Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low! where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine;
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

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To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
For so, to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.

Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd;
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows deni'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,

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Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos, and Bayona's hold;

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth ;—
And, O ye dolphins! waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woeful shepherds! weep no more;

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For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watry floor:

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore

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Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;—

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;

Where, other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves;
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

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In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.—
Now, Lycidas! the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,

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In thy large recompense; and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touch❜t the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretch't out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch't his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

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PARADISE LOST.

THE ARGUMENT.

BOOK I.

This first Book proposes, first in brief, the whole subject; Man's disobedience, and the loss thereupon of Paradise, wherein he was placed: then touches the prime cause of his Fall, the Serpent, or rather Satan in the serpent; who, revolting from God, and drawing to his side many legions of angels, was, by the command of God, driven out of Heaven with all his crew into the great deep. Which action passed over, the Poem hastens into the midst of things, presenting Satan with his angels now fallen into Hell, described here, not in the centre (for Heaven and Earth may be supposed as yet not made, certainly not yet accursed), but in a place of utter darkness, fitliest called Chaos. Here Satan, with his angels, lying on the burning lake, thunder-struck and astonished, after a certain space recovers, as from confusion; calls up him who next in order and dignity lay by him: they confer of their miserable fall. Satan awakens all his legions, who lay till then in the same manner confounded. They rise; their numbers; array of battle; their chief leaders named, according to the idols known afterwards in Canaan and the countries adjoining. To these Satan directs his speech; comforts them with hope yet of regaining Heaven; but tells them lastly of a new world and new kind of creature to be created, according to an ancient prophecy or report in Heaven for that angels were long before this visible creation, was the opinion of many ancient Fathers. To find out the truth of this prophecy, and what to determine thereon, he refers to a full council. What his associates thence attempt. Pandemonium, the palace of Satan, rises, suddenly built out of the deep. The infernal peers there sit in council.

Or 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,

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Sing, heav'nly Muse! that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire

That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,
In the beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos: or if Sion hill

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Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook, that flow'd
Fast by the oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous song,

That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th' Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rime.
And chiefly Thou, O Spirit! that dost prefer
Before all temples th' upright heart and pure,

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Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread,
Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss,
And mad❜st it pregnant: what in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great argument
I may assert Eternal Providence,

And justify the ways of God to men.

Say first, for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view,
Nor the deep tract of Hell,-say first what cause
Mov'd our grand parents in that happy state,
Favour'd of Heav'n so highly, to fall off
From their Creator, and transgress his will
For one restraint, lords of the world besides?
Who first seduc'd them to that foul revolt?-
Th' infernal Serpent: he it was, whose guile,
Stirr'd up with envy and revenge, deceiv'd
The mother of mankind, what time his pride
Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his host
Of rebel angels; by whose aid, aspiring
To set himself in glory above his peers,
He trusted to have equall'd the Most High,
If he oppos'd; and with ambitious aim
Against the throne and monarchy of God,

Rais'd impious war in Heav'n, and battle proud,
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
Hurl'd 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.

Nine times the space that measures day and night
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquisht, rolling in the fiery gulf,
Confounded though immortal. But his doom
Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain

Torments him. Round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witness'd huge affliction and dismay,

Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate.

At once as far as angels ken he views

The dismal situation waste and wild:

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A dungeon horrible on all sides round

As one great furnace flam'd; yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible,
Serv'd only to discover sights of woe,

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace

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And rest can never dwell: hope never comes,
That comes to all; but torture without end

Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsum'd.
Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd

For those rebellious; here their prison ordain'd
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n
As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole.
O how unlike the place from whence they fell!
There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelm'd
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,
He soon discerns; and welt'ring by his side,
One next himself in power, and next in crime,
Long after known in Palestine, and nam'd
Beelzebub: to whom th' Arch-Enemy,

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And thence in Heav'n call'd Satan, with bold words
Breaking the horrid silence, thus began:

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"If thou beest he—but O, how fall'n! how chang'd
From him who in the happy realms of light,
Cloth'd with transcendent brightness, didst outshine
Myriads, though bright!-if he whom mutual league,
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the glorious enterprise,
Join'd with me once, now misery hath join'd
In equal ruin into what pit thou seest,

From what highth fall'n; so much the stronger prov'd
He with his thunder: and till then who knew

The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those,
Nor what the potent Victor in his rage

Can else inflict, do I repent or change

(Though chang'd in outward lustre) that fixt mind,

And high disdain from sense of injur❜d merit,

That with the Mightiest rais'd me to contend;
And to the fierce contention brought along
Innumerable force of spirits arm'd,

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That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,

His utmost power with adverse power oppos'd

In dubious battle on the plains of Heav'n,

And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?

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All is not lost; the unconquerable will,

And what is else not to be overcome,

That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace,
With suppliant knee, and deify his power,
Who from the terror of this arm so late
Doubted his empire-that were low indeed!
That were an ignominy and shame beneath

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This downfall! since, by fate, the strength of gods