LVII This is the place, from whence like smoke and dust Of this frail world the wealth, the pomp and power, He tosseth, tumbleth, turneth as he lust, And guides our life, our death, our end and hour: No eye, however virtuous, pure and just, Can view the brightness of that glorious bower, On every side the blessed spirits be, Equal in joys, though differing in degree.
LVIII With harmony of their celestial song The palace echoed from the chambers pure, At last he Michael called, in harness strong Of never yielding diamonds armed sure, “Behold,” quoth he, “to do despite and wrong To that dear flock my mercy hath in cure, How Satan from hell’s loathsome prison sends His ghosts, his sprites, his furies and his fiends.
LIX “Go bid them all depart, and leave the care Of war to soldiers, as doth best pertain: Bid them forbear to infect the earth and air; To darken heaven’s fair light, bid them refrain; Bid them to Acheron’s black flood repair, Fit house for them, the house of grief and pain: There let their king himself and them torment, So I command, go tell them mine intent.”
LX This said, the winged warrior low inclined At his Creator’s feet with reverence due; Then spread his golden feathers to the wind, And swift as thought away the angel flew, He passed the light, and shining fire assigned The glorious seat of his selected crew, The mover first, and circle crystalline, The firmament, where fixed stars all shine;
LXI Unlike in working then, in shape and show, At his left hand, Saturn he left and Jove, And those untruly errant called I trow, Since he errs not, who them doth guide and move: The fields he passed then, whence hail and snow, Thunder and rain fall down from clouds above, Where heat and cold, dryness and moisture strive, Whose wars all creatures kill, and slain, revive.
LXII The horrid darkness, and the shadows dun Dispersed he with his eternal wings, The flames which from his heavenly eyes outrun Beguiled the earth and all her sable things; After a storm so spreadeth forth the sun His rays and binds the clouds in golden strings, Or in the stillness of a moonshine even A falling star so glideth down from Heaven.
LXIII But when the infernal troop he ’proached near, That still the Pagans’ ire and rage provoke, The angel on his wings himself did bear, And shook his lance, and thus at last he spoke: “Have you not learned yet to know and fear The Lord’s just wrath, and thunder’s dreadful stroke? Or in the torments of your endless ill, Are you still fierce, still proud, rebellious still?