John Milton

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine

Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast

Of some great ammiral were but a wand,

He walk'd with to support uneasy steps

Over the burning marle.

High on a throne of royal state, which far

Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,

Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand

Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,

Satan exalted sat, by merit raised

To that bad eminence; and from despair

Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires

Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue

Vain war with heav'n.

Yet from those flames

No light, but rather darkness visible.

When the scourge

Inexorable and the torturing hour

Call us to penance.

Surer to prosper than prosperity

Could have assur'd us.

Him the Almighty Power

Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky

With hideous ruin and combustion down

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

In adamantine chains and penal fire,

Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.

Anon they move

In perfect phalanx, to the Dorian mood

Of flutes and soft recorders.