SCENE THE THIRD.

SATAN, BEELZEBUB, AND LUCIFER,

To light, to light raise the embattled brows
A Symbol of the firm and generous heart
That ardent dwells in the unconquer'd breast.
Must we then suffer such excessive wrong?
And shall we not with hands thus talon arm'd
Tear out the stars from their celestial seat;
And as our sign of conquest

Down in our dark abyss

Shall we not force the sun, and moon to blaze,
Since we are those, who in dread feats of arms

Warring amongst the stars,

Made the bright face of Heav'n turn pale with fear?

-To arms! to arms ! redoubted Beelzebub !

Ere yet tis heard around,

To our great wrong and memorable shame

That by the race of man (mean child of clay)
The stars expect a new sublimity.

Beelzebub. I burn with such fierce flame,
Such stormy venom deluges my soul,

That with intestine rage

My groans like thunder sound, my looks are lightning;

And my extorted tears are fiery showers!
Tis needful therefore from my brow to shake
The hissing serpents that o'ershade my visage,
To gaze upon these mighty works of heav'n,
And the new demi-gods:

Silent be he, who thinks

(Now that this man is form'd,)

To imitate his voice and thus exclaim,
Distressful Satan, ye unhappy spirits,

How wretched is your lot, from being first,

Fallen and degenerate, lost as ye are

Heaven was your station once, your seat the stars,

And your great Maker God!

Now abject wretches, having lost for ever,

Eternal morn, and each celestial light,

Heaven calls you now the denizens of woe ;

Instead of moving in the solar road,

You press the plains of everlasting night,
And for your golden tresses.

And looks angelical;

Your locks are snaky, and your glance malign,

Your burning lips a murky vapour breathe,
And every tongue now teems with blasphemy;
And all blaspheming raise

A cloud sulphurious of foam, and fire;

Arm'd with the eagles talon, feet of goat,
And dragons wing, your residence in fire,
Profoundest tartarus unblest, and dark,

The theatre of anguish,

That shuts itself against the beams of day!

Since the dread angel born to brook no law,
To desolate the sky

And raise the powers of hell,

Ought to breathe sanguine fire, and on his brow

Display the ensign of sublimest horror.

Satan, Though arm'd with talons keen, and eagle beak,

Snaky our tresses, and our aspect fierce,

Cloven our feet, our frames with horror plum'd

And tho' our deep abode

Be fix'd in shadowy scenes of darkest night,
Let us be Angels still in dignity;

As far surpassing others, as the Lord

Of highest power, his low, and humble slaves;
If far from heav'n our pennons we expand,
Let us remember still

That we alone are lords, and they are slaves;
And that resigning meaner seats in heav'n,
We in their stead have rais'd a royal throne
Immense, and massy, where the mighty chief
Of all our legions higher lifts his brow,

Than the proud mountain that upholds your heaven;
And, there with heav'n still waging endless war
Threatening the stars, our adversaries ever,
Bears a dread sceptre kindling into flame,

That while he wheels it round, darts forth a blaze

More dazzling than the sun's meridian ray.

Lucifer. Tis time to shew my power, my brave

compeers,

Magnanimous and Mighty

Angels! endow'd with martial potency,

I know the grief that gives you living death,
Is to see man exalted

To stations so sublime,

That all created things to him submit,

Since ye already doubt,

That to those lofty seats of flaming glory,

(Our treasure once and pride, but now renounc'd)

This pair shall one day rise,

With all the numerous train

Of their posterity.

Satan. Great Lord of the infernal deep abyss,

To thee I bow, and speak

The anguish of my soul,

That for this man, grows hourly more severe,
Fearing the Incarnation of the Word.

Lucifer. Can it be true, that from so little dust

A deity shall rise!

That flesh, that deity, that lofty power,

That chains us to the deep?

To this vile clod of earth,

He who himself yet claims to be ador❜d?
Shall angels then do homage thus to men?
And can then flesh impure,

Give to angelic nature higher powers?
Can it be true? and to devise the mode
Escape our intellect, ours who so dear,
Have bought the boast of Wisdom?
I yet am He, I am,

Who would not suffer, that above in heav'n,
Your lofty nature should submit to outrage,
When that insentate wish

Possess'd the tyrant of the starry throne,
That you should prostrate fall,

Before the Incarnate Word:

I am that Spirit, I, who for your sake
Collecting dauntless courage, to the north
Led you far distant from the senseless will,
Of him who boasts to have created heav'n.
And ye are those, your ardour speaks you well,
And your bold hearts that o'er the host of heav'n
Gave me assurance of proud victory;

Arise, let glory's flame

Blaze in your breast nor be it ever heard,

That him whom ye disdain

To worship in the sky,

Ye stoop to worship in the depth of hell;

Such were your oaths to me,

By your inestimable worth in arms,

Your worth alas so great

That heav'n itself deserv'd not to enjoy it;

Oh, 'twere an outrage, and a shame too great,