Within the shadow of this gloomy peak

That seems to thrust aloft its fearful head

Even to God's footstool? Then as if there came

Answer direct to my soul's questioning,

A great voice lifted from the throng, which seemed

To bear up heaven-high its might of words,

Crying: "Thou wan inheritors of pain,

Angels and princes, ministers of Hell,

Hearken! The day of all great days is come,

Commemorative of that legend old

Whose prophecy is that when the time has run

A million æons out, if God relent,

A symbol shall be set upon the top

Of yonder mount—a blazing star—to tell

That hope is not yet dead. O powers of night,

Children of woe and darkness! not again

Shall Hell know such a gathering as this

Until, if hope be not forever fled,

The day of our redemption shall arrive!"

The voice ceased and a murmur ran through Hell,

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