JOHN MILTON
Th'enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, And Mercy set between, Thron'd in Cclestiall sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heav'n as at som festival], WilJ open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.
But widest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so,
The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss,
So both himself and us to glorifie. Yet first to those ycham'd m sleep, The wakef ull trump of doom must thunder through the deep,
With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang
While the red fire, and smouldrmg clouds out brake The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull 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 Th'old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurped sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.
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