SCENE I.—_Before the mountain. CIPRIANO._
_Cipriano._ Now that at last in his eternal round Hyperion, after skirting either pole, Of his own race has set the flaming goal In heaven of my probation under-ground: Up from the mighty Titan with his feet Touching the centre, and his forest-hair Entangling with the stars; whose middle womb Of two self-buried lives has been the tomb; At last, my year’s apprenticeship complete, I rise to try my cunning, and as one Arm’d in the dark who challenges the sun. You heavens, for me your azure brows with cloud Contract, or to your inmost depth unshroud: Thou sapphire-floating counterpart below, Obsequious of my moon-like magic flow: For me you mountains fall, you valleys rise, With all your brooks and fountains far withdrawn; You forests shudder underneath my sighs; And whatsoever breathes in earth and skies; You birds that on the bough salute the dawn; And you wild creatures that through wood and glen Do fly the hunter, or the hunter flies; Yea, man himself, most terrible to men; Troop to my word, about my footstep fawn; Yea, ev’n you spirits that by viewless springs Move and perplex the tangled web of things, Wherever in the darkest crypt you lurk Of nature, nature to my purpose work; That not the dead material element, But complicated with the life beyond Up to pure spirit, shall my charm resent, And take the motion of my magic wand; And, once more shaken on her ancient throne, In me old nature a new master own.
_Lucifer._ But how is this, Cipriano, that misled By hasty passion you affront the day Ere master of the art of darkness?
_Cipr._ Nay, By that same blazing witness overhead Standing in heaven to mark the time foretold, Since first imprison’d in this mountain-hold My magic so preluded with the dread Preliminary kingdom of the dead, That not alone the womb of general earth Which Death has crowded thick with second birth, But monuments with marble lips composed To dream till doomsday, suddenly disclosed, And woke their sleepers centuries too soon To stare upon the old remember’d moon. Wearied of darkness, I will see the day: Sick of the dead, the living will assay: And if the ghastly year I have gone through Bear half its promised harvest, will requite With a too warm good-morrow the long night That one cold living heart consign’d me to.