A YOUNG POET’S OWN EPITAPH.
A few weeks before John Keats died of decline, at Rome, a gentleman, who was sitting by his bedside, spoke of an inscription to his memory. Keats desired that there should be no mention of his name or country. “If there be any thing,” he said, “let it be, Here lies the body of one whose name was writ in water.”
For the Table Book.