im, or by the way in
which most new works are illustrated with quotations from him, or by the
fact that some favorite lines of his have passed into proverbs, but by
the touching evidence of his _silent grave_. That grave, which I can
remember as once the object of ridicule, has now become the poetic
shrine of the world's pilgrims who care and strive to live in the happy
and imaginative region of poetry. The head-stone, having twice sunk,
owing to its faulty foundation, has been twice renewed by loving
strangers, and each time, as I am informed, these strangers were
Americans. Here they do not strew flowers, as was the wont of olden
times, but they pluck everything that is green and living on the grave
of the poet. The _Custode_ tells me, that, notwithstanding all his pains
in sowing and planting, he cannot "meet the great consumption." Latterly
an English lady, alarmed at the rapid disappearance of the verdure on
and around the grave, actually left an annual sum to renew it. When the
_Custode_ complained to me of the continued thefts, and asked what he
was to do, I replied, "Sow and plant twice as much; extend the poet's
domain; for, as it was so scanty during his short life, surely it ought
to be afforded to him twofold in his grave."

Here on my return to Rome, all kinds of happy associations with the poet
surround me, but none so touching as my recent meeting with his sister.
I had known her in her childhood, during my first acquaintance with
Keats, but had never seen her since. I knew of her marriage to a
distinguished Spanish patriot, Senor Llanos, and of her permanent
residence in Spain; but it was reserved for me to have the felicity of
thus accidentally meeting her, like a new-found sister, in Rome. This
city has an additional sacredness for both of us as the closing scene of
her illustrious brother's life, and I am held by her and her charming
family in loving regard as the last faithful friend of the poet. That I
may indulge the pleasures of memory and unite them with the sympathy of
present incidents, I am now engaged on a picture of the poet's grave,
and am treating it with all the picturesque advantages which the antique
locality gives me, as well as the elevated associations which this
poetic shrine inspires. The classic story of Endymion being the subject
of Keats's principal poem, I have introduced a young Roman shepherd
sleeping against the head-stone with his flock about him, whilst the
moon from behin