So, on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone, bent on his prey; Alone, for other creature in this place, Living or lifeless, to be found was none⁠— None yet; but store hereafter from the Earth Up hither like aerial vapours flew Of all things transitory and vain, when sin With vanity had filled the works of men: Both all things vain, and all who in vain things Built their fond hopes of glory or lasting fame, Or happiness in this or the other life. All who have their reward on earth, the fruits Of painful superstition and blind zeal, Naught seeking but the praise of men, here find Fit retribution, empty as their deeds; All the unaccomplished works of Nature’s hand, Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixed, Dissolved on Earth, fleet hither, and in vain, Till final dissolution, wander here; Not in the neighbouring moon, as some have dreamed: Those argent fields more likely habitants, Translated saints, or middle Spirits, hold, Betwixt the angelical and human kind. Hither, of ill-joined sons and daughters born,