Thus had two years their slow-revolving hours
Brought to the great account; when from the east
A dark portentous cloud, lab'ring with ills,
Pregnant with thousand woes, obscur'd th'horizon.
ZORADOR — he whose soul from inmost hell
Was sent to scourge the earth — not glutted yet
With all the horrid joys that wait on vengeance,
Not yet forgiving our triumphant arms,
Which shear'd the laurels his whole life had reap'd,
— Again came pouring, like a mighty deluge,
To overwhelm the land in lasting ruin.