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But wisest Fate says no, This must not yet be so; The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those chained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake; The aged earth aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss, Full and perfect is, But now begins; for, from this happy day, The old dragon, underground. In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.