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ship " has a phantom " F arm-House," wraith 

 of a dead home. But, cooler than all of these, 

 or any chill-provoking verse I recollect, is Til- 

 ton's " Phantom Ox," a rendition of the old 

 Swabian superstition that a specter in the form 

 of a white ox glides through the villages and 

 farms, and that any person on whom he breathes 

 at once sickens and dies. A little child, fright- 

 ened in from his play, tells his mother, with 

 blanched cheek and trembling lip, how, while 

 wading along the brook in quest of lilies, a 

 ghostly ox came down to drink. Through his 

 body the trees, meadow-grass, and stones showed 

 as through a crystal glass : 



He wandered round, and wherever he went 



He stepped with so light a tread, 

 No harebell under his hoof was .bent, 



No violet bowed its head. 



He cast no shadow upon the ground, 



No image upon the stream ; 

 His lowing was fainter than any sound 



That ever was heard in a dream. 



" I quivered and quaked in every limb ! 



I knew not whither to flee ; 

 The further away I shrank from him, 

 The nearer he came to me. 



" My handful of lilies he sniffed and smelt : 

 His breath was chilly and fresh ; 



