Book I

Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruitOf that forbidden Tree, whose mortal tasteBrought death into the world, and all our woe,With loss of Eden, till one greater ManRestore us, and regain the blissful seat,Sing Heavenly Muse, that on the secret topOf Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspireThat shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,In the beginning how the Heavens and EarthRose out of Chaos: Or if Zion hillDelight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flowedFast by the oracle of God, I thenceInvoke thy aid to my adventurous song,That with no middle flight intends to soarAbove the Aonian mount, while it pursuesThings unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost preferBefore all temples the upright heart and pure,Instruct me, for thou know’st; thou from the firstWast present, and with mighty wings outspread,Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast Abyss,And mad’st it pregnant: what in me is darkIllumine, what is low raise and support;That to the highth of this great argumentI may assert the 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 causeMoved our grand parents in that happy state,Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall offFrom their Creator, and transgress his willFor 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, deceivedThe Mother of Mankind, what time his prideHad cast him out from Heaven, with all his hostOf rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiringTo set himself in glory above his peers,He trusted to have equalled the Most High,If he opposed; and with ambitious aimAgainst the throne and monarchy of GodRaised impious war in Heaven and battle proud,With vain attempt. Him the Almighty PowerHurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,With hideous ruin and combustion, downTo bottomless perdition; there to dwellIn adamantine chains and penal fire,Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.

Nine times the space that measures day and nightTo mortal men, he with his horrid crewLay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,Confounded though immortal. But his doomReserved him to more wrath; for now the thoughtBoth of lost happiness and lasting painTorments 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 angels ken, he viewsThe dismal situation waste and wild:A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flamesNo light, but rather darkness visibleServed only to discover sights of woe,Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peaceAnd rest can never dwell, hope never comesThat comes to all; but torture without endStill urges, and a fiery deluge, fedWith ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.Such place Eternal Justice had preparedFor those rebellious, here their prison ordainedIn utter darkness, and their portion set,As far removed from God and light of HeavenAs from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.O how unlike the place from whence they fell!There the companions of his fall, o’erwhelmedWith 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 namedBeelzebub. To whom the Arch-Enemy,And thence in Heaven called Satan, with bold wordsBreaking the horrid silence thus began:

“If thou beest he—But Oh how fallen! how changedFrom him, who in the happy realms of light,Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshineMyriads, though bright! if he whom mutual league,United thoughts and counsels, equal hopeAnd hazard in the glorious enterprise,Joined with me once, now misery hath joinedIn equal ruin: into what pit thou seestFrom what highth fallen, so much the stronger provedHe with his thunder: and till then who knewThe force of those dire arms? Yet not for those,Nor what the potent victor in his rageCan 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 alongInnumerable force of Spirits armed,That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,His utmost power with adverse power opposedIn 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 mightExtort from me. To bow and sue for graceWith suppliant knee, and deify his powerWho, from the terror of this arm, so lateDoubted his empire—that were low indeed;That were an ignominy and shame beneathThis downfall; since by fate the strength of godsAnd 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 resolveTo wage by force or guile eternal war,Irreconcileable to our grand foe,Who now triumphs, and in the excess of joySole 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 throned powers,That led the embattled Seraphim to warUnder thy conduct, and in dreadful deedsFearless, 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 eventThat with sad overthrow and foul defeatHath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty hostIn horrible destruction laid thus low,As far as gods and Heavenly essencesCan perish: for the mind and spirit remainsInvincible, and vigour soon returns,Though all our glory extinct, and happy stateHere swallowed up in endless misery.But what if he our conqueror, (whom I nowOf force believe almighty, since no lessThan 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 thrallsBy right of war, whate’er his business 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 feelStrength undiminished, or eternal beingTo 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 willWhom we resist. If then his providenceOut 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 perhapsShall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturbHis inmost counsels from their destined aim.But see! the angry victor hath recalledHis ministers of vengeance and pursuitBack to the gates of Heaven: the sulphurous hail,Shot after us in storm, o’erblown hath laidThe fiery surge that from the precipiceOf Heaven received us falling; and the thunder,Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage,Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases nowTo bellow through the vast and boundless deep.Let us not slip the occasion, whether scornOr 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 flamesCasts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tendFrom 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 offendOur 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 mateWith head uplift above the wave, and eyesThat sparkling blazed; his other parts besides,Prone on the flood, extended long and large,Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as hugeAs whom the fables name of monstrous size,Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred on Jove,Briarios or Typhon, whom the denBy ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beastLeviathan, which God of all his worksCreated 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 skaly rind,Moors by his side under the lee, while nightInvests the sea, and wished morn delays.So stretched out huge in length the Arch-Fiend lay,Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thenceHad risen or heaved his head, but that the willAnd high permission of all-ruling HeavenLeft him at large to his own dark designs,That with reiterated crimes he mightHeap on himself damnation, while he soughtEvil to others, and enraged might seeHow all his malice served but to bring forthInfinite goodness, grace and mercy shewnOn Man by him seduced, but on himselfTreble confusion, wrath and vengeance poured.

Forthwith upright he rears from off the poolHis mighty stature; on each hand the flamesDriven backward slope their pointing spires, and, rolledIn billows, leave i’ the midst a horrid vale.Then with expanded wings he steers his flightAloft, incumbent on the dusky airThat felt unusual weight; till on dry landHe lights—if it were land that ever burnedWith solid, as the lake with liquid fire,And such appeared in hue, as when the forceOf subterranean wind transports a hillTorn from Pelorus, or the shattered sideOf thundering Aetna, whose combustibleAnd fuelled entrails thence conceiving fire,Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds,And leave a singed bottom all involvedWith stench and smoke: such resting found the soleOf unblest feet. Him followed his next mate,Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian floodAs 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 seatThat we must change for Heaven? this mournful gloomFor that celestial light? Be it so, since heWho now is sovereign can dispose and bidWhat shall be right: farthest from him is best,Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supremeAbove his equals. Farewell happy fields,Where joy for ever dwells! Hail horrors! hail,Infernal world! and thou, profoundest HellReceive thy new possessor, one who bringsA mind not to be changed by place or time.The mind is its own place, and in itselfCan 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 heWhom thunder hath made greater? Here at leastWe shall be free; the Almighty hath not builtHere for his envy, will not drive us hence:Here we may reign secure, and in my choiceTo 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 lossLie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,And call them not to share with us their partIn this unhappy mansion, or once moreWith rallied arms to try what may be yetRegained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell?”

So Satan spake, and him BeelzebubThus answered. “Leader of those armies bright,Which but the Omnipotent none could have foiled,If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledgeOf hope in fears and dangers—heard so oftIn worst extremes, and on the perilous edgeOf battle when it raged, in all assaultsTheir surest signal—they will soon resumeNew courage and revive, though now they lieGroveling 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 FiendWas moving toward the shore; his ponderous shieldEthereal temper, massy, large and round,Behind him cast; the broad circumferenceHung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orbThrough optic glass the Tuscan artist viewsAt 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 pineHewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mastOf some great ammiral, were but a wand—He walked with, to support uneasy stepsOver the burning marle, not like those stepsOn Heaven’s azure; and the torrid climeSmote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.Nathless he so endured, till on the beachOf that inflamed sea, he stood, and calledHis legions, Angel forms, who lay entrancedThick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooksIn Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shadesHigh overarched embower; or scattered sedgeAfloat, when with fierce Winds Orion armedHath vext the Red-Sea Coast, whose waves o’erthrewBusiris and his Memphian chivalry,While with perfidious hatred they pursuedThe sojourners of Goshen, who beheldFrom the safe shore their floating carcasesAnd 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 deepOf Hell resounded: “Princes, Potentates,Warriors, the flower of Heaven, once yours, now lost,If such astonishment as this can seizeEternal spirits: or have ye chosen this placeAfter the toil of battle to reposeYour wearied virtue, for the ease you findTo slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven?Or in this abject posture have ye swornTo adore the conqueror, who now beholdsCherub and Seraph rolling in the floodWith scattered arms and ensigns, till anonHis swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discernThe advantage, and descending tread us downThus drooping, or with linked thunderboltsTransfix us to the bottom of this gulf?Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen!”

They heard, and were abashed, and up they sprungUpon the wing, as when men wont to watchOn duty, sleeping found by whom they dread,Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.Nor did they not perceive the evil plightIn which they were, or the fierce pains not feel;Yet to their General’s voice they soon obeyedInnumerable. As when the potent rodOf Amram’s son in Egypt’s evil day,Waved round the coast, up called a pitchy cloudOf locusts, warping on the eastern wind,That o’er the realm of impious Pharoah hungLike night, and darkened all the land of Nile:So numberless were those bad Angels seenHovering on wing under the cope of Hell’Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires;Till, as a signal given, the uplifted spearOf their great Sultan waving to directTheir course, in even balance down they lightOn the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain:A multitude, like which the populous NorthPoured never from her frozen loins, to passRhene or the Danaw, when her barbarous sonsCame like a deluge on the South, and spreadBeneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.Forthwith from every squadron and each band,The heads and leaders thither haste where stoodTheir great Commander; godlike shapes, and formsExcelling human, princely dignities,And powers that erst in Heaven sat on thrones;Though of their names in heavenly records nowBe no memorial, blotted out and rasedBy their rebellion from the Books of Life.Nor had they yet among the sons of EveGot them new names, till, wandering o’er the Earth,Through God’s high sufferance for the trial of Man,By falsities and lies the greatest partOf Mankind they corrupted to forsakeGod their Creator, and the invisibleGlory of him that made them to transformOft to the image of a brute, adornedWith 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 worthCame singly where he stood on the bare strand,While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof.

The chief were those who, from the pit of HellRoaming to seek their prey on earth, durst fixTheir seats long after next the seat of God,Their altars by his altar, gods adoredAmong the nations round, and durst abideJehovah thundering out of Zion, thronedBetween the Cherubim; yea, often placedWithin his sanctuary itself their shrines,Abominations; and with cursed thingsHis holy rites, and solemn feasts profaned,And with their darkness durst affront his light.First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with bloodOf human sacrifice, and parents’ tears,Though for the noise of drums and timbrels loud,Their children’s cries unheard, that passed through fireTo his grim idol. Him the AmmoniteWorshipped in Rabba and her watery plain,In Argob and in Basan, to the streamOf utmost Arnon. Nor content with suchAudacious neighbourhood, the wisest heartOf Solomon he led by fraud to buildHis Temple right against the temple of GodOn that opprobrious hill, and made his groveThe pleasant Valley of Hinnom, Tophet thenceAnd black Gehenna called, the type of Hell.Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab’s Sons,From Aroer to Nebo, and the wildOf Southmost Abarim; in HesebonAnd Heronaim, Seon’s realm, beyondThe flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines,And Eleale to the Asphaltic Pool.Peor his other name, when he enticedIsrael in Sittim on their march from Nile,To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe.Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlargedEven to that hill of scandal, by the groveOf Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate;Till good Josiah drove them thence to Hell.With these came they, who from the bordering floodOf old Euphrates to the brook that partsEgypt from Syrian ground, had general namesOf Baalim and Ashtaroth—those male,These feminine. For Spirits when they pleaseCan either sex assume, or both; so softAnd 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 forsookTheir living Strength, and unfrequented leftHis righteous altar, bowing lowly downTo bestial gods; for which their heads as lowBowed down in battle, sunk before the spearOf despicable foes. With these in troopCame Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians calledAstarte, Queen of Heaven, with crescent horns;To whose bright image nightly by the moonSidonian virgins paid their vows and songs;In Zion also not unsung, where stoodHer temple on the offensive mountain, builtBy that uxorious king, whose heart though large,Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fellTo idols foul. Thammuz came next behind,Whose annual wound in Lebanon alluredThe Syrian damsels to lament his fateIn amorous ditties all a summer’s day,While smooth Adonis from his native rockRan purple to the sea, supposed with bloodOf Thammuz yearly wounded: the love-taleInfected Zion’s daughters with like heat,Whose wanton passions in the sacred porchEzekiel saw, when by the vision led,His eye surveyed the dark idolatriesOf alienated Judah. Next came oneWho mourned in earnest, when the captive arkMaimed his brute image, head and hands lopt offIn his own temple, on the grunsel-edge,Where he fell flat, and shamed his worshipers:Dagon his Name, sea-monster, upward manAnd downward fish: yet had his temple highReared in Azotus, dreaded through the coastOf Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon,And Accaron and Gaza’s frontier bounds.Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seatWas fair Damascus, on the fertile banksOf 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 drewGod’s altar to disparage and displaceFor one of Syrian mode, whereon to burnHis odious offerings, and adore the godsWhom he had vanquished. After these appearedA crew who under names of old renown,Osiris, Isis, Orus and their train,With monstrous shapes and sorceries abusedFanatic Egypt and her priests, to seekTheir wandering gods disguised in brutish formsRather then human. Nor did Israel scapeThe infection, when their borrowed gold composedThe calf in Oreb; and the rebel kingDoubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan,Likening his Maker to the grazed ox—Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passedFrom Egypt marching, equalled with one strokeBoth her first-born and all her bleating gods.Belial came last, then whom a Spirit more lewdFell not from Heaven, or more gross to loveVice for itself. To him no temple stoodOr altar smoked; yet who more oft then heIn temples and at altars, when the priestTurns atheist, as did Eli’s sons, who filledWith lust and violence the house of God?In courts and palaces he also reignsAnd in luxurious cities, where the noiseOf riot ascends above their loftiest towers,And injury and outrage; and when nightDarkens the streets, then wander forth the sonsOf Belial, flown with insolence and wine.Witness the streets of Sodom, and that nightIn Gibeah, when the hospitable doorExposed a matron, to prevent 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 heldGods, yet confessed later than Heaven and Earth,Their boasted parents: Titan, Heaven’s first born,With his enormous brood, and birthright seizedBy younger Saturn, he from mightier Jove,His own and Rhea’s son, like measure found;So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in CreteAnd Ida known, thence on the snowy topOf cold Olympus ruled the middle air,Their highest Heaven; or on the Delphian cliff,Or in Dodona, and through all the boundsOf Doric land; or who with Saturn oldFled over Adria to the Hesperian fields,And o’er the Celtic roamed the utmost isles.

All these and more came flocking; but with looksDowncast and damp, yet such wherein appearedObscure some glimpse of joy, to have found their ChiefNot in despair, to have found themselves not lostIn loss itself; which on his countenance castLike doubtful hue. But he, his wonted prideSoon recollecting, with high words, that boreSemblance of worth not substance, gently raisedTheir fainting courage, and dispelled their fears:Then strait commands that, at the warlike soundOf trumpets loud and clarions, be uprearedHis mighty standard. That proud honour claimedAzazel as his right, a Cherub tall:Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurledThe imperial ensign, which full high advanced,Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind,With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,Seraphic arms and trophies; all the whileSonorous metal blowing martial sounds:At which the universal host up-sentA shout that tore Hell’s concave, and beyondFrighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.All in a moment through the gloom were seenTen thousand banners rise into the air,With orient colours waving; with them roseA forest huge of spears; and thronging helmsAppeared, and serried shields in thick arrayOf depth immeasurable. Anon they moveIn perfect phalanx to the Dorian moodOf flutes and soft recorders; such as raisedTo highth of noblest temper heroes oldArming to battle, and instead of rageDeliberate valour breathed, firm and unmovedWith dread of death to flight or foul retreat;Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage,With solemn touches, troubled thoughts, and chaseAnguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and painFrom mortal or immortal minds. Thus they,Breathing united force with fixed thought,Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmedTheir painful steps o’er the burnt soil; and nowAdvanced in view they stand, a horrid frontOf dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guiseOf warriors old with ordered spear and shield,Awaiting what command their mighty ChiefHad to impose. He through the armed filesDarts his experienced eye, and soon traverseThe whole battalion views—their order due,Their visages and stature as of gods;Their number last he sums. And now his heartDistends with pride, and hardening in his strengthGlories: for never, since created Man,Met such imbodied force as, named with these,Could merit more then that small infantryWarred on by cranes: though all the giant broodOf Phlegra with the heroic race were joinedThat fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each sideMixed with auxiliar Gods; and what resoundsIn 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 shoreWhen Charlemain with all his peerage fellBy Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyondCompare of mortal prowess, yet observedTheir dread Commander. He, above the restIn shape and gesture proudly eminent,Stood like a tower; his form had yet not lostAll her original brightness, nor appearedLess than Archangel ruined, and the excessOf Glory obscured: as when the sun new risenLooks through the horizontal misty airShorn of his beams, or from behind the moonIn dim eclipse disastrous twilight shedsOn half the nations, and with fear of changePerplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shoneAbove them all the Archangel; but his faceDeep scars of thunder had intrenched, and careSat on his faded cheek, but under browsOf dauntless courage, and considerate prideWaiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but castSigns of remorse and passion, to beholdThe fellows of his crime, the followers rather(Far other once beheld in bliss) condemnedFor ever now to have their lot in pain;Millions of Spirits for his fault amercedOf Heaven, and from eternal splendours flungFor his revolt; yet faithful how they stood,Their glory withered: as, when Heaven’s fireHath scathed the forest oaks, or mountain pines,With singed top their stately growth, though bareStands on the blasted heath. He now preparedTo speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bendFrom wing to wing, and half enclose him roundWith all his peers: attention held them mute.Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn,Tears such as Angels weep, burst forth: at lastWords interwove with sighs found out their way:

“O Myriads of immortal Spirits! O PowersMatchless, but with the Almighty!—and that strifeWas not inglorious, though the event was dire,As this place testifies, and this dire change,Hateful to utter. But what power of mindForeseeing or presaging, from the depthOf knowledge past or present, could have fearedHow such united force of gods, how suchAs stood like these, could ever know repulse?For who can yet believe, though after loss,That all these puissant legions, whose exileHath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascendSelf-raised, and repossess their native seat?For me, be witness all the host of Heaven,If counsels different, or danger shunnedBy me, have lost our hopes. But he who reignsMonarch in Heaven, till then as one secureSat on his throne, upheld by old repute,Consent or custom, and his regal statePut 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 dreadNew war, provoked; our better part remainsTo work in close design, by fraud or guile,What force effected not; that he no lessAt length from us may find, who overcomesBy force, hath overcome but half his foe.Space may produce new worlds; whereof so rifeThere went a fame in Heaven that he ere longIntended to create, and therein plantA generation whom his choice regardShould favour equal to the Sons of Heaven.Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhapsOur first eruption, thither or elsewhere;For this infernal pit shall never holdCelestial Spirits in bondage, nor the AbyssLong under darkness cover. But these thoughtsFull counsel must mature. Peace is despaired,For who can think submission? War, then, warOpen or understood, must be resolved.”

He spake; and to confirm his words, out-flewMillions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighsOf mighty Cherubim; the sudden blazeFar round illumined Hell. Highly they ragedAgainst the Highest, and fierce with graspèd armsClashed on their sounding shields the din of war,Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

There stood a hill not far, whose grisly topBelched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entireShone with a glossy scurf, undoubted signThat in his womb was hid metallic ore,The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed,A numerous brigad hastened; as when bandsOf 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 fellFrom heaven, for even in heaven his looks and thoughtsWere always downward bent, admiring moreThe riches of Heaven’s pavement, trodden gold,Than aught divine or holy else enjoyedIn vision beatific. By him firstMen also, and by his suggestion taught,Ransacked the centre, and with impious handsRifled the bowels of their mother EarthFor treasures better hid. Soon had his crewOpened into the hill a spacious woundAnd digged out ribs of gold. Let none admireThat riches grow in Hell; that soil may bestDeserve the precious bane. And here let thoseWho boast in mortal things, and wondering tellOf Babel, and the works of Memphian kings,Learn how their greatest monuments of fame,And strength, and art, are easily outdoneBy Spirits reprobate, and in an hourWhat in an age they, with incessant toilAnd hands innumerable, scarce perform.Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared,That underneath had veins of liquid fireSluiced from the lake, a second multitudeWith wondrous art founded the massy ore,Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion-dross.A third as soon had formed within the groundA various mould, and from the boiling cellsBy 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 hugeRose like an exhalation, with the soundOf dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,Built like a temple, where pilasters roundWere set, and Doric pillars overlaidWith golden architrave; nor did there wantCornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven;The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon,Nor great Alcairo, such magnificenceEqualled in all their glories, to enshrineBelus or Serapis their gods, or seatTheir kings, when Egypt with Assyria stroveIn wealth and luxury. The ascending pileStood fixed her stately highth, and strait the doors,Opening their brazen folds, discover, wideWithin, her ample spaces, o’er the smoothAnd level pavement: from the arched roof,Pendent by subtle magic, many a rowOf starry lamps and blazing cressets, fedWith naphtha and asphaltus, yielded lightAs from a sky. The hasty multitudeAdmiring entered, and the work some praise,And some the architect: his hand was knownIn Heaven by many a towered structure high,Where sceptred Angels held their residence,And sat as princes, whom the supreme KingExalted to such power, and gave to rule,Each in his Hierarchy, the Orders bright.Nor was his name unheard or unadoredIn ancient Greece; and in Ausonian landMen called him Mulciber; and how he fellFrom Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry JoveSheer o’er the crystal battlements: from mornTo noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,A summer’s day; and with the setting sunDropt from the zenith like a falling star,On Lemnos, the Aegaean isle. Thus they relate,Erring; for he with this rebellious routFell long before; nor aught availed him nowTo have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he scapeBy all his engines, but was headlong sentWith his industrious crew to build in Hell.

Meanwhile the winged haralds, by commandOf sovereign power, with awful ceremonyAnd trumpet’s sound, throughout the host proclaimA solemn council forthwith to be heldAt Pandemonium, the high capitalOf Satan and his peers. Their summons calledFrom every band and squared regimentBy place or choice the worthiest; they anonWith hundreds and with thousands trooping cameAttended. All access was thronged, the gatesAnd porches wide, but chief the spacious hall(Though like a covered field, where champions boldWont ride in armed, and at the Sultan’s chairDefied the best of Panim chivalryTo mortal combat or career with lance)Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air,Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As beesIn spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus rides,Pour forth their populous youth about the hiveIn clusters; they among fresh dews and flowersFly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank,The suburb of their straw-built citadel,New rubbed with balm, expatiate and conferTheir state affairs. So thick the aery crowdSwarmed and were straitened; till the signal given,Behold a wonder! they but now who seemedIn bigness to surpass Earth’s giant sons,Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow roomThrong numberless, like that pygmean raceBeyond the Indian mount; or faery elves,Whose midnight revels, by a forest-sideOr fountain, some belated peasant sees,Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moonSits arbitress, and nearer to the EarthWheels her pale course; they, on their mirth and danceIntent, with jocond music charm his ear;At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest formsReduced their shapes immense, and were at large,Though without number still, amidst the hallOf that infernal court. But far within,And in their own dimensions like themselvesThe great Seraphic Lords and CherubimIn close recess and secret conclave sat,A thousand demigods on golden seats,Frequent and full. After short silence then,And summons read, the great consult began.