PARADISE LOS T.

BOOK II.

HIGH on a throne of royal ftate, which far

Outfhone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous Eaft with richest hand
Show'rs on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted fat, by merit rais'd

To that bad eminence; and from despair
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, afpires
Beyond thus high; infatiate to pursue

Vain war with Heav'n; and, by fuccefs untaught,
His proud imaginations thus difplay'd.

Powers and dominions, deities of heaven:
For fince no deep within her gulf can hold
Immortal vigour, though opprefs'd and fall'n,
I give not heaven for loft. From this descent
Celestial virtues rifing, will appear

More glorious and more dread than from no fall,
And truft themselves to fear no fecond fate.
Me though just right, and the fix'd laws of heaven
Did first create your leader; next, free choice;
With what befides, in council or in fight,
Hath been achiev'd of merit; yet this lofs
Thus far at leaft recover'd, hath much more
Establish'd in a fafe unenvied throne,

Yielded with full confent. The happier state

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In heav'n, which follows dignity, might draw
Envy from each inferiour: but who here
Will envy whom the highest place expofes
Foremost to stand against the Thund'rer's aim,
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share
Of endless pain? Where there is then no good
For which to ftrive, no ftrife can grow up there
From faction: for none fure will claim in hell
Precedence; none, whofe portion is so small
Of prefent 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 heav'n, we now return
To claim our just inheritance of old,
Surer to profper than profperity

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Could have affur'd us; and by what best way,
Whether of open war or covert guile,
We now debate: who can advise, may speak.
He ceas'd; and next him Moloch, fcepter'd king,
Stood up, the strongest and the fierceft fpirit
That fought in heav'n, now fiercer by despair:
His truft was with th' Eternal to be deem'd
Equal in ftrength; and rather than be less,
Car'd not to be at all; with that care loft
Went all his fear of God, or hell, or worfe,
He reck'd not, and thefe words thereafter fpake. 50
My fentence is for open war: of wiles,

More unexpert, I boaft not: them let thofe
Contrive who need; or when they need, not now.
For while they fit contriving, fhall the reft,
Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait
The fignal to afcend, fit ling'ring here
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place
Accept this dark opprobrious den of fhame,
The prifon of his tyranny who reigns

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By our delay? No, let us rather chufe,

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Arm'd with hell flames and fury, all at once

O'er heav'n's high towers to force refistless way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms

Against the torturer; when to meet the noise

Of his almighty engine he shall hear

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Infernal thunder; and for lightning, fee

Black fire and horrour fhot with equal rage
Among his angels; and his throne itself

Mix'd with Tartarean fulphur, and strange fire,
His own invented torments. But perhaps

The way
With upright wing against a higher foe.

feems difficult and steep to scale

Let fuch bethink them, if the fleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,

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That in our proper motion we afcend

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Up to our native feat: defcent and fall

To us is adverfe. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
Infulting, and purfu'd us through the deep,
With what compulfion and laborious flight
We funk thus low? Th' afcent is eafy then;
Th' event is fear'd; fhould we again provoke
Our stronger, fome worse way his wrath may find
To our deftruction; if there be in hell

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Fear to be worfe destroy'd. What can be worse 85
Than to dwell here, driv'n out from blifs, condemn'd
In this abhorred deep to utter woe ;

Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Muft exercise us without hope of end,
The vaffals of his anger, when the fcourge
Inexorably, and the torturing hour

Calls us to penance? More destroy'd than thus,
We should be quite abolish'd, and expire.
What fear we then? what doubt we to incenfe

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His utmost ire? which to the height enrag'd,
Will either quite confume us, and reduce
To nothing this effential; happier far,
Than miferable to have eternal being:
Or if our fubftance be indeed divine,
And cannot ceafe to be, we are at worst

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On this fide nothing; and by proof we feel

Our power fufficient to disturb his heaven,

And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inacceffible, his fatal throne:
Which if not victory, is yet revenge.

He ended frowning, and his look denounce'd
Defp'rate revenge, and battle dangerous
To less than gods. On th' other fide uprofe
Belial, in act more graceful and humane:
A fairer perfon loft not heav'n; he feem'd
For dignity compos'd, and high exploit:
But all was falfe and hollow; though his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash

Matureft counfels: for his thoughts were low; 115
To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
Timorous, and flothful: yet he pleas'd the ear,
And with perfuafive accent thus began.

I fhould be much for open war, O peers,
As not behind in hate; if what was urg'd
Main reason to perfuade immediate war,
Did not diffuade me most, and seem to caft
Ominous conjecture on the whole fuccefs;
When he who most excels in fact of arms,
In what he counfels, and in what excels,
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair,
And utter diffolution, as the fcope

Of all his aim, after fome dire revenge.

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First, what revenge? The towers of heav'n are fill'd

With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft on the bord'ring deep
Incamp their legions; or, with obfcure wing,
Scout far and wide into the realm of night,
Scorning furprize. Or could we break our way.
By force, and at our heels all hell fhould rife
With blackest infurrection, to confound
Heaven's pureft light; yet our great enemy,
All incorruptible, would on his throne.
Sit unpolluted; and th' ethereal mould,
Incapable of stain, would foon expel
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,
Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope
Is flat defpair: we must exafperate

Th' 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 lofe,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Thofe thoughts that wander through eternity,
To perish rather, fwallow'd up and loft

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In the wide womb of uncreated night,

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Devoid of fenfe 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 fure.
Will he, fo wife, let loose at once his ire,
Belike through impotence, or unaware,
To give his enemies their wifh, and end
Them in his anger, whom his anger faves
To punish endless? Wherefore ceafe we then?
Say they who counfel war; we are decreed,
Referv'd, and destin'd to eternal woe;
Whatever doing, what can we fuffer more,
What can we fuffer worfe? Is this then worst,
Thus fitting, thus confulting, thus in arms?

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