Sonnet LII

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.