The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses was not less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and where cankerworms abound, what wonder if its young flower was blighted in the bud?  The savage criticism on his “Endymion”, which appeared in the “Quarterly Review”, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgements from more candid critics of the true greatness of his powers were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted.

It may be well said that these wretched men know not what they do.  They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by many blows or one like Keats’s composed of more penetrable stuff.  One of their associates is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calumniator.  As to “Endymion”, was it a poem, whatever might be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who had celebrated, with various degrees of complacency and panegyric, “Paris”, and “Woman”, and a “Syrian Tale”, and Mrs. Lefanu, and Mr. Barrett, and Mr. Howard Payne, and a long list of the illustrious obscure?  Are these the men who in their venal good nature presumed to draw a parallel between the Reverend Mr. Milman and Lord Byron?  What gnat did they strain at here, after having swallowed all those camels?  Against what woman taken in adultery dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his opprobrious stone?  Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God.  Nor shall it be your excuse, that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none.

The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats’s life were not made known to me until the “Elegy” was ready for the press.  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 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 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—­may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name!