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I lingered yesterday Underneath the forest spray, Waiting for the second Ellen, Maid in loveliness excelling, By the birch’s verdant cowl Shelter’d from the passing rain, Lo! a phantom grim and foul (Bowing o’er and o’er again Like a vastly courteous man) Right across my pathway ran— I with ague tremour faint, With the name of ev’ry saint, Crossed myself, and thus began To accost the polished man:

If thou art of mortal mould, Tell me who thou art?

Behold In this spectre form thy shade— Why then, gentle bard, afraid?