on of Afric soil,
Ye worn and weary, hoist the sail,
For your own glebes and garners toil
With easy plough and lightsome flail.
A father's home ye never knew,
A father's home your sons shall have from you.
Enjoy your palmy groves, your cloudless day,
Your world that demons tore away.
Look up! look up! the flaming sword
Hath vanished! and behold your Paradise restored."

This is Landor in the full possession of his intellect.

* * * * *

For Landor's own sake, I did not wish to drink the lees of that rich
wine which Lady Blessington had prophesied would "flow on pure, bright,
and sparkling to the last." It is the strength, not the weakness, of our
friends that we would remember, and therefore Landor's letter of
September, 1863, remained unanswered. It was better so. A year later he
died of old age, and during this year he was but the wreck of himself.
He became gradually more and more averse to going out, and to receiving
visitors,--more indifferent, in fact, to all outward things. He used to
sit and read, or, at all events, hold a book in his hand, and would
sometimes write and sometimes give way to passion. "It was the swell of
the sea after the storm, before the final calm," wrote a friend in
Florence. Landor did not become physically deafer, but the mind grew
more and more insensible to external impressions, and at last his
housekeeper was forced to write down every question she was called upon
to ask him. Few crossed the threshold of his door saving his sons, who
went to see him regularly. At last he had a difficulty in swallowing,
which produced a kind of cough. Had he been strong enough to expectorate
or be sick, he might have lived a little longer; but the frame-work was
worn out, and in a fit of coughing the great old man drew his last
breath. He was confined to his bed but two or three days. I am told he
looked very grand when dead,--like a majestic marble statue. The funeral
was hurried, and none but his two sons followed his remains to the
grave!

One touching anecdote remains to be told of him, as related by his
housekeeper. On the night before the 1st of May, 1864, Landor became
very restless, as sometimes happened during the last year. About two
o'clock, A. M., he rang for Wilson, and insisted upon having the room
lighted and the windows thrown open. He then asked for pen, ink, and
paper, and the date of the day. Being told that it w