While thus he spake, the angelic squadron bright Turned fiery red, sharpening in mooned horns Their phalanx, and began to hem him round With ported spears, as thick as when a field Of Ceres ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded grove of ears which way the wind Sways them; the careful ploughman doubting stands Lest on the threshing-floor his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan, alarmed, Collecting all his might, dilated stood, Like Teneriff or Atlas, unremoved: His stature reached the sky, and on his crest Sat Horror plumed; nor wanted in his grasp What seemed both spear and shield. Now dreadful deeds Might have ensued; nor only Paradise, In this commotion, but the starry cope Of Heaven perhaps, or all the elements At least, had gone to wrack, disturbed and torn With violence of this conflict, had not soon The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, Hung forth in Heaven his golden scales, yet seen Betwixt Astraea and the Scorpion sign, Wherein all things created first he weighed, The pendulous round Earth with balanced air