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.