The Arkansaw traveler., 1885-04-04

walked the floor wish aRisated sssps when think of the uscaessne&s of my kfe, could curse the hour of my birth. A tew months after this conversation Ellis leik the city, and, as seldom keer up correspondence with even my dear. est friends, ! lost sight of him completely Some years later. Ao~e~e., Icing called to distant city, met one who had been a mutual friend Tn the old days. Did you know," he said, "that Walter Edis Is dying at the hospital heler 1 hastemed to the hospital where found my old friend in the charity ward, watched over by sweei-faced sister, who glided away as approached. The cur tAiA had been raised at the window dear his bed, and the glory of the setting sun lit up his pale face. giving it an almost beati6c expression. l saw, as looked on his wasted ccuntenance, that he had but short time to live; but he was per. fectly conscious and rational, and smiled a welcome as 1 drew near. 1 noticed that his face was Singularly calm. and that his eyes had lost their former sad expression. Probably the consciousness that his struggle was a, an end had brought reiief. Do you know," he said, after & time, have been thinking much lately of poor Keats epi,aph? l composed some line, on 1t the other day {; Sister Angelina copied them for me" He reached his hand under his pillow, and drew forth the manuscript. give it here:
 Here Her oHs wAoss HaSss soaS W,H iH
 spdfeY."
 O sad eyed bard not thine the hapiess fate Thy d,ing voice in mournful tones expressed; {; For thou, ex alted with immoitalS blest, Hast won men's reverent homage, though
 too late,
 But |, ,ha, crippled by the wayside wait Until at length sweet Death, the king of rest, Shall suli with geatle touch my troubled
 breast,
 Would iain thy bitter praise reiterate. Lo. have borne the storm and stress of life, The useless struggle, without hope of gain, am soldier vanq' '-hed in the strife, To whom no laurel solace gives no pain, For me is thy sad plaint with meaning rife. Mine lei it be, since have lived in vain
 readily obtained permission to watch with my dying friend through the night. and for some hours he lay with his hand clasped in mine, copversing as he found suength, in an almost cheerful strain. At last he fell into a peaceful slumbcr. and just as the rosy light of dawn began to ,inge the eastern sky he opened his eyes, looked up into my face with smile, then closed the lids wearily again, and passed peacefully away.
 My poor friend left no means; but 1t vas an easy matter for me, with the as- slstance of his warm hearted associates, who were only too eager 10 contribute, to raise a fund sufficient to bury him de. gently and cree, a modest stone over his grave. thought at first ot using Keats epitaph, but finally decided that silence was best. Ills small belongings 1 took charge of as he had requested. his manuscripts, in a fagmentaTy state, l have preserved as mementoes. Ibslieve no inquiry was made for his relatives.
 This is all my sad story of failure. wonder of how many others it is the type. A great gift would seem to be oh,imeS curse rather thsa k blessing, ua!sss its possessor have also worldly wisdom, or be sustained by the aid and countenanse of appreciative friends. We all know that one of the rArest geniuses Of the present age, Hawthorne, might never have persevered m his work were il not for the encouragement of his friends aad the sustaining faith of his faithful wife and there have been doubtless many such sensitive and rehned souls to whom By- rons lines are applicable:
 Many are poets who never have penned Their inspirations, and perehance the best. They lived and loved and died, but would
 not lend
 Their thoughts 10 meaner beings they com
 pressed
 The God within them and rej oined the stars, UnlauTeed upon earth, but far more blesi.