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That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss;
So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first, to those ychain'd 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 out brake:
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, under ground
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb,
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.