ous relapse in June, just prior to the publication of his final
volume, containing all his best poems--_Isabella, Hyperion, the Eve of
St. Agnes, Lamia_, and the leading Odes. His doctor ordered him off, as
a last chance, to Italy; previously to this he had been staying in the
house of Mrs. and Miss Brawne, who tended him affectionately. Keats was
now exceedingly unhappy. His passionate love, his easily roused feelings
of jealousy of Miss Brawne, and of suspicious rancour against even the
most amicable and attached of his male intimates, the general
indifference and the particular scorn and ridicule with which his poems
had been received, his narrow means and uncertain outlook, and the
prospect of an early death closing a painful and harassing illness--all
preyed upon his mind with unrelenting tenacity. The worst of all was the
sense of approaching and probably final separation from Fanny Brawne.

On 18 September, 1820, he left England for Italy, in company with Mr.
Joseph Severn, a student of painting in the Royal Academy, who, having
won the gold medal, was entitled to spend three years abroad for
advancement in his art. They travelled by sea to Naples; reached that
city late in October; and towards the middle of November went on to
Rome. Here Keats received the most constant and kind attention from Dr.
(afterwards Sir James) Clark. But all was of no avail: after continual
and severe suffering, devotedly watched by Severn, he expired on 23
February, 1821. He was buried in the old Protestant Cemetery of Rome,
under a little altar-tomb sculptured with a Greek lyre. His name was
inscribed, along with the epitaph which he himself had composed in the
bitterness of his soul, 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water.'

Keats was an undersized man, little more than five feet high. His face
was handsome, ardent, and full of expression; the hair rich, brown, and
curling; the hazel eyes 'mellow and glowing--large, dark, and
sensitive.' He was framed for enjoyment; but with that acuteness of
feeling which turned even enjoyment into suffering, and then again
extracted a luxury out of melancholy. He had vehemence and generosity,
and the frankness which belongs to these qualities, not unmingled,
however, with a strong dose of suspicion. Apart from the overmastering
love of his closing years, his one ambition was to be a poet. His mind
was little concerned either with the severe practicalities of life, or
with the abstractions of