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.