I

Backward betwixt the gates of steepest heaven, Faint from the insupportable advance Of light confederate in the East, is driven

The starry chivalry, and helm and lance, Which held keen ward upon the shadowy plain, Yield to the stress and stern predominance

Of Day; no wanderer morning-moon awane Floats through dishevelled clouds, exanimate, In disarray, with gaze of weariest pain;

O thou, sole Splendour, sprung to vindicate Night’s ancient fame, thou in dread strife serene, With back-blown locks, joyous yet desperate

Flamest; from whose pure ardour Earth doth win High passionate pangs, thou radiant paladin.