If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.

Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.

Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb, counseled ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, not peace.

Death Grinn'd horrible a ghastly smile, to hear His famine should be fill'd.

The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost

Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!