Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'd
Without a Station, and without a Name.
Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,
To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the arm
Of Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,
Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke
350
The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword,
Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,
And oft drew back, his silver wing born down