Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/282

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 But every morn, of woodbine fresh
 * She made her garlanding,

And, every night, the dark glen yew
 * She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers, old and brown,
 * She plaited mats of rushes,

And gave them to the cottagers
 * She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen,
 * And tall as Amazon;

An old red blanket cloak she wore,
 * A ship-hat had she on:

God rest her aged bones somewhere!
 * She died full long agone!

 

is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain, Where patriot battle had been fought, where glory had the gain; There is a pleasure on the heath, where Druids old have been, Where mantles gray have rustled by, and swept the nettled green; There is a joy in every spot made known in times of old, New to the feet altho' each tale a hundred times be told; There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart, 