With uproar, from the grim cliffs, cracked asunder.
Aloft, like Anakim, with helms of ice
The mountains raised their huge Plutonic shoulders,
Clothed in Titanic mail of ore and boulders.
Three Prophets of grand stature and bald brows
Sat by the gates. They were much older than
The river Nile. One of deep eyes arose
And said: “Speak unto us what manner of man
Thou art, O, hero; if of some fierce clan
Hyperborean, or of pagan Huns?”