The Basilica San Paolo fuori le Mura surpasses every thing in splendor
of marble and costly stone--porphyry, malachite, alabaster--and luxury
of gilding that is to be seen at Rome. But I chiefly remember it
because on the road that leads to it, through scenes as quiet and
peaceful as if history had never known them, lies the Protestant
graveyard in which Keats is buried. Quite by chance the driver
mentioned it, pointing in the direction of the cemetery with his whip.
We eagerly dismounted and repaired to the gate, where we were met by
the son of the sexton, who spoke English through the beauteous line of
a curved Hebrew nose. Perhaps a Christian could not be found in Rome
to take charge of these heretic graves, though Christians can be got
to do almost any thing there for money. However, I do not think
a Catholic would have kept the place in better order, or more
intelligently understood our reverent curiosity. It was the new
burial-ground which we had entered, and which is a little to the right
of the elder cemetery. It was very beautiful and tasteful in every
way; the names upon the stones were chiefly English and Scotch,
with here and there an American's. But affection drew us only to the
prostrate tablet inscribed with the words, "Percy Bysshe Shelley, Cor
Cordium," and then we were ready to go to the grave of him for whom we
all feel so deep a tenderness. The grave of John Keats is one of
few in the old burying-ground, and lies almost in the shadow of the
pyramid of Caius Cestius; and I could not help thinking of the wonder
the Roman would have felt could he have known into what unnamable
richness and beauty his Greek faith had ripened in the heart of the
poor poet, where it was mixed with so much sorrow. Doubtless, in his
time, a prominent citizen like Caius Cestius was a leading member of
the temple in his neighborhood, and regularly attended sacrifice: it
would have been but decent; and yet I fancied that a man immersed like
him in affairs might have learned with surprise the inner and more
fragrant meaning of the symbols with the outside of which his life was
satisfied; and I was glad to reflect that in our day such a thing is
impossible.
The grave of our beloved poet is sunken to the level of the common
earth, and is only marked by the quaintly lettered, simple stone
bearing the famous epitaph. While at Rome I heard talk of another and
grander monument which some members of the Keats family were to place
over the dust of their great kinsman. But, for one, I hope this may
never be done, even though the original stone should also be left
there, as was intended. Let the world still keep unchanged this
shrine, to which it can repair with at once pity and tenderness and
respect.
A rose-tree and some sweet-smelling bushes grew upon the grave, and
the roses were in bloom. We asked leave to take one of them; but at
last could only bring ourselves to gather some of the fallen petals.
Our Hebrew guide was willing enough, and unconsciously set us a little
example of wantonness; for while he listened to our explanation of
the mystery which had puzzled him ever since he had learned English,
namely, why the stone should say "_writ_ on water," and not _written_,
he kept plucking mechanically at one of the fragrant shrubs, pinching
away the leaves, and rending the tender twig, till I, remembering the
once-sensitive dust from which it grew, waited for the tortured
tree to cry out to him with a voice of words and blood, "Perchè mi
schianti?"