. I am given to
understand that the wound which his sensitive spirit had received from
the criticism of _Endymion_ was exasperated by the bitter sense of
unrequited benefits; the poor fellow seems to have been hooted from the
stage of life, no less by those on whom 65 he had wasted the promise of
his genius than those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care.
He was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last illness, by Mr.
Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who, I have been
informed, 'almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to
unwearied attendance upon his dying friend.' Had I known these
circumstances before the completion 70 of my poem, I should have been
tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid
recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own
motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from 'such stuff as
dreams are made of.' His conduct is a golden augury of the success of
his future career. 75 May the unextinguished spirit of his illustrious
friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against oblivion
for his name!

ADONAIS.

1.

I weep for Adonais--he is dead!
Oh weep for Adonais, though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 5
And teach them thine own sorrow! Say: 'With me
Died Adonais! Till the future dares
Forget the past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity.'

2.

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? Where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
'Mid listening Echoes, in her paradise 5
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of Death.

3.

Oh weep for Adonais--he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!--
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep,
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 5
For he is gone where all things wise and fair
Descend. Oh dream not that the amorous deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.