Poem by 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.

1. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung
2. Sonnet 48. Now young-ey'd Spring, on gentle breezes borne
3. Sonnet 13. Thou child of Night, and Silence, balmy Sleep
4. Sonnet 53. The knell of Whitehead tolls!—his cares are past
5. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride

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