Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.

A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end.

License they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good.

Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.

None But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good, is not delicious To a well-govern'd and wise appetite.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

So spake the seraph Abdiel, faithful found; Among the faithless, faithful only he.