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230 And loveliest is her song that seems To bid me welcome in my dreams,
 * Beside its winter hearth.

And must I deem her beckoning smile But pleasant mockery, to beguile
 * Some lonely hour of care?

And will this Ellen prove to be But like her namesake o’er the sea,

Or shall I take the morning wing, Armed with a parson and a ring,
 * Speed hill and dale along;

And, at her cottage-fire ere night, Change into flutterings of delight, Or what’s more likely, of affright,
 * The merry mockbird’s song?