zi--the last Tribune of Rome.

As we approached the walls, the sepulchre of Caius Cestius came in
sight--a single solid pyramid, one hundred feet in height. The walls are
built against it, and the light apex rises far above the massive gate
beside it, which was erected by Belisarius. But there were other tombs
at hand, for which we had more sympathy than that of the forgotten
Roman, and we turned away to look for the graves of Shelley and Keats.

They lie in the Protestant burying ground, on the side of a mound that
slopes gently up to the old wall of Rome, beside the pyramid of Cestius.
The meadow around is still verdant and sown thick with daisies, and the
soft green of the Italian pine mingles with the dark cypress above the
slumberers. Huge aloes grow in the shade, and the sweet bay and bushes
of rosemary make the air fresh and fragrant. There is a solemn, mournful
beauty about the place, green and lonely as it is, beside the tottering
walls of ancient Rome, that takes away the gloomy associations of death,
and makes one wish to lie there, too, when his thread shall be spun to
the end.

We found first the simple head-stone of Keats, alone, in the grassy
meadow. Its inscription states that on his death-bed, in the bitterness
of his heart, at the malice of his enemies, be desired these words to be
written on his tombstone: "_Here lies one whose name was written in
water_." Not far from him reposes the son of Shelley.

Shelley himself lies at the top of the shaded slope, in a lonely spot by
the wall, surrounded by tall cypresses. A little hedge of rose and bay
surrounds his grave, which bears the simple inscription--

"PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY; _Cor Cordium_."

"Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange."

Glorious, but misguided Shelley! He sleeps calmly now in that silent
nook, and the air around his grave is filled with sighs from those who
mourn that the bright, erratic star should have been blotted out ere it
reached the zenith of its mounting fame. I plucked a leaf from the
fragrant bay, as a token of his fame, and a sprig of cypress from the
bough that bent lowest over his grave; and passing between tombs shaded
with blooming roses or covered with unwithered garlands, left the lovely
spot.

Amid the excitement of continually changing scenes, I have forgotten to
mention our first visit to the Coliseum. The day after our arrival we
set o