Paradise Lost. Джон МильтонЧитать онлайн книгу.

       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 embroils 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 th' 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 spread 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 fathom 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 gryphon through the wilderness

       With winged course, o'er hill or moory dale,

       Pursues the Arimaspian, 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.

       T' 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, th' 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 th' 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 stayed 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