Deep in the dark Tartarean gulph fhall groan ;
With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors,
And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors;
As far beneath th' infernal centre hurl'd,
As from that centre to th' ethereal world.
Let each, fubmiffive, dread those dire abodes,
Nor tempt the vengeance of the God of gods.
League all your forces, then, ye pow'rs above:
Your ftrength unite, against the might of Jove.
Let down our golden everlasting chain,
Whofe ftrong embrace holds heav'n, and earth, and main.
Strive, all, of mortal and immortal birth,
To drag by this the thund'rer down to earth.—
Ye ftrive in vain. If I but ftretch this hand,
I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land.
I fix the chain to great Olympus' height,
And the vaft world hangs trembling in my fight.
For fuch I reign unbounded and above;
And fuch are men, and gods, compar'd to Jove."
XIII. Æneas to Queen Dido, giving an account of the Sack
of Troy.
ALL were attentive to the god-like man,
When, from his lofty couch, he thus began.-
Great Queen! What you command ine to relate
"Renews the fad remembrance of our fate;
An empire from its old foundations rent,
And every wo the Trojans underwent ;
A populous city made a desert place;
All that I faw, and part of which I was,
Not even the hardest of our foes could hear,
Nor ftern Ulyffes tell, without a tear.
'Twas now the dead of night, when fleep repairs
Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares,
When Hector's ghoft before my fight appears:
Shrouded in blood he ftood, and bath'd in tears,
Such as when by the fierce Pelides flain,
Theffalian courfers dragg'd him o'er the plain.
Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust
Through the pierc'd limbs: his body black with duft.
Unlike that Hector, who return'd from toils
Of war, triumphant in Eacian spoils;
Or him, who made the fainting Greeks retire,
Hurling amidst their fleets the Phrygian fire.
His hair and beard were clotted ftiff with gore;
The ghaftly wounds he for his country bore,
Now ftream'd afresh.
I wept to fee the vifionary man ;
And, whilft my trance continu'd, thus began.
"O light of Trojans, and fupport of Troy,
Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy!
O, long expected by thy friends! From whence
Art thou fo late return'd to our defence?
Alas! what wounds are these? what new difgrace
Deforms the manly honours of thy face?"
The spectre, groaning from his inmoft breaft,
This warning, in thefe mournful words, exprefs'd.
"Hafte, goddefs born! Efcape, by timely flight,
The flames and horrours of this fatal night.
Thy foes already have poffefs'd our wall;
Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall.
Enough is paid to Priam's royal name,
Enough to country, and to deathlefs fame.
If by a mortal arm my father's throne
Could have been fav'd-this arm the feat had done.
Troy now commends to thee her future ftate,
And gives her gods companions of thy fate;
Under their umbrage hope for happier walls,
And follow where thy various fortune calls."
He said, and brought, from forth the facred choir,
The gods, and relics of th' immortal fire.
Now peals of fhouts came thund'ring from afar,
Cries, threats, and loud lament, and mingled war.
The noise approaches, though our palace ftood
Aloof from streets, imbofom'd close with wood.
Louder and louder ftill I hear th' alarms
Of human cries diftinct, and clashing arms.
Fear broke my flumbers.
I mount the terrace; thence the town furvey,
And liften what the fwelling founds convey.
Then Hector's faith was manifeftly clear'd;
And Grecian fraud in open light appear'd.
Cc 2
The palace of Deiphobus afcends
In fmoky flames, and catches on his friends.
Ucalegon burns next; the feas are bright
With fplendours not their own, and fhine with sparkling light.
New clamours, and new clangours now arife, The trumpet's voice, with agonizing cries. With frenzy feiz'd, 1 run to meet th' alarms, Refolv'd on death, refolv'd to die in arms. But first to gather friends, with whom t'oppofe, If fortune favour'd, and repel the foes, By courage rous'd, by love of country fir'd, With fenfe of honour and revenge infpir'd. Pantheus, Apollo's prieft, a facred name, Had 'fcap'd the Grecian fwords, and pass'd the flame: With relics loaded, to my doors he fled, And by the hand his tender grandfon led.
"What hope, O Pantheus? Whither can we run? Where make a ftand? Or what may yet be done?'* Scarce had 1 fpoke, when Pantheus, with a groan, "Troy-is no more! Her glories now are gone. The fatal day, th' appointed hour is come, When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom Transfers the Trojan ftate to Grecian hands: Our city's wrapt in flames: the foe commands. To feveral pofts their parties they divide :
Some block the narrow ftreets; fome scour the wide. The bold they kill; th' unwary they furprise;
Who fights meets death, and death finds him who flies."
XIV. Melosh, the fallen Angel, to the infernal Powers, Inciting them to renew the War.
MY fentence is for open war. Of wiles,
More unexpert, 1 boast not: them let thofe
Contrive who need; or when they need, not now.
For, while they fit contriving, fhall the reft,
Millions that fland in arms and longing wait
The fignal to afcend, fit ling'ring here
Heav'n's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place
Accept this dark opprobrious den of fhame,
The prifon of his tyranny who reigns
By our delay?-No: let us rather choofe,
Arm'd with hell flames and fury, all at once
O'er heav'n's high tow'rs to force refiftlefs way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the torturer; when, to meet the noise
Of his almighty engine, he fhall hear
Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, fee
Black fire and horrour fhot with equal rage
Among his Angels; and his throne itself
Mix'd with Tartarean fulphur and strange fire,
His own invented torments.-But perhaps
The way seems difficult and steep to scale
With upright wing against a higher foe.
Let fuch bethink them, if the fleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,
That in our proper motion we ascend
Up to our native feat: defcent and fall
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
Infulting, and purfu'd us through the deep,
With what compulsion and laborious flight
We funk thus low? Th' afcent is eafy then.
Th' event is fear'd. Should we again provoke
Our fironger, fome worfe way his wrath may find
To our destruction; if there be in hell
Fear to be worfe destroy'd. What can be worse
Than to dwell here, driv'n out from blifs, condemn'd
In this abhorred deep to utter wo;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Muft exercise us without hope of end,
The vaffals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorable and the torturing hour
Call us to penance? More deftroy'd than thus,
We fhould be quite abolish'd and expire.
What fear we then? what doubt we to incenfe
His utmost ire? which, to the height enrag'd,
Will either quite confume us and reduce
To nothing this effential (happier far,
Than miferable to have eternal being),
Or if our fubstance be indeed divine,
And cannot ceafe to be, we are at workt
On this fide nothing; and by proof we feel
Our pow'r fufficient to disturb his heaven,
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inacceffible, his fatal throne;
Which, if not victory,—is yet revenge.
XV. Speech of Belial, advising Peace.
SHOULD be much for open war, O peers,
As not behind in hate; if what was urg'd
Main reason to perfuade immediate war,
Did not diffuade me most, and seem to caft
Ominous conjecture on the whole fuccefs;
When he who most excels in feats of arms,
In what he counfels, and in what excels,
Miftraftful, grounds his courage on despair
And utter diffolution, as the fcope
Of all his aim, after fome dire revenge.
First, what revenge? The tow'rs of Heav'n are fill'd
With armed watch, that render all access
Impregnable: oft on the bord'ring deep
Incamp their legions; or, with obfcure wing,
Scout far and wide into the realm of night,
Scorning furprise. Or, could we break our way
By force, and at our heels all Hell should rife
With blackeft infurrection, to confound
Heav'n's pureft light-yet our great enemy,
All incorruptible, would on his throne
Sit unpolluted; and th' ethereal mould,
Incapable of ftain, would foon expel
Her mifchief, and purge off the bafer fire,
Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope
Is flat defpair. We muft exafperate
Th' almighty victor to spend all his rage,
And that muft end us: that must be our cure,
To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lofe,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Thofe thoughts that wander through eternity,
To perish rather, swallow'd up and loft
In the wide womb of uncreated night,
Devoid of fenfe 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 fure.
Will he, fo wife, let loose at once his ire,
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