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 32. Behold him now his genuine colours wear
2. Sonnet 41. Since dark December shrouds the transient day
3. Sonnet 36. Now on hills, rocks, and streams, and vales, and plains
4. Sonnet 65. Marcellus, since the ardors of my strain
5. Sonnet 89. Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light

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