Final audio project

Onward led the road again, through the sad, uncoloured plain, under twilight brooding dim, and along the utmost rim, wall and rampart rise to sight, cast a shadow not of night, and beyond them seem to glow bonfires lighted long ago, and my dark conductor broke, silenced at my side and spoke, saying, You conjecture well, yonder is the gate of hell, still as yet the eye could see, the eternal masonry, but beneath it on this dark, to and fro, there stirred a spark, and again the sombre guide knew my question, and replied, At hell gate, the dams in turn, paced for sentinel and burn, dilly at the laden sky, staring, and with idle eye, measuring the listless plain, I began to think again, many things I thought of then, battle and the loves of men, sights, cities entered, oceans crossed, knowledge gained and virtue lost, cruelest folly done and said, and the lovely way that led, to the simple pit, to the slime pit and the mire, and the everlasting fire, and again a smoulder done, and a draw without a sun, did the nearing bastion loom, and across the gate of gloom, still one saw the sentry go, trim and burning, to and fro, one for women to admire, in his finery of fire, something as I watched him pace, minded me of time and place, soldiers of another corpse and a sentry known before, ever darker hell on high, reared its strength upon the sky, and our footfall on the track, fetched the daunting echo back, but the soldier pacing still, the insuperable still, the nursing his tormented pride, turned his head to the other side, slunk into himself apart, and the hellfire of his heart, but again our entering in, from the drawbridge death and sin, rose to render key and sword, to their father and their lord, and the portrait bowed to see, lifted up her eyes on me, smiling, and I made reply, met again, my last said I, then the sentry turned his head, looked and knew me and was Ned, once he looked and halted straight, set his back against the gate, caught his musket to his chin, while the hive of hell within, sent abroad a seething hum, as of towns whose king is come, leading conquest home from far, and the captives of his war, and the car of triumph waits, and they open wide the gates, but across the entry barred, straddled the revolted guard, weaponed and account freed, well from the arsenals of hell, and beside him sick and white, sin to left and death to right, turned accountants of fear, on the flaming mutineer, over us the darkness bowed, and the anger in the cloud, clenched the lightning for the stroke, but the traitor musket spoke, and the hollowness of hell, sounded as its master fell, and the morning echo ruled, ruined through his kingdom old, tyranny and terror flown, left a pair of friends alone, and beneath the nether sky, all that stirred was he and I, silent, nothing found to say, we began the backward way, and the ebbing luster died, from the soldier at my side, as in all his spruce attire, failed the everlasting fire, did most of the homeward track, once we listened and looked back, but the city dusk and mute, slept and there was no pursuit,