His utmost pow'r with adverse pow'r oppos'd In dubious battle on the plains of heav'n,
And shook his throne. What though the field be lost All is not lost th' 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 ingnominy, and shame beneath This downfal; 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 advanc'd, We may with more successful hope, resolve To wage, by force or guile, eternal war, Irreconcileable to our grand foe,
Who now triumphs, and, in th' excess of joy Sole reigning, holds the tyranny of heaven.
So spake th' apostate angel, though in pain, Vaunting aloud, but rack'd with deep despair: And him thus answer'd soon his bold compeer: O prince, O chief of many throned powers, That led th' embattl'd seraphim to war, Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds Fearless, endanger'd heav'n's perpetual King, And put to proof his high supremacy, Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate foo well I see and rue the dire event, That with sad overthrow and foul defeat Hath lost us Heav'n, and all this mighty host In horrible destruction laid thus low, As far as gods and heav'nly essences Can perish for the mind and spirit remain Invincible, and vigour soon returns,
Though all our glory extinct, and happy state
Here swallow'd 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'erpower'd such force as our: Have left us in 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 bus'ness be, Here in the heart of hell to work in fire, Or do his errands in the gloomy deep; What can it then avail, though yet we feel Strength undiminish'd, or eternal being, To undergo eternal punishment?
Whereto with speedy words th' arch-fiend replied: Fall'n cherub! to be weak is miserable, Doing or suff'ring; 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 oft-times may succeed, so as perhaps Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb His inmost counsels from their destin'd aim. But see! the angry victor hath recall'd His ministers of vengeance and pursuit, Back to the gates of heav'n; the sulphurous hail, Shot after us in storm, o'erblown, hath laid The fiery surge, that from the precipice
Of heav'n receiv'd us falling; and the thunder, Wing'd 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 th' occasion whether scorn, Or satiate fury, yield it from Spe. Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild.
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what the glimmering of these livid flanies 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 blaz'd, his other parts beside, 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 warr'd 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 th' ocean stream: Him, haply slumb'ring on the Norway foam, The pilot of some small night founder'd skiff Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, With fix'd anchor in his scaly rind
Moors by his side under the lee, while night Invests the sea, and wish'd morn delays:
So stretched out huge in length, the arch-fiend lay Chain'd on the burning lake: nor ever thence Had risen or heav'd his head, but that the will And high permission of all-ruling heav'n 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, enrag'd, might see How all his malice serv'd but to bring forth Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy shown On man by him seduced, but on himself
Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance pour'd. Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool His mighty stature; on each hand the flames, Driv'n backward, slope their pointing spires, and roll'd In billows, leave i' th' 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 burn'd With solid, as the lake with liquid fire; And such appear'd in hue: as when the force Of subterranean wind transports a hill Torn from Pelorus, or the shatter'd side Of thund'ring Etna, whose combustible And fuell'd entrails, thence conceiving fire, Sublim'd with mineral fury, aid the winds, And leave a singed bottom all involv'd
With stench and smoke: such resting found the sole Of unblest feet. Him follow'd his next mate, Both glorying to have 'scap'd the Stygian flood As gods, and by their own recover'd strength, Not by the suff'rance of supernal power.
Is this the region, this the soil, the clime, Said then the lost arch-angel, this the seat
That we must change for heaven; this mournful For that celestial light? Be it so! since he [gloom Who now is sov'reign can dispose and bid What shall be right: farthest from him is best, Whom reason hath equall'd, force hath made supreme Above his equals! Farewell, happy fields, Where joy for ever dwells. Hail horrors! hail Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell, Receive thy new possessor! one who brings A mind not to be chang'd by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n. 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: th' 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 heav'n' But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, Th' associates and copartners of our loss, Lie thus astonish'd on th' oblivious pool, And call them not to share with us their part, In this unhappy mansion; or once more With ralli'd arms, to try what may be yet Regain'd in heav'n, or what more lost in hell? So Satan spake, and him Beelzebub
Thus answer'd: Leader of those armies bright, Which but th' Omnipotent none could have foued 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 rag'd, 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 ere while, astounded and amaz'd; No wonder, fall'n such a pernicious height.
He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior fiend Was moving to the shore: his pond'rous 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 Fesole, 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 admiral, were but a wand, He walk'd with, to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle, not like those steps On heaven's azure; and the torrid clime
« AnteriorContinuar » |