The tempting stream, with one small drop to lose

  In sweet forgetfulness all pain and woe,

  All in one moment, and so near the brink;

  But Fate withstands, and, to oppose the attempt,

  Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards

  The ford, and of itself the water flies

  All taste of living wight, as once it fled

  The lip of Tantalus. Thus roving on

  In confused march forlorn, the adventrous bands,

  With shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast,

  Viewed first their lamentable lot, and found

  No rest. Through many a dark and dreary vale

  They passed, and many a region dolorous,

  O’er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp,

  Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death—

  A universe of death, which God by curse

  Created evil, for evil only good;

  Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature breeds,

  Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things,

  Abominable, inutterable, and worse

  Than fables yet have feigned or fear conceived,

  Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimaeras dire.

  Meanwhile the Adversary of God and Man,

  Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest design,

  Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates of Hell

  Explores his solitary flight: sometimes

  He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the left;

  Now shaves with level wing the Deep, then soars

  Up to the fiery concave towering high.

  As when far off at sea a fleet descried

  Hangs in the clouds, by aequinoctial winds

  Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles

  Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring

  Their spicy drugs; they on the trading flood,

  Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape,

  Ply stemming nightly toward the pole: so seemed

  Far off the flying Fiend. At last appear

  Hell-hounds, high reaching to the horrid roof,

  And thrice threefold the gates; three folds were brass,

  Three iron, three of adamantine rock,

  Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire,

  Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat

  On either side a formidable Shape.

  The one seemed a woman to the waist, and fair,

  But ended foul in many a scaly fold,

  Voluminous and vast—a serpent armed

  With mortal sting. About her middle round

  A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked

  With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung

  A hideous peal; yet, when they list, would creep,

  If aught disturbed their noise, into her womb,

  And kennel there; yet there still barked and howled

  With in unseen. Far less abhorred than these

  Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts

  Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore;

  Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, called

  In secret, riding through the air she comes,

  Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance

  With Lapland witches, while the labouring moon

  Eclipses at their charms. The other Shape—

  If shape it might be called that shape had none

  Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;

  Or substance might be called that shadow seemed,

  For each seemed either—black it stood as Night,

  Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell,

  And shook a dreadful dart: what seemed his head

  The likeness of a kingly crown had on.

  Satan was now at hand, and from his seat

  The monster moving onward came as fast

  With horrid strides; Hell trembled as he strode.

  The undaunted Fiend what this might be admired—

  Admired, not feared (God and his Son except,

  Created thing naught valued he nor shunned),

  And with disdainful look thus first began:—

  “Whence and what art thou, execrable Shape,

  That dar’st though grim and terrible, advance

  Thy miscreated front athwart my way

  To yonder gates— Through them I mean to pass,

  That be assured, without leave asked of thee.

  Retire; or taste thy folly, and learn by proof,

  Hell-born, not to contend with Spirits of Heaven.”

  To whom the Goblin, full of wrauth, replied:—

  “Art thou that Traitor-Angel, art thou he,

  Who first broke peace in Heaven and faith, till then

  Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms

  Drew after him the third part of Heaven’s sons,

  Conjured against the Highest—for which both thou

  And they, outcast from God, are here condemned

  To waste eternal days in woe and pain—

  And reckon’st thou thyself with Spirits of Heaven,

  Hell-doomed, and breath’st defiance here and scorn,

  Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more,

  Thy king and lord— Back to thy punishment,

  False fugitive; and to thy speed add wings,

  Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue

  Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart

  Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before.”

  So spake the griesly Terror, and in shape,

  So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold

  More dreadful and deform. On the other side,

  Incensed with indignation, Satan stood

  Unterrified, and like a comet burned,

  That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge

  In the artick sky, and from his horrid hair

  Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head

  Levelled his deadly aim; their fatal hands

  No second stroke intend; and such a frown

  Each cast at the other as when two black clouds,

  With Heaven’s artillery fraught, come rattling on

  Over the Caspian,—then stand front to front

  Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow

  To join their dark encounter in mid-air.

  So frowned the mighty combatants that Hell

  Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood;

  For never but once more was either like

  To meet so great a foe. And now great deeds

  Had been achieved, whereof all Hell had rung,

  Had not the snaky Sorceress, that sat

  Fast by Hell-gate and kept the fatal key,

  Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between.

  “O father, what intends thy hand,” she cried,

  “Against thy only son— What fury, O son,

  Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart

  Against thy father’s head— And know’st for whom—

  For Him who sits above, and laughs the while

  At thee, ordained his drudge to execute

  Whate’er his wrauth, which He calls justice, bids—

  His wrauth, which one day will destroy ye both!”

  She spake, and at her words the hellish Pest

  Forbore: then these to her Satan returned:—

  “So strange thy outcry, and thy words so strange

  Thou interposest, that my sudden hand,

  Prevented, spares to tell thee yet by deeds

  What it intends, till first I know of thee

  What thing thou art, thus double-formed, and why

  In this infernal vale first met, thou call’st

  Me father, and that fantasm call’st my son.

  I know thee not, nor ever saw till now

  Sight more detestable than him and thee.”

  To whom thus the Portress of Hell-gate replied:—

  “Hast thou forgot me, then; and do I seem

  Now in thine eyes so foul——once deemed so fair

  In Heaven, when at the assembly, and in sight

  Of all the Seraphim with thee combined

  In bold conspiracy against Heaven’s King,

  All on a sudden miserable pain

  Surprised thee, dim thine eyes, and dizzy swum

  In darkness, while thy head flames thick and fast

  Threw forth, till on the left side opening wide,

  Likest to thee in shape and countenance bright,

  Then shining heavenly fair, a goddess armed,

  Out of thy head I sprung. Amazement seized

  All the host of Heaven; back they recoiled afraid

  At first, and called me Sin, and for a sign

  Portentous held me; but, familiar grown,

  I pleased, and with attractive graces won

  The most averse—thee chiefly, who, full oft

  Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing,

  Becam’st enamoured; and such joy thou took’st

  With me in secret that my womb conceived

  A growing burden. Meanwhile war arose,

  And fields were fought in Heaven: wherein remained

  (For what could else—) to our Almighty Foe

  Clear victory; to our part loss and rout

  Through all the Empyrean. Down they fell,

  Driven headlong from the pitch of Heaven, down

  Into this Deep; and in the general fall

  I also: at which time this powerful Key

  Into my hands was given, with charge to keep

  These gates for ever shut, which none can pass

  Without my opening. Pensive here I sat

  Alone; but long I sat not, till my womb,

  Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown,

  Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes.

  At last this odious offspring whom thou seest,

  Thine own begotten, breaking violent way,

  Tore through my entrails, that, with fear and pain

  Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew

  Transformed: but he my inbred enemy

  Forth issued, brandishing his fatal dart,

  Made to destroy. I fled, and cried out Death!

  Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed

  From all her caves, and back resounded Death!

  I fled; but he pursued (though more, it seems,

  Inflamed with lust than rage), and, swifter far,

  Me overtook, his mother, all dismayed,

  And, in embraces forcible and foul

  Engendering with me, of that rape begot

  These yelling monsters, that with ceaseless cry

  Surround me, as thou saw’st—hourly conceived

  And hourly born, with sorrow infinite

  To me: for, when they list, into the womb

  That bred them they return, and howl, and gnaw

  My bowels, their repast; then, bursting forth

  Afresh, with conscious terrors vex me round,

  That rest or intermission none I find.

  Before mine eyes in opposition sits

  Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on,

  And me, his parent, would full soon devour

  For want of other prey, but that he knows

  His end with mine involved, and knows that I

  Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane,

  Whenever that shall be: so Fate pronounced.

  But thou, O Father, I forewarn thee, shun

  His deadly arrow: neither vainly hope

  To be invulnerable in those bright arms,

  Though tempered heavenly; for that mortal dint,

  Save He who reigns above, none can resist.”

  She finished; and the subtle Fiend his lore

  Soon learned, now milder, and thus answered smooth:—

  “Dear daughter—since thou claim’st me for thy sire,

  And my fair son here show’st me, the dear pledge

  Of dalliance had with thee in Heaven, and joys

  Then sweet, now sad to mention, through dire change

  Befallen us unforeseen, unthought-of—know,

  I come no enemy, but to set free

  From out this dark and dismal house of pain

  Both him and thee, and all the Heavenly host

  Of Spirits that, in our just pretences armed,

  Fell with us from on high. From them I go

  This uncouth errand sole, and one for all

  Myself expose, with lonely steps to tread

  The unfounded Deep, and through the void immense

  To search, with wandering quest, a place foretold

  Should be—and, by concurring signs, ere now

  Created vast and round—a place of bliss

  In the pourlieues of Heaven; and therein placed

  A race of upstart creatures, to supply

  Perhaps our vacant room, though more removed,

  Lest Heaven, surcharged with potent multitude,

  Might hap to move new broils. Be this, or aught

  Than this more secret, now designed, I haste

  To know; and this once known, shall soon return

  And bring ye to the place where thou and Death

  Shall dwell at ease, and up and down unseen

  Wing silently the buxom air, imbalmed

  With odours. There ye shall be fed and filled

  Immeasurably; all things shall be your prey.”

  He ceased; for both seemed highly pleased, and Death

  Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear

  His famine should be filled, and blessed his maw

  Destined to that good hour. No less rejoiced

  His mother bad, and thus bespake her Sire:—

  “The key of this infernal Pit, by due

  And by command of Heaven’s all-powerful King,

  I keep, by Him forbidden to unlock

  These adamantine gates; against all force

  Death ready stands to interpose his dart,

  Fearless to be o’ermatched by living might.

  But what I owe I to His commands above,

  Who hates me, and hath hither thrust me down

  Into this gloom of Tartarus profound,

  To sit in hateful office here confined,

  Inhabitant of Heaven and heavenly-born—

  Here in perpetual agony and pain,

  With terrors and with clamours compassed round

  Of mine own brood, that on my bowels feed—

  Thou art my father, thou my author, thou

  My being gav’st me; whom should I obey

  But thee— whom follow— Thou wilt bring me soon

  To that new world of light and bliss, among

  The gods who live at ease, where I shall reign

  At thy right hand voluptuous, as beseems

  Thy daughter and thy darling, without end.”

  Thus saying, from her side the fatal key,

  Sad instrument of all our woe, she took;

  And, toward the gate rowling her bestial train,

  Forthwith the huge portcullis high up-drew,

  Which, but herself, not all the Stygian Powers

  Could once have moved; then in the keyhole turns

  The intricate wards, and every bolt and bar

  Of massy iron or solid rock with ease

  Unfastens. On a sudden open fly,

  With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,

  The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate

  Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook

  Of Erebus. She opened; but to shut

  Excelled her power: the gates wide open stood,

  That with extended wings a bannered host,

  Under spread ensigns marching, might pass through

  With horse and chariots ranked in loose array;

  So wide they stood, and like a furnace-mouth

  Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame.

  Before their eyes in sudden view appear

  The secrets of the hoary Deep—a dark

  Illimitable ocean, without bound,

  Without dimension: where length, breadth, and highth,

  And time, and place, are lost; where eldest Night

  And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold

  Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise

  Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.

  For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four champions fierce,

  Strive here for maistrie, and to battle bring

  Their embryon atoms: they around the flag

  Of each his faction, in their several clans,

  Light-armed or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow,

  Swarm populous, unnumbered as the sands

  Of Barca or Cyrene’s torrid soil,

  Levied to side with warring winds, and poise

  Their lighter wings. To whom these most adhere

  He rules a moment: Chaos umpire sits,

  And by decision more imbroils the fray

  By which he reigns: next him, high arbiter,

  Chance governs all. Into this wild Abyss,

  The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave,

  Of neither Sea, nor Shore, nor Air, nor Fire,

  But all these in their pregnant causes mixed

  Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,

  Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain

  His dark materials to create more worlds—

  Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend

  Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while,

  Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith

  He had to cross. Nor was his ear less pealed

  With noises loud and ruinous (to compare

  Great things with small) than when Bellona storms

  With all her battering engines, bent to rase

  Some capital city; or less than if this frame

  Of heaven were falling, and these elements

  In mutiny had from her axle torn

  The steadfast Earth. At last his sail-broad vans

  He spreads for flight, and, in the surging smoke

  Uplifted, spurns the ground; thence many a league,

  As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides

  Audacious; but, that seat soon failing, meets

  A vast vacuity. All unawares,

  Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb-down he drops

  Ten thousand fadom deep, and to this hour

  Down had been falling, had not, by ill chance,

  The strong rebuff of some tumultuous cloud,

  Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him

  As many miles aloft. That fury stayed—

  Quenched in a boggy Syrtis, neither sea,

  Nor good dry land-nigh foundered, on he fares,

  Treading the crude consistence, half on foot,

  Half flying; behoves him now both oar and sail.

  As when a gryfon through the wilderness

  With wingèd course, o’er hill or moory dale,

  Pursues the Arimpasian, who by stealth

  Had from his wakeful custody purloined

  The guarded gold; so eagerly the Fiend

  O’er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare,

  With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way,

  And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies.

  At length, a universal hubbub wild

  Of stunning sounds, and voices all confused,

  Borne through the hollow dark, assaults his ear

  With loudest vehemence. Thither he plies

  Undaunted, to meet there whatever Power

  Or Spirit of the nethermost Abyss

  Might in that noise reside, of whom to ask

  Which way the nearest coast of darkness lies

  Bordering on light; when straight behold the throne

  Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread

  Wide on the wasteful Deep! With him enthroned

  Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things,

  The consort of his reign; and by them stood

  Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name

  Of Demogorgon; Rumour next, and Chance,

  And Tumult, and Confusion, all embroiled,

  And Discord with a thousand various mouths.

  To whom Satan, turning boldly, thus:—“Ye Powers

  And Spirits of this nethermost Abyss,

  Chaos and ancient Night, I come no spy

  With purpose to explore or to disturb

  The secrets of your realm; but, by constraint

  Wandering this darksome desert, as my way

  Lies through your spacious empire up to light,

  Alone and without guide, half lost, I seek,

  What readiest path leads where your gloomy bounds

  Confine with Heaven; or, if some other place,

  From your dominion won, the Ethereal King

  Possesses lately, thither to arrive

  I travel this profound. Direct my course;

  Directed, no mean recompense it brings

  To your behoof, if I that region lost.

  All usurpation thence expelled, reduce

  To her original darkness and your sway

  (Which is my present journey), and once more

  Erect the standard there of ancient Night.

  Yours be the advantage all, mine the revenge!”

  Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarch old,

  With faltering speech and visage incomposed,

  Answered:—“I know thee, stranger, who thou art—

  That mighty leading Angel, who of late

  Made head against Heaven’s King, though overthrown.

  I saw and heard; for such a numerous host

  Fled not in silence through the frighted Deep,

  With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout,

  Confusion worse confounded; and Heaven-gates

  Poured out by millions her victorious bands,

  Pursuing. I upon my frontiers here

  Keep residence; if all I can will serve

  That little which is left so to defend,

  Encroached on still through our intestine broils

  Weakening the sceptre of old Night: first, Hell,

  Your dungeon, stretching far and wide beneath;

  Now lately Heaven and Earth, another world

  Hung o’er my realm, linked in a golden chain

  To that side Heaven from whence your legions fell!

  If that way be your walk, you have not far;

  So much the nearer danger. Go, and speed;

  Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain.”

  He ceased; and Satan staid not to reply,

  But, glad that now his sea should find a shore,

  With fresh alacrity and force renewed

  Springs upward, like a pyramid of fire,

  Into the wild expanse, and through the shock

  Of fighting elements, on all sides round

  Environed, wins his way; harder beset

  And more endangered than when Argo passed

  Through Bosporus betwixt the justling rocks,

  Or when Ulysses on the larboard shunned

  Charybdis, and by the other Whirlpool steered.

  So he with difficulty and labour hard

  Moved on. With difficulty and labour he;

  But, he once passed, soon after, when Man fell,

  Strange alteration! Sin and Death amain,

  Following his track (such was the will of Heaven)

  Paved after him a broad and beaten way

  Over the dark Abyss, whose boiling gulf

  Tamely endured a bridge of wondrous length,

  From Hell continued, reaching the utmost Orb

  Of this frail World; by which the Spirits perverse

  With easy intercourse pass to and fro

  To tempt or punish mortals, except whom

  God and good Angels guard by special grace.

  But now at last the sacred influence

  Of light appears, and from the walls of Heaven

  Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night

  A glimmering dawn. Here Nature first begins

  Her fardest verge, and Chaos to retire,

  As from her utmost works, a broken foe,

  With tumult less and with less hostile din;

  That Satan with less toil, and now with ease,

  Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious light,

  And, like a weather-beaten vessel, holds

  Gladly the port, though shrouds and tackle torn;

  Or in the emptier waste, resembling air,

  Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to behold

  Far off the imperial Heaven, extended wide

  In circuit, undetermined square or round,

  With opal towers and battlements adorned

  Of living sapphire, once his native seat,

  And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain,

  This pendent World, in bigness as a star

  Of smallest magnitude close by the moon.

  Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge,

  Accurst, and in a cursed hour, he hies.

  THE ARGUMENT.—God, sitting on his throne, sees Satan flying towards this World, then newly created; shews him to the Son, who sat at his right hand; foretells the success of Satan in perverting mankind; clears his, own Justice and Wisdom from all imputation, having created Man free, and able enough to have withstood his Tempter; yet declares his purpose of grace towards him, in regard he fell not of his own malice, as did Satan, but by him seduced. The Son of God renders praises to his Father for the manifestation of his gracious purpose towards Man: but God again declares that Grace cannot be extended towards Man without the satisfaction of Divine Justice; Man hath offended the majesty of God by aspiring to Godhead, and therefore, with all his progeny, devoted to death, must die, unless some one can be found sufficient to answer for his offence, and undergo his punishment. The Son of God freely offers himself a ransom for Man: the Father accepts him, ordains his incarnation, pronounces his exaltation above all Names in Heaven and Earth; commands all the Angels to adore him. They obey, and, hymning to their harps in full quire, celebrate the Father and the Son. Meanwhile Satan alights upon the bare convex of this World’s outermost orb; where wandering he first finds a place since called the Limbo of Vanity; what persons and things fly up thither: thence comes to the gate of Heaven, described ascending by stairs, and the waters above the firmament that flow about it. His passage thence to the orb of the Sun: he finds there Uriel, the regent of that orb, but first changes himself into the shape of a meaner Angel, and, pretending a zealous desire to behold the new Creation, and Man whom God had placed here, inquires of him the place of his habitation, and is directed: Alights first on Mount Niphates.

  HAIL, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born!

  Or of the Eternal coeternal beam

  May I express thee unblamed— since God is light,

  And never but in unapproached light

  Dwelt from eternity-dwelt then in thee,

  Bright effluence of bright essence increate!

  Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal Stream,

  Whose fountain who shall tell— Before the Sun,

  Before the Heavens, thou wert, and at the voice

  Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest

  The rising World of waters dark and deep,

  Won from the void and formless Infinite!

  Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,

  Escaped the Stygian Pool, though long detained

  In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight,

  Through utter and through middle Darkness borne,

  With other notes than to the Orphean lyre

  I sung of Chaos and eternal Night,

  Taught by the Heavenly Muse to venture down

  The dark descent, and up to re-ascend,

  Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe,

  And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou

  Revisit’st not these eyes, that rowl in vain

  To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;

  So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs,

  Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more

  Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt

  Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,

  Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief

  Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,

  That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow,

  Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget

  Those other two equalled with me in fate,

  (So were I equalled with them in renown!)

  Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides,

  And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old:

  Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move

  Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird

  Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid,

  Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year

  Seasons return; but not to me returns

  Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,

  Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,

  Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;

  But cloud instead and ever—during dark

  Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men

  Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair,

  Presented with a universal blank

  Of Nature’s works, to me expunged and rased,

  And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

  So much the rather thou, Celestial Light,

  Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers

  Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence

  Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell

  Of things invisible to mortal sight.

  Now had the Almighty Father from above,

  From the pure Empyrean where He sits

  High throned above all highth, bent down his eye,

  His own works and their works at once to view:

  About him all the Sanctities of Heaven

  Stood thick as stars, and from his sight received

  Beatitude past utterance; on his right

  The radiant image of his glory sat,

  His only Son. On Earth he first beheld

  Our two first parents, yet the only two

  Of mankind, in the Happy Garden placed,

  Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love,

  Uninterrupted joy, unrivalled love,

  In blissful solitude. He then surveyed

  Hell and the gulf between, and Satan there

  Coasting the wall of Heaven on this side Night,

  In the dun air sublime, and ready now

  To stoop, with wearied wings and willing feet,

  On the bare outside of this World, that seemed

  Firm land imbosomed without firmament,

  Uncertain which, in ocean or in air.

  Him God beholding from his prospect high,

  Wherein past, present, future, he beholds,

  Thus to His only Son foreseeing spake:—

  “Only-begotten Son, seest thou what rage

  Transports our Adversary— whom no bounds

  Prescribed, no bars of Hell, nor all the chains

  Heaped on him there, nor yet the main Abyss

  Wide interrupt, can hold; so bent he seems

  On desperate revenge, that shall redound

  Upon his own rebellious head. And now,

  Through all restraint broke loose, he wings his way

  Not far off Heaven, in the precincts of light,

  Directly towards the new-created World,

  And Man there placed, with purpose to assay

  If him by force he can destroy, or, worse,

  By some false guile pervert: and shall pervert;

  For Man will hearken to his glozing lies,

  And easily transgress the sole command,

  Sole pledge of his obedience: so will fall

  He and his faithless progeny. Whose fault—

  Whose but his own— Ingrate, he had of me

  All he could have; I made him just and right,

  Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.

  Such I created all the Ethereal Powers

  And Spirits, both them who stood and them who failed;

  Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.

  Not free, what proof could they have given sincere

  Of true allegiance, constant faith, or love,

  Where only what they needs must do appeared,

  Not what they would— What praise could they receive,

  What pleasure I, from such obedience paid.

  When Will and Reason (Reason also is Choice),

  Useless and vain, of freedom both despoiled,

  Made passive both, had served Necessity,

  Not Me— They, therefore, as to right belonged

  So were created, nor can justly accuse

  Their Maker, or their making, or their fate,

  As if Predestination overruled

  Their will, disposed by absolute decree

  Or high foreknowledge. They themselves decreed

  Their own revolt, not I. If I foreknew,

  Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault,

  Which had no less proved certain unforeknown.

  So without least impulse or shadow of fate,

  Or aught by me immutably foreseen,

  They trespass, authors to themselves in all,

  Both what they judge and what they choose; for so

  I formed them free, and free they must remain

  Till they enthrall themselves: I else must change

  Their nature, and revoke the high decree

  Unchangeable, eternal, which ordained

  Their freedom; they themselves ordained their fall.

  The first sort by their own suggestion fell,

  Self-tempted, self-depraved; Man falls, deceived

  By the other first: Man, therefore, shall find grace;

  The other, none. In mercy and justice both,

  Through Heaven and Earth, so shall my glory excel;

  But mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine.”

  Thus while God spake ambrosial fragrance filled

  All Heaven, and in the blessèd Spirits elect

  Sense of new joy ineffable diffused.

  Beyond compare the Son of God was seen

  Most glorious; in him all his Father shon

  Substantially expressed; and in his face

  Divine compassion visibly appeared,

  Love without end, and without measure grace;

  Which uttering, thus He to his Father spake;—

  “O Father, gracious was that word which closed

  Thy sovran sentence, that Man should find grace;

  For which both Heaven and Earth shall high extol

  Thy praises, with the innumerable sound

  Of hymns and sacred songs, wherewith thy throne

  Encompassed shall resound thee ever blest.

  For, should Man finally be lost—should Man,

  Thy creature late so loved, thy youngest son,

  Fall circumvented thus by fraud, though joined

  With his own folly -! That be from thee far,

  That far be from thee, Father, who art judge

  Of all things made, and judgest only right!

  Or shall the Adversary thus obtain

  His end, and frustrate thine— Shall he fulfil

  His malice, and thy goodness bring to naught

  Or proud return, though to his heavier doom

  Yet with revenge accomplished, and to Hell

  Draw after him the whole race of mankind,

  By him corrupted— Or wilt thou thyself

  Abolish thy creation, and unmake,

  For him, what for thy glory thou hast made——

  So should thy goodness and thy greatness both

  Be questioned and blasphemed without defense.”

  To whom the great Creator thus replied:—

  “O Son, in whom my soul hath chief delight,

  Son of my bosom, Son who art alone

  My word, my wisdom, and effectual might,

  All hast thou spoken as my thoughts are, all

  As my eternal purpose hath decreed.

  Man shall not quite be lost, but saved who will;

  Yet not of will in him, but grace in me

  Freely voutsafed. Once more I will renew

  His lapsed powers, though forfeit, and enthralled

  By sin to foul exorbitant desires:

  Upheld by me, yet once more he shall stand

  On even ground against his mortal foe—

  By me upheld, that he may know how frail

  His fallen condition is, and to me owe

  All his deliverance, and to none but me.

  Some I have chosen of peculiar grace,

  Elect above the rest; so is my will:

  The rest shall hear me call, and oft be warned

  Their sinful state, and to appease betimes

  The incensèd Deity, while offered grace

  Invites; for I will clear their senses dark

  What may suffice, and soften stony hearts

  To pray, repent, and bring obedience due.

  To prayer, repentance, and obedience due,

  Though but endeavoured with sincere intent,

  Mine ear shall not be slow, mine eye not shut.

  And I will place within them as a guide

  My umpire Conscience; whom if they will hear,

  Light after light well used they shall attain,

  And to the end persisting safe arrive.

  This my long sufferance, and my day of grace,

  They who neglect and scorn shall never taste;

  But hard be hardened, blind be blinded more,

  That they may stumble on, and deeper fall;

  And none but such from mercy I exclude.—

  But yet all is not done. Man disobeying,

  Disloyal, breaks his fealty, and sins

  Against the high supremacy of Heaven,

  Affecting Godhead, and, so losing all,

  To expiate his treason hath naught left,

  But, to destruction sacred and devote,

  He with his whole posterity must die;

  Die he or Justice must; unless for him

  Some other, able, and as willing, pay

  The rigid satisfaction, death for death.

  Say, Heavenly Powers, where shall we find such love—

  Which of ye will be mortal, to redeem

  Man’s mortal crime, and just, the unjust to save—

  Dwells in all Heaven charity so dear—”

  He asked, but all the Heavenly Quire stood mute,

  And silence was in Heaven: on Man’s behalf

  Patron or intercessor none appeared—

  Much less that durst upon his own head draw

  The deadly forfeiture, and ransom set.

  And now without redemption all mankind

  Must have been lost, adjudged to Death and Hell

  By doom severe, had not the Son of God,

  In whom the fulness dwells of love divine,

  His dearest mediation thus renewed:—

  “Father, thy word is passed, Man shall find grace;

  And shall Grace not find means, that finds her way,

  The speediest of thy winged messengers,

  To visit all thy creatures, and to all

  Comes unprevented, unimplored, unsought—

  Happy for Man, so coming! He her aid

  Can never seek, once dead in sins and lost—

  Atonement for himself, or offering meet,

  Indebted and undone, hath none to bring.

  Behold me, then: me for him, life for life,

  I offer; on me let thine anger fall;

  Account me Man: I for his sake will leave

  Thy bosom, and this glory next to thee

  Freely put off, and for him lastly die

  Well pleased; on me let Death wreak all his rage.

  Under his gloomy power I shall not long

  Lie vanquished. Thou hast given me to possess

  Life in myself for ever; by thee I live;

  Though now to Death I yield, and am his due,

  All that of men can die, yet, that debt paid,

  Thou wilt not leave me in the loathsome grave

  His prey, nor suffer my unspotted soul

  For ever with corruption there to dwell;

  But I shall rise victorious, and subdue

  My vanquisher, spoiled of his vaunted spoil.

  Death his death’s wound shall then receive, and stoop

  Inglorious, of his mortal sting disarmed;

  I through the ample air in triumph high

  Shall lead Hell captive maugre Hell, and show

  The powers of Darkness bound. Thou, at the sight

  Pleased, out of Heaven shalt look down and smile,

  While, by thee raised, I ruin all my foes—

  Death last, and with his carcase glut the grave;

  Then, with the multitude of my redeemed,

  Shall enter Heaven, long absent, and return,

  Father, to see thy face, wherein no cloud

  Of anger shall remain, but peace assured

  And reconcilement: wrauth shall be no more

  Thenceforth, but in thy presence joy entire.”

  His words here ended; but his meek aspect’

  Silent yet spake, and breathed immortal love

  To mortal man, above which only shon

  Filial obedience: as a sacrifice

  Glad to be offered, he attends the will

  Of his great Father. Admiration seized

  All Heaven, what this might mean, and whither tend,

  Wondering; but soon the Almighty thus replied:—

  “O thou in Heaven and Earth the only peace

  Found out for mankind under wrauth, O thou

  My sole complacence! well thou know’st how dear

  To me are all my works; nor Man the least,

  Though last created, that for him I spare

  Thee from my bosom and right hand, to save,

  By losing thee a while, the whole race lost!

  Thou, therefore, whom thou only canst redeem,

  Their nature also to thy nature join;

  And be thyself Man among men on Earth,

  Made flesh, when time shall be, of virgin seed,

  By wondrous birth; be thou in Adam’s room

  The head of all mankind, though Adam’s son.

  As in him perish all men, so in thee,

  As from a second root, shall be restored

  As many as are restored; without thee, none.

  His crime makes guilty all his sons; thy merit,

  Imputed, shall absolve them who renounce

  Their own both righteous and unrighteous deeds,

  And live in thee transplanted, and from thee

  Receive new life, So Man, as is most just,

  Shall satisfy for Man, be judged and die,

  And dying rise, and, rising, with him raise

  His brethren, ransomed with his own dear life.

  So Heavenly love shall outdo Hellish hate,

  Giving to death, and dying to redeem,

  So dearly to redeem what Hellish hate

  So easily destroyed, and still destroys

  In those who, when they may, accept not grace.

  Nor shalt thou, by descending to assume

  Man’s nature, lessen or degrade thine own.

  Because thou hast, though throned in highest bliss

  Equal to God, and equally enjoying

  God-like fruition, quitted all to save

  A world from utter loss, and hast been found

  By merit more than birthright Son of God,—

  Found worthiest to be so by being good,

  Far more than great or high; because in thee

  Love hath abounded more than glory abounds;

  Therefore thy humiliation shall exalt

  With thee thy manhood also to this Throne:

  Here shalt thou sit incarnate, here shalt reign

  Both God and Man, Son both of God and Man,

  Anointed universal King. All power

  I give thee; reign for ever, and assume

  Thy merits; under thee, as Head Supreme,

  Thrones, Princedoms, Powers, Dominions, I reduce:

  All knees to thee shall bow of them that bide

  In Heaven, or Earth, or, under Earth, in Hell.

  When thou, attended gloriously from Heaven,

  Shalt in the sky appear, and from thee send

  The summoning Archangels to proclaim

  Thy dread tribunal, forthwith from all winds

  The living, and forthwith the cited dead

  Of all past ages, to the general doom

  Shall hasten; such a peal shall rouse their sleep.

  Then, all thy Saints assembled, thou shalt judge

  Bad men and Angels; they arraigned shall sink

  Beneath thy sentence; Hell, her numbers full,

  Thenceforth shall be for ever shut. Meanwhile

  The World shall burn, and from her ashes spring

  New Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell,

  And, after all their tribulations long,

  See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds,

  With Joy and Love triumph’ing, and fair Truth.

  Then thou thy regal sceptre shalt lay by;

  For regal sceptre then no more shall need;

  God shall be All in All. But all ye Gods,

  Adore Him who, to compass all this, dies;

  Adore the Son, and honour him as me.”

  No sooner had the Almighty ceased but—all

  The multitude of Angels, with a shout

  Loud as from numbers without number, sweet

  As from blest voices, uttering joy—Heaven rung

  With jubilee, and loud Hosannas filled

  The eternal regions. Lowly reverent

  Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground

  With solemn adoration down they cast

  Their crowns, inwove with amarant and gold,—

  Immortal amarant, a flower which once

  In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life,

  Began to bloom, but, soon for Man’s offence

  To Heaven removed where first it grew, there grows

  And flowers aloft, shading the Fount of Life,

  And where the River of Bliss through midst of Heaven

  Rowls o’er Elysian flowers her amber stream!

  With these, that never fade, the Spirits elect

  Bind their resplendent locks, inwreathed with beams.

  Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright

  Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shon,

  Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.

  Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took—

  Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side

  Like quivers hung; and with preamble sweet

  Of charming symphony they introduce

  Their sacred song, and waken raptures high:

  No voice exempt, no voice but well could join

  Melodious part; such concord is in Heaven.

  Thee, Father, first they sung, Omnipotent

  Immutable, Immortal. Infinite,

  Eternal King; thee, Author of all being,

  Fountain of light, thyself invisible

  Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sitt’st

  Throned inaccessible, but when thou shad’st

  The full blaze of thy beams, and through a cloud

  Drawn round about thee like a radiant shrine

  Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear,

  Yet dazzle Heaven, that brightest Seraphim

  Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes.

  Thee next they sang, of all creation first,

  Begotten Son, Divine Similitude,

  In whose conspicuous countenance, without cloud

  Made visible, the Almighty Father shines,

  Whom else no creature can behold: on thee

  Impressed the effulgence of his glory abides;

  Transfused on thee his ample Spirit rests.

  He Heaven of Heavens, and all the Powers therein,

  By thee created; and by thee threw down

  The aspiring Dominations. Thou that day

  Thy Father’s dreadful thunder didst not spare,

  Nor stop thy flaming chariot-wheels, that shook

  Heaven’s everlasting frame, while o’er the necks

  Thou drov’st of warring Angels disarrayed.

  Back from pursuit, thy Powers with loud acclaim

  Thee only extolled, Son of thy Father’s might,

  To execute fierce vengeance on his foes.

  Not so on Man: him, through their malice fallen,

  Father of mercy and grace, thou didst not doom

  So strictly, but much more to pity encline.

  No sooner did thy dear and only Son

  Perceive thee purposed not to doom frail Man

  So strictly, but much more to pity enclined,

  He, to appease thy wrauth, and end the strife

  Of mercy and justice in thy face discerned,

  Regardless of the bliss wherein he sat

  Second to thee, offered himself to die

  For Man’s offence. O unexampled love!

  Love nowhere to be found less than Divine!

  Hail, Son of God, Saviour of men! Thy name

  Shall be the copious matter of my song

  Henceforth, and never shall my harp thy praise

  Forget, nor from thy Father’s praise disjoin!

  Thus they in Heaven, above the Starry Sphere,

  Their happy hours in joy and hymning spent.

  Meanwhile, upon the firm opacous globe

  Of this round World, whose first convex divides

  The luminous inferior Orbs, enclosed

  From Chaos and the inroad of Darkness old,

  Satan alighted walks. A globe far off

  It seemed; now seems a boundless continent,

  Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of Night

  Starless exposed, and ever-threatening storms

  Of Chaos blustering round, inclement sky,

  Save on that side which from the wall of Heaven,

  Though distant far, some small reflection gains

  Of glimmering air less vexed with tempest loud.

  Here walked the Fiend at large in spacious field.

  As when a vultur, on Imaus bred,

  Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds,

  Dislodging from a region scarce of prey,

  To gorge the flesh of lambs or yearling kids

  On hills where flocks are fed, flies toward the springs

  Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams,

  But in his way lights on the barren plains

  Of Sericana, where Chineses drive

  With sails and wind their cany waggons light;

  So, on this windy sea of land, the Fiend

  Walked up and down alone, bent on his prey:

  Alone, for other creature in this place,

  Living or lifeless, to be found was none:—

  None yet; but store hereafter from the Earth

  Up hither like aerial vapours flew

  Of all things transitory and vain, when sin

  With vanity had filled the works of men—

  Both all things vain, and all who in vain things

  Built their fond hopes of glory or lasting fame,

  Or happiness in this or the other life.

  All who have their reward on earth, the fruits

  Of painful superstition and blind zeal,

  Naught seeking but the praise of men, here find

  Fit retribution, empty as their deeds;

  All the unaccomplished works of Nature’s hand,

  Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixed,

  Dissolved on Earth, fleet hither, and in vain,

  Till final dissolution, wander here—

  Not in the neighbouring Moon, as some have dreamed:

  Those argent fields more likely habitants,

  Translated Saints, or middle Spirits hold,

  Betwixt the angelical and human kind.

  Hither, of ill—joined sons and daughters born,

  First from the ancient world those Giants came,

  With many a vain exploit, though then renowned:

  The builders next of Babel on the plain

  Of Sennaar, and still with vain design

  New Babels, had they wherewithal, would build:

  Others came single; he who, to be deemed

  A god, leaped fondly into AEtna flames,

  Empedocles; and he who, to enjoy

  Plato’s Elysium, leaped into the sea,

  Cleombrotus; and many more, too long,

  Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars,

  White, black, and grey, with all their trumpery.

  Here pilgrims roam, that strayed so far to seek

  In Golgotha him dead who lives in Heaven;

  And they who, to be sure of Paradise,

  Dying put on the weeds of Dominic,

  Or in Franciscan think to pass disguised.

  They pass the planets seven, and pass the fixed,

  And that crystal’lin sphere whose balance weighs

  The trepidation talked, and that first moved;

  And now Saint Peter at Heaven’s wicket seems

  To wait them with his keys, and now at foot

  Of Heaven’s ascent they lift their feet, when, lo!

  A violent cross wind from either coast

  Blows them transverse, then thousand leagues awry,

  Into the devious air. Then might ye see

  Cowls, hoods, and habits, with their wearers, tost

  And fluttered into rags; then reliques, beads,

  Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls

  The sport of winds: all these, upwhirled aloft,

  Fly o’er the backside of the World far off

  Into a Limbo large and broad, since called

  The Paradise of Fools; to few unknown

  Long after, now unpeopled and untrod.

  All this dark globe the Fiend found as he passed;

  And long he wandered, till at last a gleam

  Of dawning light turned thitherward in haste

  His travelled steps. Far distant he descries,

  Ascending by degrees magnificent

  Up to the wall of Heaven, a structure high;

  At top whereof, but far more rich, appeared

  The work as of a kingly palace-gate,

  With frontispiece of diamond and gold

  Imbellished; thick with sparkling orient gems

  The portal shon, inimitable on Earth

  By model, or by shading pencil drawn.

  The stairs were such as whereon Jacob saw

  Angels ascending and descending, bands

  Of guardians bright, when he from Esau fled

  To Padan-Aram, in the field of Luz

  Dreaming by night under the open sky,

  And waking cried, This is the gate of Heaven.

  Each stair mysteriously was meant, nor stood

  There always, but drawn up to Heaven sometimes

  Viewless; and underneath a bright sea flowed

  Of jasper, or of liquid pearl, whereon

  Who after came from Earth sailing arrived

  Wafted by Angels, or flew o’er the lake

  Rapt is a chariot drawn by fiery steeds.

  The stairs were then let down, whether to dare

  The Fiend by easy ascent, or aggravate

  His sad exclusion from the doors of bliss:

  Direct against which opened from beneath,

  Just o’er the blissful seat of Paradise,

  A passage down to the Earth—a passage wide;

  Wider by far than that of after—times

  Over Mount Sion, and, though that were large,

  Over the Promised Land to God so dear,

  By which, to visit oft those happy tribes,

  On high behests his Angels to and fro

  Passed frequent, and his eye with choice regard

  From Paneas, the fount of Jordan’s flood,

  To Beërsaba, where the Holy Land

  Borders on AEgypt and the Arabian shore.

  So wide the opening seemed, where bounds were set

  To darkness, such as bound the ocean wave.

  Satan from hence, now on the lower stair,

  That scaled by steps of gold to Heaven-gate,

  Looks down with wonder at the sudden view

  Of all this World at once. As when a scout,

  Through dark and desart ways with peril gone

  All night, at last by break of cheerful dawn

  Obtains the brow of some high-climbing hill,

  Which to his eye discovers unaware

  The goodly prospect of some foreign land

  First seen, or some renowned metropolis

  With glistering spires and pinnacles adorned,

  Which now the rising sun gilds with his beams;

  Such wonder seized, though after Heaven seen,

  The Spirit malign, but much more envy seized,

  At sight of all this World beheld so fair.

  Round he surveys (and well might, where he stood

  So high above the circling canopy

  Of Night’s extended shade) from eastern point

  Of Libra to the fleecy star that bears

  Andromeda far off Atlantic seas

  Beyond the horizon; then from pole to pole

  He views in breadth,—and, without longer pause,

  Down right into the World’s first region throws

  His flight precipitant, and winds with ease

  Through the pure marble air his oblique way

  Amongst innumerable stars, that shon

  Stars distant, but nigh-hand seemed other worlds.

  Or other worlds they seemed, or happy isles,

  Like those Hesperian Gardens famed of old,

  Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales;

  Thrice happy isles! But who dwelt happy there

  He staid not to inquire: above them all

  The golden Sun, in splendour likest Heaven,

  Allured his eye. Thither his course he bends,

  Through the calm firmament (but up or down,

  By centre or eccentric, hard to tell,

  Or longitude) where the great luminary,

  Aloof the vulgar constellations thick,

  That from the lordly eye keep distance due,

  Dispenses light from far. They, as they move

  Their starry dance in numbers that compute

  Days, months, and years, towards his all-cheering lamp

  Turn swift their various motions, or are turned

  By his magnetic beam, that gently warms

  The Universe, and to each inward part

  With gentle penetration, though unseen

  Shoots invisible virtue even to the Deep;

  So wondrously was set his station bright.

  There lands the Fiend, a spot like which perhaps

  Astronomer in the Sun’s lucent orb

  Through his glazed optic tube yet never saw.

  The place he found beyond expression bright,

  Compared with aught on Earth, metal or stone—

  Not all parts like, but all alike informed

  With radiant light, as glowing iron with fire.

  If metal, part seemed gold, part silver clear;

  If stone, carbuncle most or chrysolite,

  Ruby or topaz, to the twelve that shon

  In Aaron’s breast-plate, and a stone besides;

  Imagined rather oft than elsewhere seen—

  That stone, or like to that, which there below

  Philosophers in vain so long have sought;

  In vain, though by their powerful art they bind

  Volatile Hermes, and call up unbound

  In various shapes old Proteus from the sea,

  Drained through a limbec to his native form.

  What wonder then if fields and regions here

  Breathe forth elixir pure, and rivers run

  Potable gold, when, with one virtuous touch,

  The arch-chimic Sun, so far from us remote,

  Produces, with terrestrial humour mixed,

  Here in the dark so many precious things

  Of colour glorious and effect so rare—

  Here matter new to gaze the Devil met

  Undazzled. Far and wide his eye commands;

  For sight no obstacle found here, nor shade,

  But all sunshine, as when his beams at noon

  Culminate from the equator, as they now

  Shot upward still direct, whence no way round

  Shadow from body opaque can fall; and the air,

  Nowhere so clear, sharpened his visual ray

  To objects distant far, whereby he soon

  Saw within ken a glorious Angel stand,

  The same whom John saw also in the Sun.

  His back was turned, but not his brightness hid;

  Of beaming sunny rays a golden tiar

  Circled his head, nor less his locks behind

  Illustrious on his shoulders fledge with wings

  Lay waving round: on some great charge imployed

  He seemed, or fixed in cogitation deep.

  Glad was the Spirit impure, as now in hope

  To find who might direct his wandering flight

  To Paradise, the happy seat of Man,

  His journey’s end, and our beginning woe.

  But first he casts to change his proper shape,

  Which else might work him danger or delay:

  And now a stripling Cherub he appears,

  Not of the prime, yet such as in his face

  Youth smiled celestial, and to every limb

  Suitable grace diffused; so well he feigned.

  Under a coronet his flowing hair

  In curls on either cheek played; wings he wore

  Of many a coloured plume sprinkled with gold;

  His habit fit for speed succinct; and held

  Before his decent steps a silver wand.

  He drew not nigh unheard; the Angel bright,

  Ere he drew nigh, his radiant visage turned,

  Admonished by his ear, and straight was known

  The Archangel Uriel—one of the seven

  Who in God’s presence, nearest to his throne,

  Stand ready at command, and are his eyes

  That run through all the Heavens, or down to the Earth

  Bear his swift errands over moist and dry,

  O’er sea and land. Him Satan thus accosts:—

  “Uriel! for thou of those seven Spirits that stand

  In sight of God’s high throne, gloriously bright,

  The first art wont his great authentic will

  Interpreter through highest Heaven to bring,

  Where all his Sons thy embassy attend,

  And here art likeliest by supreme decree

  Like honour to obtain, and as his eye

  To visit oft this new Creation round—

  Unspeakable desire to see and know

  All these his wondrous works, but chiefly Man

  His chief delight and favour, him for whom

  All these his works so wondrous he ordained,

  Hath brought me from the quires of Cherubim

  Alone thus wandering. Brightest Seraph, tell

  In which of all these shining orbs hath Man

  His fixed seat—or fixèd seat hath none,

  But all these shining orbs his choice to dwell—

  That I may find him, and with secret gaze

  Or open admiration him behold

  On whom the great Creator hath bestowed

  Worlds, and on whom hath all these graces poured;

  That both in him and all things, as is meet,

  The Universal Maker we may praise;

  Who justly hath driven out his rebel foes

  To deepest Hell, and, to repair that loss,

  Created this new happy race of Men

  To serve him better. Wise are all his ways!”

  So spake the false dissembler unperceived;

  For neither man nor angel can discern

  Hypocrisy—the only evil that walks

  Invisible, except to God alone,

  By his permissive will, through Heaven and Earth;

  And oft, though Wisdom wake, Suspicion sleeps

  At Wisdom’s gate, and to Simplicity

  Resigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no ill

  Where no ill seems: which now for once beguiled

  Uriel, though Regent of the Sun, and held

  The sharpest-sighted Spirit of all in Heaven;

  Who to the fraudulent impostor foul,

  In his uprightness, answer thus returned:—

  “Fair Angel, thy desire, which tends to know

  The works of God, thereby to glorify

  The great Work-maister, leads to no excess

  That reaches blame, but rather merits praise

  The more it seems excess, that led thee hither

  From thy empyreal mansion thus alone,

  To witness with thine eyes what some perhaps,

  Contented with report, hear only in Heaven:

  For wonderful indeed are all his works,

  Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all

  Had in remembrance always with delight!

  But what created mind can comprehend

  Their number, or the wisdom infinite

  That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep—

  I saw when, at his word, the formless mass,

  This World’s material mould, came to a heap:

  Confusion heard his voice, and wild Uproar

  Stood ruled, stood vast Infinitude confined;

  Till, at his second bidding, Darkness fled,

  Light shon, and order from disorder sprung.

  Swift to their several quarters hasted then

  The cumbrous elements—Earth, Flood, Air, Fire;

  And this ethereal quint’ essence of Heaven

  Flew upward, spirited with various forms,

  That rowled orbicular, and turned to stars

  Numberless, as thou seest, and how they move:

  Each had his place appointed, each his course;

  The rest in circuit walls this Universe.

  Look downward on that globe, whose hither side

  With light from hence, though but reflected, shines:

  That place is Earth, the seat of Man; that light

  His day, which else, as the other hemisphere,

  Night would invade; but there the neighbouring Moon

  (So called that opposite fair star) her aid

  Timely interposes, and, her monthly round

  Still ending, still renewing, through mid-heaven,

  With borrowed light her countenance triform

  Hence fills and empties, to enlighten the Earth,

  And in her pale dominion checks the night.

  That spot to which I point is Paradise,

  Adam’s abode; those lofty shades his bower.

  Thy way thou canst not miss; me mine requires.”

  Thus said, he turned; and Satan, bowing low,

  As to superior Spirits is wont in Heaven,

  Where honour due and reverence none neglects,

  Took leave, and toward the coast of Earth beneath,

  Down from the ecliptic, sped with hoped success,

  Throws his steep flight in many an aerie wheel,

  Nor staid till on Niphates’ top he lights.

  THE ARGUMENT.—Satan, now in prospect of Eden, and nigh the place where he must now attempt the bold enterprise which he undertook alone against God and Man, falls into many doubts with himself, and many passions—fear, envy, and despair; but at length confirms himself in evil; journeys on to Paradise, whose outward prospect and situation is described; overleaps the bounds; sits, in the shape of a Cormorant, on the Tree of Life, as highest in the Garden, to look about him. The Garden described; Satan’s first sight of Adam and Eve; his wonder at their excellent form and happy state, but with resolution to work their fall; overhears their discourse; thence gathers that the Tree of Knowledge was forbidden them to eat of under penalty of death, and thereon intends to found his temptation by seducing them to transgress; then leaves them a while, to know further of their state by some other means. Meanwhile Uriel, descending on a sunbeam, warns Gabriel, who had in charge the gate of Paradise, that some evil Spirit had escaped the Deep, and passed at noon by his Sphere, in the shape of a good Angel, down to Paradise, discovered after by his furious gestures in the Mount. Gabriel promises to find him ere morning. Night coming on, Adam and Eve discourse of going to their rest; their bower described; their evening worship. Gabriel, drawing forth his bands of night—watch to walk the rounds of Paradise, appoints two strong Angels to Adam’s bower, lest the evil Spirit should be there doing some harm to Adam or Eve sleeping: there they find him at the ear of Eve, tempting her in a dream, and bring him, though unwilling, to Gabriel; by whom questioned, he scornfully answers; prepares resistance; but, hindered by a sign from Heaven, flies out of Paradise.

  O FOR that warning voice, which he who saw

  The Apocalypse heard cry in Heaven aloud,

  Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,

  Came furious down to be revenged on men,

  Woe to the inhabitants on Earth! that now,

  While time was, our first parents had been warned

  The coming of their secret Foe, and scaped,

  Haply so scaped, his mortal snare! For now

  Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down,

  The tempter, ere the accuser, of mankind,

  To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss

  Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell.

  Yet not rejoicing in his speed, though bold

  Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,

  Begins his dire attempt; which, nigh the birth

  Now rowling, boils in his tumultuous breast,

  And like a devilish engine back recoils

  Upon himself. Horror and doubt distract

  His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir

  The hell within him; for within him Hell

  He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell

  One step, no more than from Himself, can fly

  By change of place. Now conscience wakes despair

  That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory

  Of what he was, what is, and what must be

  Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue!

  Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view

  Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;

  Sometimes towards Heaven and the full-blazing Sun,

  Which now sat high in his meridian tower:

  Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began:—

  “O thou that, with surpassing glory crowned,

  Look’st from thy sole dominion like the god

  Of this new World—at whose sight all the stars

  Hide their diminished heads—to thee I call,

  But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,

  O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,

  That bring to my remembrance from what state

  I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere,

  Till pride and worse ambition threw me down,

  Warring in Heaven against Heaven’s matchless King!

  Ah, wherefore— He deserved no such return

  From me, whom he created what I was

  In that bright eminence, and with his good

  Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.

  What could be less than to afford him praise,

  The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks,

  How due— Yet all his good proved ill in me,

  And wrought but malice. Lifted up so high,

  I ’sdained subjection, and thought one step higher

  Would set me highest, and in a moment quit

  The debt immense of endless gratitude,

  So burthensome, still paying, still to owe;

  Forgetful what from him I still received;

  And understood not that a grateful mind

  By owing owes not, but still pays, at once

  Indebted and discharged—what burden then—

  Oh, had his powerful destiny ordained

  Me some inferior Angel, I had stood

  Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised

  Ambition. Yet why not— Some other Power

  As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,

  Drawn to his part. But other Powers as great

  Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within

  Or from without to all temptations armed!

  Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand—

  Thou hadst. Whom has thou then, or what, to accuse,

  But Heaven’s free love dealt equally to all—

  Be then his love accursed, since, love or hate,

  To me alike it deals eternal woe.

  Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will

  Chose freely what it now so justly rues.

  Me miserable! which way shall I fly

  Infinite wrauth and infinite despair—

  Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;

  And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep

  Still threatening to devour me opens wide,

  To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.

  O, then, at last relent! Is there no place

  Left for repentence, none for pardon left—

  None left but by submission; and that word

  Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame

  Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced

  With other promises and other vaunts

  Than to submit, boasting I could subdue

  The Omnipotent. Aye me! they little know

  How dearly I abide that boast so vain,

  Under what torments inwardly I groan.

  While they adore me on the throne of Hell,

  With diadem and sceptre high advanced,

  The lower still I fall, only supreme

  In misery: such joy ambition finds!

  But say I could repent, and could obtain,

  By act of grace, my former state; how soon

  Would highth recal high thoughts, how soon unsay

  What feigned submission swore! Ease would recant

  Vows made in pain, as violent and void

  (For never can true reconcilement grow

  Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep)

  Which would but lead me to a worse relapse

  And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear

  Short intermission, bought with double smart.

  This knows my Punisher; therefore as far

  From granting he, as I from begging, peace.

  All hope excluded thus, behold, instead

  Of us, outcast, exiled, his new delight,

  Mankind, created, and for him this World!

  So farewell hope, and, with hope, farewell fear,

  Farewell remorse! All good to me is lost;

  Evil, be thou my Good: by thee at least

  Divided empire with Heaven’s King I hold,

  By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;

  As Man ere long, and this new World, shall know.”

  Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face,

  Thrice changed with pale—ire, envy, and despair;

  Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed

  Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld:

  For Heavenly minds from such distempers foul

  Are ever clear. Whereof he soon aware

  Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm,

  Artificer of fraud; and was the first

  That practised falsehood under saintly shew,

  Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge:

  Yet not enough had practised to deceive

  Uriel, once warned; whose eye pursued him down

  The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount

  Saw him disfigured, more than could befall

  Spirit of happy sort: his gestures fierce

  He marked and mad demeanour, then alone,

  As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen.

  So on he fares, and to the border comes

  Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,

  Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,

  As with a rural mound, the champain head

  Of a steep wilderness whose hairy sides

  With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild.

  Access denied; and overhead up-grew

  Insuperable highth of loftiest shade,

  Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,

  A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend

  Shade above shade, a woody theatre

  Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops

  The verdurous wall of Paradise up-sprung;

  Which to our general Sire gave prospect large

  Into his nether empire neighbouring round.

  And higher than that wall a circling row

  Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,

  Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,

  Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed;

  On which the sun more glad impressed his beams

  Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,

  When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed

  That lantskip. And of pure now purer air

  Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires

  Vernal delight and joy, able to drive

  All sadness but despair. Now gentle gales,

  Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense

  Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole

  Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail

  Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past

  Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow

  Sabean odours from the spicy shore

  Of Araby the Blest, with such delay

  Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league

  Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles;

  So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend

  Who came their bane, though with them better pleased

  Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume

  That drove him, though enamoured, from the spouse

  Of Tobit’s son, and with a vengeance sent

  From Media post to AEgypt, there fast bound.

  Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill

  Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow;

  But further way found none; so thick entwined,

  As one continued brake, the undergrowth

  Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed

  All path of man or beast that passed that way.

  One gate there only was, and that looked east

  On the other side. Which when the Arch-Felon saw,

  Due entrance he disdained, and, in contempt,

  At one slight bound high overleaped all bound

  Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within

  Lights on his feet. As when a prowling wolf,

  Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey,

  Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve,

  In hurdled cotes amid the field secure,

  Leaps o’er the fence with ease into the fold;

  Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash

  Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors,

  Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault,

  In at the window climbs, or o’er the tiles;

  So climb this first grand Thief into God’s fold:

  So since into his Church lewd hirelings climb.

  Thence up he flew, and on the Tree of Life,

  The middle tree and highest there that grew,

  Sat like a Cormorant; yet not true life

  Thereby regained, but sat devising death

  To them who lived; nor on the virtue thought

  Of that life-giving plant, but only used

  For prospect what, well used, had been the pledge

  Of immortality. So little knows

  Any, but God alone, to value right

  The good before him, but perverts best things

  To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.

  Beneath him, with new wonder, now he views,

  To all delight of human sense exposed,

  In narrow room Nature’s whole wealth; yea, more—

  A Heaven on Earth: for blissful Paradise

  Of God the garden was, by him in the east

  Of Eden planted. Eden stretched her line

  From Auran eastward to the royal towers

  Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings,

  Or where the sons of Eden long before

  Dwelt in Telassar. In this pleasant soil

  His far more pleasant garden God ordained.

  Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow

  All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;

  And all amid them stood the Tree of Life,

  High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit

  Of vegetable gold; and next to life,

  Our death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by—

  Knowledge of good, bought dear by knowing ill.

  Southward through Eden went a river large,

  Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill

  Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown

  That mountain, as his garden-mould, high raised

  Upon the rapid current, which, through veins

  Of porous earth with kindly thirst updrawn,

  Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill

  Watered the garden; thence united fell

  Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,

  Which from his darksome passage now appears,

  And now, divided into four main streams,

  Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm

  And country whereof here needs no account;

  But rather to tell how, if Art could tell

  How, from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,

  Rowling on orient pearl and sands of gold,

  With mazy error under pendant shades

  Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed

  Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art

  In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon

  Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,

  Both where the morning sun first warmly smote

  The open field, and where the unpierced shade

  Imbrowned the noontide bowers. Thus was this place,

  A happy rural seat of various view:

  Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,

  Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,

  Hung amiable—Hesperian fables true,

  If true, here only—and of delicious taste.

  Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks

  Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,

  Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap

  Of some irriguous valley spread her store,

  Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.

  Another side, umbrageous grots and caves

  Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine

  Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps

  Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall

  Down the slope hills dispersed, or in a lake,

  That to the fringèd bank with myrtle crowned

  Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.

  The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,

  Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune

  The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,

  Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,

  Led on the eternal Spring. Not that fair field

  Of Enna, where Proserpin gathering flowers,

  Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis

  Was gathered—which cost Ceres all that pain

  To seek her through the world—nor that sweet grove

  Of Daphne, by Orontes and the inspired

  Castalian spring, might with this Paradise

  Of Eden strive; nor that Nyseian isle,

  Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,

  Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove,

  Hid Amalthea, and her florid son,

  Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye;

  Nor, where Abassin kings their issue guard,

  Mount Amara (though this by some supposed

  True Paradise) under the Ethiop line

  By Nilus’ head, enclosed with shining rock,

  A whole day’s journey high, but wide remote

  From this Assyrian garden, where the Fiend

  Saw undelighted all delight, all kind

  Of living creatures, new to sight and strange.

  Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

  God—like erect, with native honour clad

  In naked majesty, seemed lords of all,

  And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine

  The image of their glorious Maker shon,

  Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure—

  Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,

  Whence true authority in men: though both

  Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed;

  For contemplation he and valour formed,

  For softness she and sweet attractive grace;

  He for God only, she for God in him.

  His fair large front and eye sublime declared

  Absolute rule; and Hyacinthin locks

  Round from his parted forelock manly hung

  Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:

  She, as a veil down to the slender waist,

  Her unadornèd golden tresses wore

  Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved

  As the vine curls her tendrils—which implied

  Subjection, but required with gentle sway,

  And by her yielded, by him best received—

  Yielded, with coy submission, modest pride,

  And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.

  Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed:

  Then was not guilty shame. Dishonest shame

  Of Nature’s works, honour dishonourable,

  Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind

  With shews instead, mere shews of seeming pure

  And banished from man’s life his happiest life,

  Simplicity and spotless innocence!

  So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight

  Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill:

  So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair

  That ever since in love’s embraces met—

  Adam the goodliest man of men since born

  His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve.

  Under a tuft of shade that on a green

  Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain—side.

  They sat them down; and, after no more toil

  Of their sweet gardening labour than sufficed

  To recommend cool Zephyr, and make ease

  More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite

  More grateful, to their supper-fruits they fell—

  Nectarine fruits, which the complaint boughs

  Yielded them, sidelong as they sat recline

  On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers.

  The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind,

  Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream

  Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles

  Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems

  Fair couple linked in happy nuptial league,

  Alone as they. About them frisking played

  All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase

  In wood or wilderness, forest or den.

  Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw

  Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,

  Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,

  To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed

  His lithe proboscis; close the serpent sly,

  Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine

  His breaded train, and of his fatal guile

  Gave proof unheeded. Others on the grass

  Couched, and, now filled with pasture, gazing sat,

  Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,

  Declined, was hastening now with prone career

  To the Ocean Isles, and in the ascending scale

  Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose:

  When Satan, still in gaze as first he stood,

  Scarce thus at length failed speech recovered sad:—

  “O Hell! what do mine eyes with grief behold—

  Into our room of bliss thus high advanced

  Creatures of other mould—Earth-born perhaps,

  Not Spirits, yet to Heavenly Spirits bright

  Little inferior—whom my thoughts pursue

  With wonder, and could love; so lively shines

  In them divine resemblance, and such grace

  The hand that formed them on their shape hath poured.

  Ah! gentle pair, ye little think how nigh

  Your change approaches, when all these delights

  Will vanish, and deliver ye to woe—

  More woe, the more your taste is now of joy:

  Happy, but for so happy ill secured

  Long to continue, and this high seat, your Heaven,

  Ill fenced for Heaven to keep out such a foe

  As now is entered; yet no purposed foe

  To you, whom I could pity thus forlorn,

  Though I unpitied. League with you I seek,

  And mutual amity, so strait, so close,

  That I with you must dwell, or you with me,

  Henceforth. My dwelling, haply, may not please,

  Like this fair Paradise, your sense; yet such

  Accept your Marker’s work; he gave it me,

  Which I as freely give. Hell shall unfold,

  To entertain you two, her widest gates,

  And send forth all her kings; there will be room,

  Not like these narrow limits, to receive

  Your numerous offspring; if no better place,

  Thank him who puts me, loath, to this revenge

  On you, who wrong me not, for him who wronged.

  And, should I at your harmless innocence

  Melt, as I do, yet public reason just—

  Honour and empire with revenge enlarged

  By conquering this new World—compels me now

  To do what else, though damned, I should abhor.”

  So spake the Fiend, and with necessity,

  The tyrant’s plea, excused his devilish deeds.

  Then from his lofty stand on that high tree

  Down he alights among the sportful herd

  Of those four-footed kinds, himself now one,

  Now other, as their shape served best his end

  Nearer to view his prey, and, unespied,

  To mark what of their state he more might learn

  By word or action marked. About them round

  A lion now he stalks with fiery glare;

  Then as a tiger, who by chance hath spied

  In some pourlieu two gentle fawns at play,

  Straight crouches close; then rising, changes oft

  His couchant watch, as one who chose his ground,

  Whence rushing he might surest seize them both

  Griped in each paw: when Adam, first of men.

  To first of women, Eve, thus moving speech,

  Turned him all ear to hear new utterance flow:—

  “Sole partner and sole part of all these joys,

  Dearer thyself than all, needs must the Power

  That made us, and for us this ample World,

  Be infinitely good, and of his good

  As liberal and free as infinite;

  That raised us from the dust, and placed us here

  In all this happiness, who at this hand

  Have nothing merited, nor can perform

  Aught whereof he hath need; he who requires

  From us no other service than to keep

  This one, this easy charge—of all the trees

  In Paradise that bear delicious fruit

  So various, not to taste that only Tree

  Of Knowledge, planted by the Tree of Life;

  So near grows Death to Life, whate’er Death is—

  Some dreadful thing no doubt; for well thou know’st

  God hath pronounced it Death to taste that Tree:

  The only sign of our obedience left

  Among so many signs of power and rule

  Conferred upon us, and dominion given

  Over all other creatures that possess

  Earth, Air, and Sea. Then let us not think hard

  One easy prohibition, who enjoy

  Free leave so large to all things else, and choice

  Unlimited of manifold delights;

  But let us ever praise him, and extol

  His bounty, following our delightful task,

  To prune these growing plants, and tend these flowers;

  Which, were it toilsome, yet with thee were sweet.”

  To whom thus Eve replied:—“O thou for whom

  And from whom I was formed flesh of thy flesh,

  And without whom am to no end, my guide

  And head! what thou hast said is just and right.

  For we to him, indeed, all praises owe,

  And daily thanks—I chiefly, who enjoy

  So far the happier lot, enjoying thee

  Pre-eminent by so much odds, while thou

  Like consort to thyself canst nowhere find.

  That day I oft remember, when from sleep

  I first awaked, and found myself reposed,

  Under a shade, on flowers, much wondering where

  And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.

  Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound

  Of waters issued from a cave, and spread

  Into a liquid plain; then stood unmoved,

  Pure as the expanse of Heaven. I thither went

  With unexperienced thought, and laid me down

  On the green bank, to look into the clear

  Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky.

  As I bent down to look, just opposite

  A Shape within the watery gleam appeared,

  Bending to look on me. I started back,

  It started back; but pleased I soon returned

  Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks

  Of sympathy and love. There I had fixed

  Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,

  Had not a voice thus warned me: ‘What thou seest,

  What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;

  With thee it came and goes: but follow me,

  And I will bring thee where no shadow stays

  Thy coming, and thy soft imbraces—he

  Whose image thou art; him thou shalt enjoy

  Inseparably thine; to him shalt bear

  Multitudes like thyself, and thence be called

  Mother of human race.’ What could I do,

  But follow straight, invisibly thus led—

  Till I espied thee, fair, indeed, and tall,

  Under a platan; yet methought less fair,

  Less winning soft, less amiably mild,

  That that smooth watery image. Back I turned;

  Thou, following, cried’st aloud, ‘Return, fair Eve;

  Whom fliest thou— Whom thou fliest, of him thou art,

  His flesh, his bone, to give thee being I lent

  Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart,

  Substantial life, to have thee by my side

  Henceforth an individual solace dear:

  Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim

  My other half.’ With that thy gentle hand

  Seized mine: I yielded, and from that time see

  How beauty is excelled by manly grace

  And wisdom, which alone is truly fair.”

  So spake our general mother, and, with eyes

  Of conjugal attraction unreproved,

  And meek surrender, half-embracing leaned

  On our first father; half her swelling breast

  Naked met his, under the flowing gold

  Of her loose tresses hid. He, in delight

  Both of her beauty and submissive charms,

  Smiled with superior love, as Jupiter

  On Juno smiles when he impregns the clouds

  That shed May flowers, and pressed her matron lip

  With kisses pure. Aside the Devil turned

  For envy; yet with jealous leer malign

  Eyed them askance, and to himself thus plained:—

  “Sight hateful, sight tormenting! Thus these two,

  Imparadised in one another’s arms,

  The happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill

  Of bliss on bliss; while I to Hell am thrust,

  Where neither joy nor love, but fierce desire,

  Among our other torments not the least,

  Still unfulfilled, with pain of longing pines!

  Yet let me not forget what I have gained

  From their own mouths. All is not theirs, it seems;

  One fatal tree there stands, of Knowledge called,

  Forbidden them to taste. Knowledge forbidden—

  Suspicious, reasonless! Why should their Lord

  Envy them that— Can it be sin to know—

  Can it be death— And do they only stand

  By ignorance— Is that their happy state,

  The proof of their obedience and their faith—

  O fair foundation laid whereon to build

  Their ruin! Hence I will excite their minds

  With more desire to know, and to reject

  Envious commands, invented with design

  To keep them low, whom knowledge might exalt

  Equal with gods. Aspiring to be such,

  They taste and die: what likelier can ensue—

  But first with narrow search I must walk round

  This garden, and no corner leave unspied;

  A chance but chance may lead where I may meet

  Some wandering Spirit of Heaven, by fountain-side,

  Or in thick shade retired, from him to draw

  What further would be learned. Live while ye may,

  Yet happy pair; enjoy, till I return,

  Short pleasures; for long woes are to succeed!”

  So saying, his proud step he scornful turned,

  But with sly circumspection, and began

  Through wood, through waste, o’er hill, o’er dale, his roam.

  Meanwhile in utmost longitude, where Heaven

  With Earth and Ocean meets, the setting Sun

  Slowly descended, and with right aspect

  Against the eastern gate of Paradise

  Levelled his evening rays. It was a rock

  Of alabaster, piled up to the clouds,

  Conspicuous far, winding with one ascent

  Accessible from Earth, one entrance high;

  The rest was craggy cliff, that overhung

  Still as it rose, impossible to climb.

  Betwixt these rocky pillars Gabriel sat,

  Chief of the angelic guards, awaiting night;

  About him exercised heroic games

  The unarmed youth of Heaven; but nigh at hand

  Celestial armoury, shields, helms, and spears,

  Hung high, with diamond flaming and with gold.

  Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even

  On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star

  In autumn thwarts the night, when vapours fired

  Impress the air, and shews the mariner

  From what point of his compass to beware

  Impetuous winds, He thus began in haste:—

  “Gabriel, to thee thy course by lot hath given

  Charge and strict watch that to this happy place

  No evil thing approach or enter in.

  This day at highth of noon came to my sphere

  A Spirit, zealous, as he seemed, to know

  More of the Almighty’s works, and chiefly Man,

  God’s latest image. I described his way

  Bent all on speed, and marked his aerie gait,

  But in the mount that lies from Eden north,

  Where he first lighted, soon discerned his looks

  Alien from Heaven, with passions foul obscured.

  Mine eye pursued him still, but under shade

  Lost sight of him. One of the banished crew,

  I fear, hath ventured from the Deep, to raise

  New troubles; him thy care must be to find.”

  To whom the wingèd Warrior thus returned:—

  “Uriel, no wonder if thy perfect sight,

  Amid the Sun’s bright circle where thou sitt’st,

  See far and wide. In at this gate none pass

  The vigilance here placed, but such as come

  Well known from Heaven; since meridian hour

  No creature thence. If Spirit of other sort,

  So minded, have o’erleaped these earthly bounds

  On purpose, hard thou know’st it to exclude

  Spiritual substance with corporeal bar.

  But, if within the circuit of these walks,

  In whatsoever shape, he lurk of whom

  Thou tell’st, by morrow dawning I shall know.”

  So promised he; and Uriel to his charge

  Returned on that bright beam, whose point now raised

  Bore him slope downward to the Sun, now fallen

  Beneath the Azores; whether the Prime Orb,

  Incredible how swift, had thither rowled

  Diurnal, or this less volúbil Earth

  By shorter flight to the east, had left him there

  Arraying with reflected purple and gold

  The clouds that on his western throne attend.

  Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray

  Had in her sober livery all things clad;

  Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,

  They to their grassy couch, these to their nests

  Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.

  She all night longer her amorous descant sung:

  Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament

  With living Saphirs; Hesperus, that led

  The starry host, rode brightest, till the Moon,

  Rising in clouded majesty, at length

  Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,

  And o’er the dark her silver mantle threw;

  When Adam thus to Eve:—“Fair consort, the hour

  Of night, and all things now retired to rest

  Mind us of like repose; since God hath set

  Labour and rest, as day and night, to men

  Successive, and the timely dew of sleep,

  Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclines

  Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long

  Rove idle, unimployed, and less need rest;

  Man hath his daily work of body or mind

  Appointed, which declares his dignity,

  And the regard of Heaven on all his ways;

  While other animals unactive range,

  And of their doings God takes no account.

  To—morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east

  With first approach of light, we must be risen,

  And at our pleasant labour, to reform

  Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green,

  Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown,

  That mock our scant manuring, and require

  More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth.

  Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,

  That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth,

  Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease.

  Meanwhile, as Nature wills, Night bids us rest.”

  To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned:—

  “My author and disposer, what thou bidd’st

  Unargued I obey. So God ordains:

  God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more

  Is woman’s happiest knowledge, and her praise.

  With thee conversing, I forget all time,

  All seasons, and their change; all please alike.

  Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,

  With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the Sun,

  When first on this delightful land he spreads

  His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

  Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertil Earth

  After soft showers; and sweet the coming on

  Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night,

  With this her solemn bird, and this fair Moon,

  And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train:

  But neither breath of Morn, when she ascends

  With charm of earliest birds; nor rising Sun

  On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,

  Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers;

  Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night,

  With her solemn bird; nor walk by moon,

  Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet.

  But wherefore all night long shine these— for whom

  This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes—”

  To whom our general ancestor replied:—

  “Daughter of God and Man, accomplished Eve,

  Those have their course to finish round the Earth

  By morrow evening, and from land to land

  In order, though to nations yet unborn,

  Ministering light prepared, they set and rise;

  Lest total Darkness should by night regain

  Her old possession, and extinguish life

  In nature and all things; which these soft fires

  Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat

  Of various influence foment and warm,

  Temper or nourish, or in part shed down

  Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow

  On Earth, made hereby apter to receive

  Perfection from the Sun’s more potent ray.

  These then, though unbeheld in deep of night,

  Shine not in vain. Nor think, though men were none,

  That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise.

  Millions of spiritual creatures walk the Earth

  Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep:

  All these with ceaseless praise his works behold

  Both day and night. How often, from the steep

  Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard

  Celestial voices to the midnight air,

  Sole, or responsive each to other’s note,

  Singing their great Creator! Oft in bands

  While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk,

  With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds

  In full harmonic number joined, their songs

  Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.”

  Thus talking, hand in hand along they passed

  On to their blissful bower. It was a place

  Chosen by the sovran Planter, when he framed

  All things to Man’s delightful use. The roof

  Of thickest covert was inwoven shade,

  Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew

  Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side

  Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub,

  Fenced up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower,

  Iris all hues, roses, and gessamin,

  Reared high their flourished heads between, and wrought

  Mosaic; under foot the violet,

  Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay

  Broidered the ground, more coloured than with stone

  Of costliest emblem. Other creature here,

  Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter none;

  Such was their awe of Man. In shadier bower

  More sacred and sequestered, though but feigned,

  Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph

  For Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess,

  With flowers, garlands, and sweet—smelling hearbs

  Espousèd Eve decked first her nuptial bed,

  And heavenly choirs the hymenaean sung,

  What day the genial Angel to our Sire

  Brought her, in naked beauty more adorned,

  More lovely, than Pandora, whom the gods

  Endowed with all their gifts; and, O! too like

  In sad event, when, to the unwiser son

  Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she ensnared

  Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged

  On him who had stole Jove’s authentic fire.

  Thus at their shady lodge arrived, both stood,

  Both turned, and under open sky adored

  The God that made both Sky, Air, Earth, and Heaven,

  Which they beheld, the Moon’s resplendent globe,

  And starry Pole:—“Thou also madest the Night,

  Maker Omnipotent; and thou the Day,

  Which we, in our appointed work imployed,

  Have finished, happy in our mutual help

  And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss

  Ordained by thee; and this delicious place,

  For us too large, where thy abundance wants

  Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground.

  But thou hast promised from us two a race

  To fill the Earth, who shall with us extol

  Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake,

  And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.”

  This said unanimous, and other rites

  Observing none, but adoration pure,

  Which God likes best, into their inmost bower

  Handed they went, and, eased the putting-off

  These troublesome disguises which we wear,

  Straight side by side were laid; nor turned, I ween,

  Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites

  Mysterious of connubial love refused:

  Whatever hypocrites austerely talk

  Of purity, and place, and innocence,

  Defaming as impure what God declares

  Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.

  Our Maker bids increase; who bids abstain

  But our destroyer, foe to God and Man—

  Hail, wedded Love, mysterious law, true source

  Of human offspring, sole propriety

  In Paradise of all things common else!

  By thee adulterous lust was driven from men

  Among the bestial herds to raunge; by thee,

  Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure,

  Relations dear, and all the charities

  Of father, son, and brother, first were known.

  Far be it that I should write thee sin or blame,

  Or think thee unbefitting holiest place,

  Perpetual fountain of domestic sweets,

  Whose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced,

  Present, or past, as saints and patriarchs used.

  Here Love his golden shafts imploys, here lights

  His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings,

  Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile

  Of harlots—loveless, joyless, unindeared,

  Casual fruition; nor in court amours,

  Mixed dance, or wanton mask, or midnight bal,

  Or serenate, which the starved lover sings

  To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain.

  These, lulled by nightingales, imbracing slept,

  And on their naked limbs the flowery roof

  Showered roses, which the morn repaired. Sleep on,

  Blest pair! and, O! yet happiest, if ye seek

  No happier state, and know to know no more!

  Now had Night measured with her shadowy cone

  Half-way up-hill this vast sublunar vault,

  And from their ivory port the Cherubim

  Forth issuing, at the accustomed hour, stood armed

  To their night-watches in warlike parade;

  When Gabriel to his next in power thus spake:—

  “Uzziel, half these draw off, and coast the south

  With strictest watch; these other wheel the north:

  Our circuit meets full west.” As flame they part,

  Half wheeling to the shield, half to the spear.

  From these, two strong and subtle Spirits he called

  That near him stood, and gave them thus in charge:—

  “Ithuriel and Zephon, with winged speed

  Search through this Garden; leave unsearched no nook;

  But chiefly where those two fair creatures lodge,

  Now laid perhaps asleep, secure of harm.

  This evening from the Sun’s decline arrived

  Who tells of some infernal Spirit seen

  Hitherward bent (who could have thought—), escaped

  The bars of Hell, on errand bad, no doubt:

  Such, where ye find, seize fast, and hither bring.”

  So saying, on he led his radiant files,

  Dazzling the moon; these to the bower direct

  In search of whom they sought. Him there they found

  Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve,

  Assaying by his devilish art to reach

  The organs of her fancy, and with them forge

  Illusions as he list, phantasms and dreams;

  Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint

  The animal spirits, that from pure blood arise

  Like gentle breaths from rivers pure, thence raise,

  At least distempered, discontented thoughts,

  Vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires,

  Blown up with high conceits ingendering pride.

  Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear

  Touched lightly; for no falsehood can endure

  Touch of celestial temper, but returns

  Of force to its own likeness. Up he starts,

  Discovered and surprised. As, when a spark

  Lights on a heap of nitrous powder, laid

  Fit for the tun, some magazine to store

  Against a rumoured war, the smutty grain,

  With sudden blaze diffused, inflames the air;

  So started up, in his own shape, the Fiend.

  Back stept those two fair Angels, half amazed

  So sudden to behold the griesly King;

  Yet thus, unmoved with fear, accost him soon:—

  “Which of those rebel Spirits adjudged to Hell

  Com’st thou, escaped thy prison— and, transformed,

  Why satt’st thou like an enemy in wait,

  Here watching at the head of these that sleep—”

  “Know ye not, then,” said Satan, filled with scorn,

  “Know ye not me— Ye knew me once no mate

  For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar!

  Not to know me argues yourselves unknown,

  The lowest of your throng; or, if ye know,

  Why ask ye, and superfluous begin

  Your message, like to end as much in vain—”

  To whom thus Zephon, answering scorn with scorn:—

  “Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same,

  Or undiminished brightness, to be known

  As when thou stood’st in Heaven upright and pure.

  That glory then, when thou no more wast good,

  Departed from thee; and thou resemblest now

  Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foul.

  But come; for thou, be sure, shalt give account

  To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep

  This place inviolable, and these from harm.”

  So spake the Cherub; and his grave rebuke,

  Severe in youthful beauty, added grace

  Invincible. Abashed the Devil stood,

  And felt how awful goodness is, and saw

  Virtue in her shape how lovely—saw, and pined

  His loss; but chiefly to find here observed

  His lustre visibly impaired; yet seemed

  Undaunted. “If I must contend,” said he,

  “Best with the best—the sender, not the sent;

  Or all at once: more glory will be won,

  Or less be lost.” “Thy fear,” said Zephon bold,

  “Will save us trial what the least can do

  Single against thee wicked, and thence weak.”

  The Fiend replied not, overcome with rage;

  But, like a proud steed reined, went haughty on,

  Chaumping his iron curb. To strive or fly

  He held it vain; awe from above had quelled

  His heart, not else dismayed. Now drew they nigh

  The western point, where those half—rounding guards

  Just met, and, closing, stood in squadron joined,

  Awaiting next command. To whom their chief,

  Gabriel, from the front thus called aloud:—

  “O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet

  Hasting this way, and now by glimpse discern

  Ithuriel and Zephon through the shade;

  And with them comes a third, of regal port,

  But faded splendour wan, who by his gait

  And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell—

  Not likely to part hence without contest’.

  Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours.”

  He scarce had ended, when those two approached,

  And brief related whom they brought, where found,

  How busied, in what form and posture couched.

  To whom, with stern regard, thus Gabriel spake:—

  “Why hast thou, Satan, broke the bounds prescribed

  To thy transgressions, and disturbed the charge

  Of others, who approve not to transgress

  By thy example, but have power and right

  To question thy bold entrance on this place;

  Imployed, it seems to violate sleep, and those

  Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss—”

  To whom thus Satan, with contemptuous brow:—

  “Gabriel, thou hadst in Heaven the esteem of wise;

  And such I held thee; but this question asked

  Puts me in doubt. Lives there who loves his pain—

  Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell,

  Though thither doomed— Thou wouldst thyself, no doubt,

  And boldly venture to whatever place

  Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change

  Torment with ease, and soonest recompense

  Dole with delight; which in this place I sought:

  To thee no reason, who know’st only good,

  But evil hast not tried. And wilt object

  His will who bound us— Let him surer bar

  His iron gates, if he intends our stay

  In that dark durance. Thus much what was asked:

  The rest is true; they found me where they say;

  But that implies not violence or harm.”

  Thus he in scorn. The warlike Angel moved,

  Disdainfully half smiling, thus replied:—

  “O loss of one in Heaven to judge of wise,

  Since Satan fell, whom folly overthrew,

  And now returns him from his prison scaped,

  Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise

  Or not who ask what boldness brought him hither

  Unlicensed from his bounds in Hell prescribed!

  So wise he judges it to fly from pain

  However, and to scape his punishment!

  So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth,

  Which thou incurr’st by flying, meet thy flight

  Sevenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell,

  Which taught thee yet no better that no pain

  Can equal anger infinite provoked.

  But wherefore thou alone— Wherefore with thee

  Came not all Hell broke loose— Is pain to them

  Less pain, less to be fled— or thou than they

  Less hardy to endure— Courageous chief,

  The first in flight from pain, hadst thou alleged

  To thy deserted host this cause of flight,

  Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive.”

  To which the Fiend thus answered, frowning stern:—

  “Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain,

  Insulting Angel! well thou know’st I stood

  Thy fiercest, when in battle to thy aid

  The blasting volleyed thunder made all speed

  And seconded thy else not dreaded spear.

  But still thy words at random, as before,

  Argue thy inexperience what behoves,

  From hard assays and ill successes past,

  A faithful leader—not to hazard all

  Through ways of danger by himself untried.

  I, therefore, I alone, first undertook

  To wing the desolate Abyss, and spy

  This new-created World, whereof in Hell

  Fame is not silent, here in hope to find

  Better abode, and my afflicted Powers

  To settle here on Earth, or in mid Air;

  Though for possession put to try once more

  What thou and thy gay legions dare against;

  Whose easier business where to serve their Lord

  High up in Heaven, with songs to hymn his throne,

  And practiced distances to cringe, not fight.”

  To whom the Warrior-Angel soon replied:—

  “To say and straight unsay, pretending first

  Wise to fly pain, professing next to spy,

  Argues no leader, but a liar traced,

  Satan; and couldst thou ‘faithful’ add— O name,

  O sacred name of faithfulness profaned!

  Faithful to whom— to thy rebellious crew—

  Army of fiends, fit body to fit head!

  Was this your discipline and faith ingaged,

  Your military obedience, to dissolve

  Allegiance to the acknowledged Power Supreme—

  And thou, sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem

  Patron of liberty, who more than thou

  Once fawned, and cringed, and servilely adored

  Heaven’s awful Monarch— wherefore, but in hope

  To dispossess him, and thyself to reign—

  But mark what I areed thee now: Avaunt!

  Fly thither whence thou fledd’st. If from this hour

  Within these hallowed limits thou appear,

  Back to the Infernal Pit I drag thee chained,

  And seal thee so as henceforth not to scorn

  The facile gates of Hell too slightly barred.”

  So threatened he; but Satan to no threats

  Gave heed, but waxing more in rage, replied:—

  “Then, when I am thy captive, talk of chains,

  Proud limitary Cherub! but ere then

  Far heavier load thyself expect to feel

  From my prevailing arm, though Heaven’s King

  Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers,

  Used to the yoke, draw’st his triumphant wheels

  In progress through the road of Heaven star—paved.”

  While thus he spake, the angelic squadron bright

  Turned fiery red, sharpening in mooned horns

  Their phalanx and began to hem him round

  With ported spears, as thick as when a field

  Of Ceres ripe for harvest waving bends

  Her bearded grove of ears which way the wind

  Sways them; the careful ploughman doubting stands

  Lest on the threshing-floor his hopeful sheaves

  Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan, alarmed,

  Collecting all his might, dilated stood,

  Like Teneriff or Atlas, unremoved:

  His stature reached the sky, and on his crest

  Sat Horror plumed; nor wanted in his grasp

  What seemed both spear and shield. Now dreadful deeds

  Might have ensued; nor only Paradise,

  In this commotion, but the starry cope

  Of Heaven perhaps, or all the Elements

  At least, had gone to wrack, disturbed and torn

  With violence of this conflict, had not soon

  The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,

  Hung forth in Heaven his golden scales, yet seen

  Betwixt Astraea and the Scorpion sign,

  Wherein all things created first he weighed,

  The pendulous round Earth with balanced air

  In counterpoise, now ponders all events,

  Battles and realms. In these he put two weights,

  The sequel each of parting and of fight:

  The latter quick up flew, and kicked the beam;

  Which Gabriel spying thus bespake the Fiend:

  “Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know’st mine,

  Neither our own, but given; what folly then

  To boast what arms can do! since thine no more

  Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now

  To trample thee as mire. For proof look up,

  And read thy lot in yon celestial sign,

  Where thou art weighed, and shown how light, how weak

  If thou resist.” The Fiend looked up, and knew

  His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled

  Murmuring; and with him fled the shades of Night.

  THE ARGUMENT.—Morning approached, Eve relates to Adam her troublesome dream; he likes it not, yet comforts her: they come forth to their day labours: their morning hymn at the door of their bower. God, to render Man inexcusable, sends Raphael to admonish him of his obedience, of his free estate, of his enemy near at hand, who he is, and why his enemy, and whatever else may avail Adam to know. Raphael comes down to Paradise; his appearance described; his coming discerned by Adam afar off, sitting at the door of his bower; he goes out to meet him, brings him to his lodge, entertains him with the choicest fruits of Paradise, got together by Eve; their discourse at table. Raphael performs his massage, minds Adam of his state and of his enemy; relates, at Adam’s request, who that enemy is, and how he came to be so, beginning from his first revolt in Heaven, and the occasion thereof; how he drew his legions after him to the parts of the North, and there incited them to rebel with him, persuading all but only Abdiel, a seraph, who in argument dissuades and opposes him, then forsakes him.

  NOW Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime

  Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,

  When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep

  Was aerie light, from pure digestion bred,

  And temperate vapours bland, which the only sound

  Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora’s fan,

  Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song

  Of birds on every bough. So much the more

  His wonder was to find unwakened Eve,

  With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,

  As through unquiet rest. He, on his side

  Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love

  Hung over her enamoured, and beheld

  Beauty which, whether waking or asleep,

  Shot forth peculiar graces; then, with voice

  Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,

  Her hand soft touching, whispered thus:—“Awake,

  My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,

  Heaven’s last, best gift, my ever-new delight!

  Awake! the morning shines, and the fresh field

  Calls us; we lose the prime to mark how spring

  Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove,

  What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,

  How Nature paints her colours, how the bee

  Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.”

  Such whispering waked her, but with startled eye

  On Adam; whom imbracing, thus she spake:—

  “O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose,

  My glory, my perfection! glad I see

  Thy face, and morn returned; for I this night

  (Such night till this I never passed) have dreamed,

  If dreamed, not, as I oft am wont, of thee,

  Works of day past, or morrow’s next design;

  But of offence and trouble, which my mind

  Knew never till this irksome night. Methought

  Close at mine ear one called me forth to walk

  With gentle voice; I thought it thine. It said,

  ‘Why sleep’st thou, Eve— now is the pleasant time,

  The cool, the silent, save where silence yields

  To the night-warbling bird, that now awake

  Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song; now reigns

  Full-orbed the moon, and, with more pleasing light,

  Shadowy sets off the face of things—in vain,

  If none regard. Heaven wakes with all his eyes;

  Whom to behold but thee, Nature’s desire,

  In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment

  Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze—

  I rose as at thy call, but found thee not:

  To find thee I directed then my walk;

  And on, methought, alone I passed through ways

  That brought me on a sudden to the Tree

  Of interdicted Knowledge. Fair it seemed,

  Much fairer to my fancy than by day;

  And, as I wondering looked, beside it stood

  One shaped and winged like one of those from Heaven

  By us oft seen: his dewy locks distilled

  Ambrosia. On that Tree he also gazed;

  And, ‘O fair plant,’ said he, ‘with fruit surcharged,

  Deigns none to ease thy load, and taste thy sweet,

  Nor God nor Man— Is knowledge so despised—

  Or envy, or what reserve forbids to taste—

  Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold

  Longer thy offered good, why else set here—

  This said, he paused not, but with ventrous arm

  He plucked, he tasted. Me damp horror chilled

  At such bold words vouched with a deed so bold;

  But he thus, overjoyed: ‘O fruit divine,

  Sweet of thyself, but much more sweet thus cropt,

  Forbidden here, it seems, as only fit

  For gods, yet able to make gods of men!

  And why not gods of men, since good, the more

  Communicated, more abundant grows,

  The author not impaired, but honoured more—

  Here, happy creature, fair angelic Eve!

  Partake thou also: happy though thou art,

  Happier thou may’st be, worthier canst not be.

  Taste this, and be henceforth among the gods

  Thyself a goddess; not to Earth confined,

  But sometimes in the Air; as we; sometimes

  Ascend to Heaven, by merit thine, and see

  What life the gods live there, and such live thou.’

  So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held,

  Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part

  Which he had plucked: the pleasant savoury smell

  So quickened appetite that I, methought,

  Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the clouds

  With him I flew, and underneath beheld

  The Earth outstretched immense, a prospect wide

  And various. Wondering at my flight and change

  To this high exaltation, suddenly

  My guide was gone, and I, methought, sunk down,

  And fell asleep; but, O, how glad I waked

  To find this but a dream!” Thus Eve her night

  Related, and thus Adam answered sad:—

  “Best image of myself, and dearer half,

  The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep

  Affects me equally; nor can I like

  This uncouth dream—of evil sprung, I fear;

  Yet evil whence— In thee can harbour none,

  Created pure. But know that in the soul

  Are many lesser faculties, that serve

  Reason as chief. Among these Fancy next

  Her office holds; of all external things,

  Which the five watchful senses represent,

  She forms imaginations, aerie shapes,

  Which Reason, joining or disjoining, frames

  All what we affirm or what deny, and call

  Our knowledge or opinion; then retires

  Into her private cell when Nature rests.

  Oft, in her absence, mimic Fancy wakes

  To imitate her; but, misjoining shapes,

  Wild work produces oft, and most in dreams,

  Ill matching words and deeds long past or late.

  Some such resemblances, methinks, I find

  Of our last evening’s talk in this thy dream,

  But with addition strange. Yet be not sad:

  Evil into the mind of God or Man

  May come and go, so unapproved, and leave

  No spot or blame behind; which gives me hope

  That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream

  Waking thou never wilt consent to do.

  Be not disheartened, then, nor cloud those looks,

  That wont to be more cheerful and serene

  Than when fair Morning first smiles on the world;

  And let us to our fresh imployments rise

  Among the groves, the fountains, and the flowers,

  That open now their choicest bosomed smells,

  Reserved from night, and kept for thee in store.”

  So cheered he his fair spouse; and she was cheered,

  But silently a gentle tear let fall

  From either eye, and wiped them with her hair:

  Two other precious drops that ready stood,

  Each in their crystal sluice, he, ere they fell,

  Kissed as the gracious signs of sweet remorse

  And pious awe, that feared to have offended.

  So all was cleared, and to the field they haste.

  But first, from under shady arborous roof

  Soon as they forth were come to open sight

  Of day-spring, and the Sun—who, scarce uprisen,

  With wheels yet hovering o’er the ocean-brim,

  Shot parallel to the Earth his dewy ray,

  Discovering in wide lantskip all the east

  Of Paradise and Eden’s happy plains—

  Lowly they bowed, adoring, and began

  Their orisons, each morning duly paid

  In various style; for neither various style

  Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise

  Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung

  Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence

  Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse,

  More tuneable than needed lute or harp

  To add more sweetness. And they thus began:—

  “These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,

  Almighty! thine this universal frame,

  Thus wondrous fair: Thyself how wondrous then!

  Unspeakable! who sitt’st above these heavens

  To us invisible, or dimly seen

  In these thy lowest works; yet these declare

  Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.

  Speak, ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,

  Angels—for ye behold him, and with songs

  And choral symphonies, day without night,

  Circle his throne rejoicing—ye in Heaven;

  On Earth join, all ye creatures, to extol

  Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.

  Fairest of Stars, last in the train of Night,

  If better thou belong not to the Dawn,

  Sure pledge of day, that crown’st the smiling morn

  With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere

  While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

  Thou Sun, of this great World both eye and soul,

  Acknowledge him thy Greater; sound his praise

  In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st,

  And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall’st.

  Moon, that now meet’st the orient Sun, now fliest,

  With the fixed Stars, fixed in their orb that flies;

  And ye five other wandering Fires, that move

  In mystic dance, not without song, reasound

  His praise who out of Darkness called up Light.

  Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth

  Of Nature’s womb, that in quaternion run

  Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

  And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change

  Vary to our great Maker still new praise.

  Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise

  From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,

  Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,

  In honour to the World’s great Author rise;

  Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,

  Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,

  Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

  His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,

  Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines,

  With every Plant, in sign of worship wave.

  Fountains, and ye, that warble, as ye flow,

  Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.

  Join voices, all ye living Souls. Ye Birds,

  That, singing, up to Heaven-gate ascend,

  Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.

  Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk

  The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,

  Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

  To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,

  Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.

  Hail, universal Lord! Be bounteous still

  To give us only good; and, if the night

  Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,

  Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.”

  So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts

  Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.

  On to their morning’s rural work they haste,

  Among sweet dews and flowers, where any row

  Of fruit-trees, over-woody, reached too far

  Their pampered boughs, and needed hands to check

  Fruitless imbraces; or they led the vine

  To wed her elm; she, spoused, about him twines

  Her marriageable arms, and with her brings

  Her dower, the adopted clusters, to adorn

  His barren leaves. Them thus imployed beheld

  With pity Heaven’s high King, and to him called

  Raphael, the sociable Spirit, that deigned

  To travel with Tobias, and secured

  His marriage with the seven-times-wedded maid.

  “Raphael,” said he, “thou hear’st what stir on Earth

  Satan, from Hell scaped through the darksome Gulf,

  Hath raised in Paradise, and how disturbed

  This night the human pair; now he designs

  In them at once to ruin all mankind.

  Go, therefore; half this day, as friend with friend,

  Converse with Adam, in what bower or shade

  Thou find’st him from the heat of noon retired

  To respite his day-labour with repast

  Or with repose; and such discourse bring on

  As may advise him of his happy state—

  Happiness in his power left free to will,

  Left to his own free will, his will though free

  Yet mutable. Whence warn him to beware

  He swerve not, too secure: tell him withal

  His danger, and from whom; what enemy,

  Late fallen himself from Heaven, is plotting now

  The fall of others from like state of bliss.

  By violence— no, for that shall be withstood;

  But by deceit and lies. This let him know,

  Lest, wilfully transgressing, he pretend

  Surprisal, unadmonished, unforewarned.”

  So spake the Eternal Father, and fulfilled

  All justice. Nor delayed the winged Saint

  After his charge received; but from among

  Thousand celestial Ardours, where he stood

  Veiled with his gorgeous wings, upspringing light,

  Flew through the midst of Heaven. The angelic quires

  On each hand parting, to his speed gave way

  Through all the empyreal road, till, at the gate

  Of Heaven arrived, the gate self-opened wide,

  On golden hinges turning, as by work

  Divine the sovran Architect had framed.

  From hence—no cloud or, to obstruct his sight,

  Star interposed, however small—he sees,

  Not unconform to other shining globes,

  Earth, and the Garden of God, with cedars crowned

  Above all hills; as when by night the glass

  Of Galileo, less assured, observes

  Imagined lands and regions in the Moon;

  Or pilot from amidst the Cyclades

  Delos or Samos first appearing kens,

  A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight

  He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky

  Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing

  Now on the polar winds; then with quick fan

  Winnows the buxom air, till, within soar

  Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems

  A phnix, gazed by all, as that sole bird,

  When, to enshrine his relics in the Sun’s

  Bright temple, to AEgyptian Thebes he flies.

  At once on the eastern cliff of Paradise

  He lights, and to his proper shape returns,

  A Seraph winged. Six wings he wore, to shade

  His lineaments divine: the pair that clad

  Each shoulder broad came mantling o’er his breast

  With regal ornament; the middle pair

  Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round

  Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold

  And colours dipt in heaven; the third his feet

  Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail,

  Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia’s son he stood,

  And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled

  The circuit wide. Straight knew him all the bands

  Of Angels under watch, and to his state

  And to his message high in honour rise;

  For on some message high they guessed him bound.

  Their glittering tents he passed, and now is come

  Into the blissful field, through groves of myrrh,

  And flowering odours, cassia, nard, and balm,

  A wilderness of sweets; for Nature here

  Wantoned as in her prime, and played at will

  Her virgin fancies, pouring forth more sweet,

  Wild above rule or art, enormous bliss.

  Him, through the spicy forest onward come,

  Adam discerned, as in the door he sat

  Of his cool bower, while now the mounted Sun

  Shot down direct his fervid rays, to warm

  Earth’s inmost womb, more warmth than Adam needs’

  And Eve, within, due at her hour, prepared

  For dinner savoury fruits, of taste to please

  True appetite, and not disrelish thirst

  Of nectarous draughts between, from milky stream,

  Berry or grape: to whom thus Adam called:—

  “Haste hither, Eve, and, worth thy sight, behold

  Eastward among those trees what glorious Shape

  Comes this way moving; seems another morn

  Risen on mid-noon. Some great behest from Heaven

  To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe

  This day to be our guest. But go with speed,

  And what thy stores contain bring forth, and pour

  Abundance fit to honour and receive

  Our heavenly stranger; well may we afford

  Our givers their own gifts, and large bestow

  From large bestowed, where Nature multiplies

  Her fertile growth, and by disburdening grows

  More fruitful; which instructs us not to spare.”

  To whom thus Eve:—“Adam, Earth’s hallowed mould,

  Of God inspired, small store will serve where store,

  All seasons, ripe for use hangs on the stalk;

  Save what, by frugal storing, firmness gains

  To nourish, and superfluous moist consumes.

  But I will haste, and from each bough and brake,

  Each plant and juiciest gourd, will pluck such choice

  To entertain our Angel-guest as he,

  Beholding, shall confess that here on Earth

  God hath dispensed his bounties as in Heaven.”

  So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste

  She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent

  What choice to choose for delicacy best,

  What order so contrived as not to mix

  Tastes, not well joined, inelegant, but bring

  Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change:

  Bestirs her then, and from each tender stalk

  Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields

  In India East or West, or middle shore

  In Pontus or the Punic coast, or where

  Alcinous reigned, fruit of all kinds, in coat

  Rough or smooth-rined, or bearded husk, or shell,

  She gathers, tribute large, and on the board

  Heaps with unsparing hand. For drink the grape

  She crushes, inoffensive must, and meaths

  From many a berry, and from sweet kernels pressed

  She tempers dulcet creams—nor those to hold

  Wants her fit vessels pure; then strews the ground

  With rose and odours from the shrub unfumed.

  Meanwhile our primitive great Sire, to meet

  His godlike guest, walks forth, without more train

  Accompanied than with his own complete

  Perfections; in himself was all his state,

  More solemn than the tedious pomp that waits

  On princes, when their rich retin’ue long

  Of horses led and grooms besmeared with gold

  Dazzles the crowd and sets them all agape.

  Nearer his presence, Adam, though not awed,

  Yet with submiss approach and reverence meek,

  As to a superior nature, bowing low,

  Thus said:—“Native of Heaven (for other place

  None can than Heaven such glorious Shape contain),

  Since, by descending from the Thrones above,

  Those happy places thou hadst deigned a while

  To want, and honour these, voutsafe with us,

  Two only, who yet by sovran gift possess

  This spacious ground, in yonder shady bower

  To rest, and what the Garden choicest bears

  To sit and taste, till this meridian heat

  Be over, and the sun more cool decline.”

  Whom thus the angelic Virtue answered mild:—

  “Adam, I therefore came; nor art thou such

  Created, or such place hast here to dwell,

  As may not oft invite, though Spirits of Heaven,

  To visit thee. Lead on, then, where thy bower

  O’ershades; for these mid-hours, till evening rise,

  I have at will. “So to the sylvan lodge

  They came, that like Pomona’s arbour smiled,

  With flowerets decked and fragrant smells. But Eve,

  Undecked, save with herself, more lovely fair

  Than wood-nymph, or the fairest goddess feigned

  Of three that in Mount Ida naked strove,

  Stood to entertain her guest from Heaven; no veil

  She needed, virtue-proof; no thought infirm

  Altered her cheek. On whom the Angel “Hail!”

  Bestowed—the holy salutation used

  Long after to blest Mary, second Eve:—

  “Hail! Mother of mankind, whose fruitful womb

  Shall fill the world more numerous with thy sons

  Than with these various fruits the trees of God

  Have heaped this table!” Raised of grassy turf

  Their table was, and mossy seats had round,

  And on her ample square, from side to side,

  All Autumn piled, though Spring and Autumn here

  Danced hand-in-hand. A while discourse they hold—

  No fear lest dinner cool—when thus began

  Our Author:—“Heavenly Stranger, please to taste

  These bounties, which our Nourisher, from whom

  All perfect good, unmeasured-out, descends.

  To us for food and for delight hath caused

  The Earth to yield: unsavoury food, perhaps,

  To Spiritual Natures; only this I know,

  That one Celestial Father gives to all.”

  To whom the Angel:—“Therefore, what he gives

  (Whose praise be ever sung) to Man, in part

  Spiritual, may of purest Spirits be found

  No ingrateful food: and food alike those pure

  Intelligential substances require

  As doth your Rational; and both contain

  Within them every lower faculty

  Of sense, whereby they hear, see, smell, touch, taste,

  Tasting concoct, digest, assimilate,

  And corporeal to incorporeal turn.

  For know, whatever was created needs

  To be sustained and fed. Of Elements

  The grosser feeds the purer: Earth the Sea;

  Earth and the Sea feed Air; the Air those Fires

  Ethereal, and, as lowest, first the Moon;

  Whence in her visage round those spots, unpurged,

  Vapours not yet into her substance turned.

  Nor doth the Moon no nourishment exhale

  From her moist continent to higher Orbs.

  The Sun, that light imparts to all, receives

  From all his alimental recompense

  In humid exhalations, and at even

  Sups with the Ocean. Though in Heaven the trees

  Of life ambrosial fruitage bear, and vines

  Yield nectar—though from off the boughs each morn

  We brush mellifluous dews and find the ground

  Covered with pearly grain—yet God hath here

  Varied his bounty so with new delights

  As may compare with Heaven; and to taste

  Think not I shall be nice.” So down they sat,

  And to their viands fell; nor seemingly

  The Angel, nor in mist—the common gloss

  Of theologians—but with keen dispatch

  Of real hunger, and concoctive heat

  To transubstantiate: what redounds transpires

  Through Spirits with ease; nor wonder, if by fire

  Of sooty coal the Empiric Alchimist

  Can turn, or holds it possible to turn,

  Metals of drossiest ore to perfect gold,

  As from the mine. Meanwhile at table Eve

  Ministered naked, and their flowing cups

  With pleasant liquors crowned. O innocence

  Deserving Paradise! If ever, then,

  Then had the Sons of God excuse to have been

  Enamoured at that sight. But in those hearts

  Love unlibidinous reigned, nor jealousy

  Was understood, the injured lover’s hell.

  Thus when with meats and drinks they had sufficed,

  Not burdened nature, sudden mind arose

  In Adam not to let the occasion pass,

  Given him by this great conference, to know

  Of things above his world, and of their being

  Who dwell in Heaven, whose excellence he saw

  Transcend his own so far, whose radiant forms,

  Divine effulgence, whose high power so far

  Exceeded human; and his wary speech

  Thus to the empyreal minister he framed:—

  Inhabitant with God, now know I well

  They favour, in this honour done to Man;

  Under whose lowly roof thou hast voutsafed

  To enter, and these earthly fruits to taste,

  Food not of Angels, yet accepted so

  As that more willingly thou couldst not seem

  At Heaven’s high feasts to have fed: yet what compare!”

  To whom the wingèd Hierarch replied:—

  “O Adam, one almighty is, from whom

  All things proceed, and up to him return,

  If not depraved from good, created all

  Such to perfection; one first matter all,

  Indued with various forms, various degrees

  Of substance, and, in things that live, of life;

  But more refined, more spiritous and pure,

  As nearer to him placed or nearer tending

  Each in their several active spheres assigned,

  Till body up to spirit work, in bounds

  Proportioned to each kind. So from the root

  Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves

  More aerie, last the bright consummate flower

  Spirits odorous breathes: flowers and their fruit,

  Man’s nourishment, by gradual scale sublimed,

  To vital spirits aspire, to animal,

  To intellectual; give both life and sense,

  Fancy and understanding; whence the Soul

  Reason receives, and Reason is her being,

  Discursive, or Intuitive: Discourse

  Is oftest yours, the latter most is ours,

  Differing but in degree, of kind the same.

  Wonder not, then, what God for you saw good

  If I refuse not, but convert, as you,

  To proper substance. Time may come when Men

  With Angels may participate, and find

  No inconvenient diet, nor too light fare;

  And from these corporal nutriments, perhaps,

  Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit,

  Improved by tract of time, and winged ascend

  Ethereal, as we, or may at choice

  Here or in heavenly paradises dwell,

  If ye be found obedient, and retain

  Unalterably firm his love entire

  Whose progeny you are. Meanwhile enjoy,

  Your fill, what happiness this happy state

  Can comprehend, incapable of more.”

  To whom the Patriarch of Mankind replied:—

  “O favourable Spirit, propitious guest,

  Well hast thou taught the way that might direct

  Our knowledge, and the scale of Nature set

  From centre to circumference, whereon,

  In contemplation of created things,

  By steps we may ascend to God. But say,

  What meant that caution joined, If ye be found

  Obedient— Can we want obedience, then,

  To him, or possibly his love desert,

  Who formed us from the dust, and placed us here

  Full to the utmost measure of what bliss

  Human desires can seek or apprehend—”

  To whom the Angel:—“Son of Heaven and Earth,

  Attend! That thou art happy, owe to God;

  That thou continuest such, owe to thyself,

  That is, to thy obedience; therein stand.

  This was that caution given thee; be advised.

  God made thee perfect, not immutable;

  And good he made thee; but to persevere

  He left it in thy power—ordained thy will

  By nature free, not over-ruled by fate

  Inextricable, or strict necessity.

  Our voluntary service he requires,

  Not our necessitated. Such with him

  Finds no acceptance, nor can find; for how

  Can hearts not free be tried whether they serve

  Willing or no, who will but what they must

  By destiny, and can no other choose—

  Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand

  In sight of god enthroned, our happy state

  Hold, as you yours, while our obedience holds.

  On other surety none: freely we serve,

  Because we freely love, as in our will

  To love or not; in this we stand or fall.

  And some are fallen, to disobedience fallen,

  And so from Heaven to deepest Hell. Of fall

  From what high state of bliss into what woe!”

  To whom our great Progenitor:—“Thy words

  Attentive, and with more delighted ear,

  Divine instructor, I have heard, than when

  Cherubic songs by night from neighbouring hills

  Aerial music send. Nor knew I not

  To be, both will and deed, created free.

  Yet that we never shall forget to love

  Our Maker, and obey him whose command

  Single is yet so just, my constant thoughts

  Assured me, and still assure; though what thou tell’st

  Hath passed in Heaven some doubt within me move,

  But more desire to hear, if thou consent,

  The full relation, which must needs be strange,

  Worthy of sacred silence to be heard.

  And we have yet large day, for scarce the Sun

  Hath finished half his journey, and scarce begins

  His other half in the great zone of heaven.”

  Thus Adam made request; and Raphael,

  After short pause assenting, thus began:—

  “High matter thou injoin’st me, O prime of Men—

  Sad task and hard; for how shall I relate

  To human sense the invisible exploits

  Of warring Spirits— how, without remorse,

  The ruin of so many, glorious once

  And perfect while they stood— how, last, unfold

  The secrets of another world, perhaps

  Not lawful to reveal— Yet for thy good

  This is dispensed; and what surmounts the reach

  Of human sense I shall delineate so,

  By likening spiritual to corporal forms,

  As may express them best—though what if Earth

  Be but the shadow of Heaven, and things therein

  Each to other like more than on Earth is thought!

  “As yet this World was not, and Chaos wild

  Reigned where these heavens now rowl, where Earth now rests

  Upon her centre poised, when on a day

  (For Time, though in Eternity, applied

  To motion, measures all things durable

  By present, past, and future), on such day

  As Heaven’s great year brings forth, the empyreal host

  Of Angels, by imperial summons called,

  Innumerable before the Almighty’s throne

  Forthwith from all the ends of Heaven appeared

  Under their hierarchs in orders bright.

  Ten thousand thousand ensigns high advanced,

  Standards and gonfalons, ’twixt van and rear

  Stream in the air, and for distinction serve

  Of hierarchies, of orders, and degrees:

  Or in their glittering tissues bear imblazed

  Holy memorials, acts of zeal and love

  Recorded eminent. Thus when in orbs

  Of circuit inexpressible they stood,

  Orb within orb, the Father Infinite,

  By whom in bliss imbosomed sat the Son,

  Amidst, as from a flaming Mount, whose top

  Brightness had made invisible, thus spake:

  “‘Hear, all ye Angels, Progeny of Light,

  Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,

  Hear my decree, which unrevoked shall stand!

  This day I have begot whom I declare

  My only Son, and on this holy hill

  Him have anointed, whom ye now behold

  At my right hand. Your head I him appoint,

  And by myself have sworn to him shall bow

  All knees in Heaven, and shall confess him Lord.

  Under his great vicegerent reign abide,

  United as one individual soul,

  For ever happy. Him who disobeys

  Me disobeys, breaks union, and, that day,

  Cast out form God and blessed vision, falls

  Into utter darkness, deep ingulfed, his place

  Ordained without redemption, without end.’

  “So spake the Omnipotent, and with his words

  All seemed well pleased; all seemed, but were not all.

  That day, as other solemn days, they spent

  In song and dance about the sacred Hill—

  Mystical dance, which yonder starry sphere

  Of planets and of fixed in all her wheels

  Resembles, nearest; mazes intricate,

  Eccentric, intervolved, yet regular

  Then most when most irregular they seem;

  And in their motions harmony divine

  So smooths her charming tones that God’s own ear

  Listens delighted. Evening now approached

  (For we have also our evening and our morn—

  We ours for change delectable, not need);

  Forthwith from dance to sweet repast they turn

  Desirous: all in circles as they stood,

  Tables are set, and on a sudden piled

  With Angels’ food; and rubied nectar flows

  In pearl, in diamond, and massy gold,

  Fruit of delicious vines, the growth of Heaven.

  On flowers reposed, and with fresh flowerets crowned,

  They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet

  Quaff immortality and joy, secure

  Of surfeit where full measure only bounds

  Excess, before the all-bounteous King, who showered

  With copious hand, rejoicing in their joy.

  Now when ambrosial Night, with clouds exhaled

  From that high mount of God whence light and shade

  Spring both, the face of brightest Heaven had changed

  To grateful twilight (for Night comes not there

  In darker veil), and roseate dews disposed

  All but the unsleeping eyes of God to rest,

  Wide over all the plain, and wider far

  Than all this globous Earth in plain outspread

  (Such are the Courts of God), the Angelic throng,

  Dispersed in bands and files, their camp extend

  By living streams among the trees of life—

  Pavilions numberless and sudden reared,

  Celestial tabernacles, where they slept,

  Fanned with cool winds; save those who, in their course,

  Melodious hymns about the sovran Throne

  Alternate all night long. But not so waked

  Satan—so call him now; his former name

  Is heard no more in Heaven. He, of the first,

  If not the first Archangel, great in power,

  In favour, and preëminence, yet fraught

  With envy against the Son of God, that day

  Honoured by his great Father, and proclaimed

  Messiah, King Anointed, could not bear,

  Through pride, that sight, and thought himself impaired.

  Deep malice thence conceiving and disdain,

  Soon as midnight brought on the dusky hour

  Friendliest to sleep and silence, he resolved

  With all his legions to dislodge, and leave

  Unworshiped, unobeyed, the Throne supreme.

  Contemptuous, and, his next subordinate

  Awakening, thus to him in secret spake:—

  “‘Sleep’st thou, companion dear— what sleep can close

  Thy eyelids— and rememberest what decree,

  Of yesterday, so late hath passed the lips

  Of Heaven’s Almighty— Thou to me thy thoughts

  Wast wont, I mine to thee was wont, to impart;

  Both waking we were one; how, then, can now

  Thy sleep dissent— New laws thou seest imposed;

  New laws from him who reigns new minds may raise

  In us who serve—new counsels, to debate

  What doubtful may ensue. More in this place

  To utter is not safe. Assemble thou

  Of all those myriads which we lead the chief;

  Tell them that, by command, ere yet dim Night

  Her shadowy cloud withdraws, I am to haste,

  And all who under me their banners wave,

  Homeward with flying march where we possess

  The Quarters of the North, there to prepare

  Fit entertainment to receive our King,

  The great Messiah, and his new commands,

  Who speedily through all the Hierarchies

  Intends to pass triumphant, and give laws.’

  “So spake the false Archangel, and infused

  Bad influence into the unwary breast

  Of his associate. He together calls,

  Or several one by one, the regent Powers,

  Under him regent; tells, as he was taught,

  That, the Most High commanding, now ere Night,

  Now ere dim Night had disincumbered Heaven,

  The great hierarchal standard was to move;

  Tells the suggested cause, and casts between

  Ambiguous words and jealousies, to sound