Only the wall, instead of what he sought
The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul
As ever lurked beneath a holy hood.
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory stole
Forth into something much like fles and blood.
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl
And they revealed, alas, that ere they should,
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,
The phantom of her frolic Grace—Fitz-Fulke!
The End of the 1857 Edition ____ ZFcn The Editor’s Note
CANTO THE SEVENTEENTH
The world is full of orphans: firstly those
