A Fugue Of Hell.

I.     I dreamed a mighty dream. It seemed mine eyes     Sealed for the moment were to things terrene,     And then there came a strange, great wind that blew     From undiscovered lands, and took my soul     And set it on an uttermost peak of Hell     Amid the gloom and fearful silences.     Slowly the darkness paled, and a weird dawn     Broke on my wondering vision, and there grew     Uncanny phosphorescence in the air     Which seemed to throb with some great vital spell     Of mystery and doom. With aching eyes     I gazed, and lo! the dreadful scene evolved,     Black and chaotic, like an awful birth     To Desolation, of a lifeless world!     My soul in agony cried out to God,     When of a sudden all the place grew calm,     Save for the trembling of the mountain peaks     And the low moaning of the billowy winds     Among the abysses. Dull lights here and there     Kindled, like wreckage of a city razed     By vandals, and the inky sky cupped up     Into a black, impenetrable roof....     But now from out the chaos there arose     Another sound more fearful than the wail     Of tempest, or the quake of mighty hills--     A mortal cry, a human voice in Hell!     II.     The infernal glare grew brighter, and there came     Unto mine ears the sound of many tongues,     Mingling discordant curse with bitter cry     Of lamentation. On the outer marge     Of Hell's domains, set one at each of four     Far sundered corners, four volcanoes grim     Spewed up their flaming bowels into a sea     Of blackness whence no light could issue forth.     Beyond this fierce horizon, farther yet     Than vision's wing could bear my gaze, I knew     Hell's desolate kingdoms stretched their iron wastes,     Hell's burning mountains waved their brands of flame,     Hell's lava rivers plunged in fury down     Their adamantine beds.                                                         The human cry     Deepened,--the stunning babel shrieked and roared     As though some mighty revolution swept     The flying hosts along--some pang too keen     For the immortal and transcendent pains     Of Hell to quench, was burning in their souls.     III.     Slowly mine eyes pierced through the pallid light     That crowned the awful place, and then I saw     That which shall not be seen of mortal eye     Until the final day. I saw the vast     Black concourse of Inferno pouring in     From Hell's four sides, and gathering at the base     Of a stupendous mountain whose great crest     Towered high above the glare, and lost itself     In blackness. Never met such throng before     In Hell or Heaven. Flowing round the mount     Like a huge deluge, from afar they came,     And near. A dreadful sound was on mine ears,     As when the first great call of deep to deep     Broke on the natal silence, or as when     The wailing cry of universal death     Shall shake the pillars of eternity!     Still came the multitudes, and still the sea     Of human souls surged round the iron base     Of that mysterious mountain, while afar     The dim circumference was added to     With newer legions. Conquerors of old,     Armored and visored in resplendent steel,     Galloped on Hell-steeds, that with one great bound     Cleared bottomless caons; then the kings and queens     Of Babylon, shorn of their lofty state,     Came abject, and with terror in those eyes     That once outshone the world; and after them,     Myriads who reveled at the feast of life,     And when the reeling stupor of their wine     Had loosened, woke and found their souls in Hell.     IV.     What horrid crisis, then, I thought, can bring     The infernal minions to assemble here     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 ons 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,     A fearful whisper, scarcely breathing, "Hope!"     Then louder, as when storms begin to blow,     Gusty and fitful, and the word was "Hope!"     Then, rising like a tempest, swelling high     In vast crescendo, swept the human cry,     And all Hell's thunderous gamut answered "Hope!"     V.     The shouts ceased, and the exultation died     Slowly into a sort of empty wail,     Half hope and half despair, for still the sign     Had not yet blazed upon their eager eyes.     Then as I sat in wondering agony,     Praying, yet fearing, for the greatest cause     That ever souls of men in balance set     'Gainst everlasting doom, there rose again     The voice of their great leader, Lucifer,     The rebel angel, and outcast of God:     "Lo, hosts of Hell," he cried, "inheritors     Of death diurnal, strangely mingled with     Relentless life, what shall we say to God     Who waits and watches? Shall we pray or curse,     Implore or threaten? Can we move Him thus?     Burn not the lightnings yet in His right hand     With which He struck us to confusion once?     And laughs He not in thunderbolts the same     As once pursued our howling flight to Hell?     Befits it rather, think ye not, my hosts,     That we should send on high in one accord     A mighty threnody--a hymn of Hell,     Inspired by pain and sung in bitterest woe,     As our best offering,--and await His word?"     He ceased, and for the moment all was still;     Then plaintive as the rhythmic dawn of stars     Upon a night of sorrow, rose a strain     Of lamentation, such as when the sea     Makes moan unto an earthquake's inward throes.     Then circling outward passed the rising tones     Of that sad minstrelsy, and then again     Backward it swept like a great tidal wave     Of anguish, all Hell's anarchy of grief     Set to a sounding fugue. Grim-throated rose     The awful hymn, and mingling with the wail     Of voices, pealed the cymbals' brassy clang;     The thunderous organs bellowed through the gloom,     And, rocking Hell's foundations, burst a blare     Of stormy trumpets crying: "Woe, woe, woe!"     Methought the angels must have wept to hear,     Methought their tears had dropt like healing rain     Upon the fires of torment, and assuaged     Their blazing wrath, so piteous was the strain.     The music ceased, the echoes sobbed away     Like a tumultuous sorrow, when, behold!     The black veil lifted from the mountain's crest,     And on its glorious summit flamed the Star!