The trump-alarmed nations run,
As vapors flitting to the sun;
When, up from hell’s volcanic gloom,
The devils soar to final doom,
And shade, in horror and affright,
Their eyelids from access of light.
When thou art come to judgment sore,
Whom every eye shall see; before
Whose eyes the heavens shall crack and roll,
Even as a furnace-writhing scroll;