Paradise Lost. Джон МильтонЧитать онлайн книгу.

       He spake; and, to confirm his words, outflew

       Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs

       Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze

       Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged

       Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms

       Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war,

       Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

       There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top

       Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire

       Shone with a glossy scurf—undoubted sign

       That in his womb was hid metallic ore,

       The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed,

       A numerous brigade hastened: as when bands

       Of pioneers, 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 his 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 precious 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 Babylon

       Nor great Alcairo such magnificence

       Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine

       Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat

       Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove

       In wealth and luxury. Th' ascending pile

       Stood fixed her stately height, 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 naptha 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, th' 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 winged Heralds, by command

       Of sovereign power, with awful ceremony

       And trumpet's sound, throughout the host proclaim

       A solemn council forthwith to be held

       At Pandemonium, the high capital

       Of Satan and his peers. Their summons called

       From every band and squared 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 Paynim 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 smoothed plank,

       The suburb of their straw-built citadel,

       New rubbed with balm, expatiate, and confer

       Their state-affairs: so thick the airy crowd

       Swarmed and were straitened; till, the signal given,

       Behold a wonder! They but now who seemed

       In bigness to surpass