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.