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 flesh and blood;
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,
And they revealed—alas! that e’er they should!
In full, voluptuous, but not o’ergrown bulk,
The phantom of her frolic Grace—Fitz-Fulke!