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._