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[1]. 1: "It faded at the crowing of the cock." HAMLET.
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"Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene,..."
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