Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene,
And wrapt the hush'd horizon.--All around,
In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound,
Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence serene
Slumbers;--but creeps, with pale and starting mien,
Benighted SUPERSTITION.--Fancy-found,
The late self-slaughter'd Man, in earth yet green
And festering, burst from his incumbent mound,
Roams!--and the Slave of Terror thinks he hears
A mutter'd groan!--sees the sunk eye, that glares
As shoots the Meteor.--But no more forlorn
He strays;--the Spectre sinks into his tomb!
For _now_ the jocund Herald of the Morn
Claps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom[1].
1: “It faded at the crowing of the cock.” HAMLET.