This Grave contains all that was mortal YOUNG ENGLISH POET, on his death-bed, in the bitterness of his heart at the malicious power of his enemies, these words to be engraved on his tombstone HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER. own scantily allotted days frustrated. He was never to see his honorable fame: this preyed upon his spirit and hastened his end, as has been already noticed. The third and last of his works was the little volume (his best work) containing "Lamia," "Isabella," "The Eve of St. Agnes," and "Hyperion."-That he was not a finished writer, must be conceded; that, like Korner in Germany, he gave rich promise rather than matured fruit, may be granted; but they must indeed be ill judges of genius who are not delighted with what he left, and do not see that, had he lived, he might The physiognomy of the young poet indicated have worn a wreath of renown which time would his character. Sensibility was predominant, but not easily have withered. His was indeed an "un- there was no deficiency of power. His features toward fate," as Byron observes of him in the were well-defined, and delicately susceptible of eleventh canto of "Don Juan." every impression. His eyes were large and dark, For several years before his death, Keats had but his cheeks were sunk, and his face pale when felt that the disease which preyed upon him was he was tranquil. His hair was of a brown color, mortal, that the agents of decay were at work and curled naturally. His head was small, and upon a body too imperfectly organized, or too set upon broad high shoulders, and a body disprofeebly constructed to sustain long the fire of exist-portionately large to his lower limbs, which, howence. He had neglected his own health to attend ever, were well-made. His stature was low; and a brother on his death-bed, when it would have his hands, says a friend (Mr. L. Hunt), were been far more prudent that he had recollected it faded, having prominent veins—which he would was necessary he should take care of himself. look upon, and pronounce to belong to one who Under the bereavement of this brother he was had seen fifty years. His temper was of the gencombating his keen feelings, when the Zoilus of tlest description, and he felt deeply all favors conthe Quarterly so ferociously attacked him. The ferred upon him: in fact, he was one of those excitement of spirit was too much for his frame to marked and rare characters which genius stamps sustain; and a blow from another quarter, coming from their birth in her own mould; and whose about the same time, shook him so much, that he early consignment to the tomb has, it is most told a friend with tears "his heart was breaking." probable, deprived the world of works calculated -He was now persuaded to try the climate of to delight, if not to astonish mankind—of producItaly, the refuge of those who have no more to tions to which every congenial spirit and kind hope for in their own; but which is commonly de- quality of the human heart would have done layed until the removal only leads the traveller to homage, and confessed the power. It is to be lathe tomb. Thither he went to die. He was ac-mented that such promise should have been so companied by Mr. Severn, an artist of considerable prematurely blighted. talent, well known since in Rome. Mr. Severn Scattered through the writings of Keats will was a valuable and attached friend of the poet; be found passages which come home to every and they went first to Naples, and thence journey- bosom alive to each nobler and kindlier feeling of ed to Rome,-where Keats closed his eyes on the the human heart. There is much in them to be world on the 24th of February, 1821. He wished corrected, much to be altered for the better; but ardently for death before it came. The springs of vitality were left nearly dry long before; his lingering as he did astonished his medical attendants, His sufferings were great, but he was all resignation. He said, not long before he died, that he "felt the flowers growing over him." there are sparkling gems of the first lustre everywhere to be found. It is strange, that in civilized societies writings should be judged of, not by their merits, but by the faction to which their author belongs, though their productions may be solely confined to subjects the most remote from contro On the examination of his body, post mortem, versy. In England, a party-man must yield up by his physicians, they found that life rarely so every thing to the opinions and dogmatism of his long tenanted a body shattered as his was: his caste. He must reject truths, pervert reason, mislungs were well-nigh annihilated. His remains represent all things coming from an opponent of were deposited in the cemetery of the Protestants another creed in religion or politics. Such a state at Rome, at the foot of the pyramid of Caius Ces- of virulent and lamentable narrow-mindedness, is tius, near the Porta San Paolo, where a white the most certain that can exist for blighting the marble tombstone, bearing the following inscription, surmounted by a lyre in basso relievo, has been erected to his memory:: tender blossoms of genius, and blasting the innocent and virtuous hopes of the young aspirant after honest fame. It is not necessary that a young and ardent mind avow principles hostile to those cal insincerity. Keats belonged to a school of who set up for its enemies-if he be but the friend politics which they from their ambush anathemaof a friend openly opposed to them, it is enough; tized :—hence, and hence alone, their malice toand the worst is, that the hostility displayed is wards him. neither limited by truth and candor, sound princi- Keats was, as a poet, like a rich fruit-tree which ples of criticism, humanity, or honorable feeling: the gardener has not pruned of its luxuriance: it fights with all weapons, in the dark or in the time, had it been allotted him by Heaven, would light, by craft, or in any mode to obtain its bitter have seen it as trim and rich as any brother of the objects. The critics who hastened the end of garden. It is and will ever be regretted by the Keats, had his works been set before them as being readers of his works, that he lingered no longer those of an unknown writer, would have acknow- among living men, to bring to perfection what he ledged their talent, and applauded where it was meditated, to contribute to British literature a due, for their attacks upon him were not made greater name, and to delight the lovers of true from lack of judgment, but from wilful hostility. poetry with the rich melody of his musically em. One knows not how to characterize such demonia-bodied thoughts.- 531 What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will e forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with he conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a jealous eye, to the honor of English literature. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceed mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of, must necessarily taste in going over the following pages. I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell. TEIGNMOUTH, April 10, 1818. For one short hour; no, even as the trees Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread Of brightness so unsullied, that therein Now while the silent workings of the dawn Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking Through copse-clad valleys,-ere their death, o'er. taking The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. And now, as deep into the wood as we Leading the way, young damsels danced along, Edged round with dark tree-tops? through which a Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground, dove Would often beat its wings, and often too Full in the middle of this pleasantness And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with ministering looks: alway his eye And after him his sacred vestments swept. From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull. |