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.