Seite 49 von 239

And utter dissolution, as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge? The towers of heaven are filled With armed watch, that render all access Impregnable. Oft on the bordering deep Encamp their legions; or, with obscure wing Scout, far and wide into the realm of night, Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way By force, and at our heels all hell should rise With blackest insurrection, to confound Heaven's purest light; yet our great Enemy, All incorruptible, would on his throne Sit unpolluted, and the 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 The 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? And who knows, Let this be good, whether our angry Foe Can give it, or will ever? How he can, Is doubtful: that he never will, is sure. Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, Belike through impotence, or unaware, To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger, whom his anger saves To punish endless? Wherefore cease we then? Say they who counsel war—We are decreed, Reserved, and destined to eternal woe: Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,

Воок П.—163-198] What can we suffer worse? Is this then worst, Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What! when we fled amain, pursued, and struck With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The deep to shelter us? This hell then seemed A refuge from those wounds, or when we lay Chained on the burning lake? That sure was worse. What if the breath that kindled those grim fires Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, And plunge us in the flames? Or, from above, Should intermitted vengeance arm again His red right hand to plague us? What if all Her stores were opened, and this firmament Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire, Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall One day upon our heads, while we, perhaps, Designing or exhorting glorious war, Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey Of racking whirlwinds, or for ever sunk Under you boiling ocean, wrapped in chains, There to converse with everlasting groans, Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse. War, therefore, open or concealed, alike My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye Views all things at one view? He from heaven's height All these our motions vain sees, and derides; Not more almighty to resist our might, Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles. Shall we then live thus vile, the race of heaven Thus trampled, thus expelled to suffer here Chains and these torments? Better these than worse, By my advice; since fate inevitable Subdues us, and omnipotent decree,