In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.

Is it true, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer the most? That the strongest wander furthest and most hopelessly are lost? That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain? That the anguish of the singer makes the sweetness of the strain?

Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, When Adam wak'd, so custom'd; for his sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.

Nothing profits more than self-esteem, grounded on what is just and right.

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?-thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?

Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand; For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.