Ix

I know not more: nor if that helm did rust In weed of some drear wilderness down-thrust, Where in the watches lone Heaven’s host beheld him lying overthrown, While God yet judged him victor, God whose laws Note not the event of battle, but the cause. I know not more: nor if the nodding prize Of lustrous laurels ere that helm did crown, While God yet judged him vanquished, God whose eyes Saw how his Demon smote his Angel down In some forgotten field and left him low. Only the perfect hour is mine to know.