But flung from sheets of steel—it comes, it comes,
The vengeance of our God!
Gon. I hear it now,
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes,
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths.
Her. Ay, earth knows well the omen of that sound;
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre’s,
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond
Unto the step of death!
Gon. Hark! how the wind