Those bright falcon eyes, which I had known only in joyous intercourse, while revelling in books and Nature, or while he was reciting his own poetry, now beamed an unearthly brightness and a penetrating steadfastness that could not be looked at.  It was not the fear of death,—­on the contrary, he earnestly wished to die,—­but it was the fear of lingering on and on, that now distressed him; and this was wholly on my account.  Amidst the world of emotions that were crowding and increasing as his end approached, I could always see that his generous concern for me in my isolated position at Rome was one of his greatest cares.  In a little basket of medicines I had bought at Gravesend at his request there was a bottle of laudanum, and this I afterwards found was destined by him “to close his mortal career,” when no hope was left, and to prevent a long, lingering death, for my poor sake.  When the dismal time came, and Sir James Clark was unable to encounter Keats’s penetrating look and eager demand, he insisted on having the bottle, which I had already put away.  Then came the most touching scenes.  He now explained to me the exact procedure of his gradual dissolution, enumerated my deprivations and toils, and dwelt upon the danger to my life, and certainly to my fortunes, from my continued attendance upon him.  One whole day was spent in earnest representations of this sort, to which, at the same time that they wrung my heart to hear and his to utter, I was obliged to oppose a firm resistance.  On the second day, his tender appeal turned to despair, in all the power of his ardent imagination and bursting heart.

From day to day, after this time, he would always demand of Sir James Clark, “How long is this posthumous life of mine to last?” On finding me inflexible in my purpose of remaining with him, he became calm, and tranquilly said that he was sure why I held up so patiently was owing to my Christian faith, and that he was disgusted with himself for ever appearing before me in such savage guise; that he now felt convinced how much every human being required the support of religion, that he might die decently.  “Here am I,” said he, “with desperation in death that would disgrace the commonest fellow.  Now, my dear Severn, I am sure, if you could get some of the works of Jeremy Taylor to read to me, I might become really a Christian, and leave this world in peace.”  Most fortunately, I was able to procure the “Holy Living and Dying.”  I read some passages to him, and prayed with him, and I could tell by the grasp of his dear hand that his mind was reviving.  He was a great lover of Jeremy Taylor, and it did not seem to require much effort in him to embrace the Holy Spirit in these comforting works.

Thus he gained strength of mind from day to day just in proportion as his poor body grew weaker and weaker.  At last I had the consolation of finding him calm, trusting, and more prepared for his end than I was.  He tranquilly rehearsed to me what would be the process of his dying, what I was to do, and how I was to bear it.  He was even minute in his details, evidently rejoicing that his death was at hand.  In all he then uttered he breathed a simple, Christian spirit; indeed, I always think that he died a Christian, that “Mercy” was trembling on his dying lips, and that his tortured soul was received by those Blessed Hands which could alone welcome it.[A]