(Anna Seward)

Sonnet 52. Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene

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.

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