“Eve, now expect great tidings, which perhaps

Of us will soon determine, or impose

New laws to be observed; for I descry,

From yonder blazing cloud that veils the hill,

One of the heavenly host; and, by his gait,

None of the meanest; some great Potentate

Or of the Thrones above; such majesty

Invests him coming! yet not terrible,

That I should fear; nor sociably mild,

As Raphael, that I should much confide;

But solemn and sublime; whom not to offend,

With reverence I must meet, and thou retire.”

He ended: and the Arch-Angel soon drew nigh,

Not in his shape celestial, but as man

Clad to meet man; over his lucid arms

A military vest of purple flowed,

Livelier than Meliboean, or the grain

Of Sarra, worn by kings and heroes old

In time of truce; Iris had dipt the woof;

His starry helm unbuckled showed him prime

In manhood where youth ended; by his side,

As in a glistering zodiac, hung the sword,

Satan’s dire dread; and in his hand the spear.

Adam bowed low; he, kingly, from his state

Inclined not, but his coming thus declared.

“Adam, Heaven’s high behest no preface needs:

Sufficient that thy prayers are heard; and Death,

Then due by sentence when thou didst transgress,

Defeated of his seisure many days

Given thee of grace; wherein thou mayest repent,

And one bad act with many deeds well done

Mayest cover: Well may then thy Lord, appeased,

Redeem thee quite from Death’s rapacious claim;

But longer in this Paradise to dwell

Permits not: to remove thee I am come,

And send thee from the garden forth to till

The ground whence thou wast taken, fitter soil.”

He added not; for Adam at the news

Heart-struck with chilling gripe of sorrow stood,

That all his senses bound; Eve, who unseen

Yet all had heard, with audible lament

Discovered soon the place of her retire.

“O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death!

Must I thus leave thee Paradise? thus leave

Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades,

Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend,

Quiet though sad, the respite of that day

That must be mortal to us both. O flowers,

That never will in other climate grow,

My early visitation, and my last

At even, which I bred up with tender hand

From the first opening bud, and gave ye names,

Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank

Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?

Thee lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned

With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee

How shall I part, and whither wander down

Into a lower world; to this obscure

And wild, how shall we breathe in other air

Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?”

Whom thus the Angel interrupted mild.

“Lament not, Eve, but patiently resign

What justly thou hast lost, nor set thy heart,

Thus over-fond, on that which is not thine: