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.