John Milton

Fairy elves,

Whose midnight revels by a forest side

Or fountain some belated peasant sees,

Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon

Sits arbitress.

Th' ethereal mould

Incapable of stain would soon expel

Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire,

Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope

Is flat despair: we must exasperate

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 lose,

Though full of pain, this intellectual being,

Those thoughts that wander through eternity,

To perish rather, swallowed up and lost

In the wide womb of uncreated Night,

Devoid of sense and motion?

Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds:

At which the universal host up sent

A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond

Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.

Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world, and all our woe,

With loss of Eden, till one greater Man

Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,

But all was false and hollow; though his tongue

Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear

The better reason, to perplex and dash

Maturest counsels.

The infernal serpent; he it was, whose guile,

Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived

The mother of mankind.

Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell

From heaven; for ev’n 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 enjoy’d

In vision beatific.

Th' imperial ensign, which full high advanc'd

Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind.

They looking back, all th' Eastern side beheld

Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat,

Wav'd over by that flaming Brand, the Gate

With dreadful Faces throng'd and fierie Armes:

Som natural tears they drop'd, but wip'd them soon;

The World was all before them, where to choose

Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide:

They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow,

Through EDEN took thir solitarie way.

Let none admire

That riches grow in hell; that soil may best

Deserve the precious bane.

His form had yet not lost

All her original brightness, nor appear'd

Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess

Of glory obscur'd.

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace

And rest can never dwell, hope never comes

That comes at all.