As he grew weaker, he longed to change his residence to some warmer climate. He thought of visiting his friend Herbert; but his physician advised against such a change, perhaps considering him already too weak to make such a journey. Thus the year passed away; and, in January 1801, he longed so eagerly to see his parents and be with them once more, that at the end of the month he returned to Weissenfels. There the ablest physicians from Leipzig and Jena were consulted, yet his case grew rapidly worse, although he was perfectly free from pain, as was the case through his whole illness. He still attended to the duties of his office, and wrote considerably in his private papers. He also composed some poems about this time, read the Bible diligently, and much from the works of Zinzendorf and Lavater. The nearer he approached his end, the stronger was his hope of recovery; for his cough abated, and, with the exception of debility, he had none of the feelings of a sick man. With this hope and longing for life, fresh powers and new talents seemed to awaken within him; he thought with renewed love of his projected labors, and undertook to write Henry of Ofterdingen anew. Once, shortly before his death, he said; "I now begin, for the first time, to see what true poetry is. Innumerable songs and poems far different from those I have written awake within me." From the 19th of March, the day on which Sophia died, he became very perceptibly weaker; many of his friends visited him, and he was particularly delighted when, on the 21st of March, his faithful and oldest friend Frederick Schlegel came to see him from Jena. He conversed much with him, particularly concerning their mutual labors. During these days his spirits were good, his nights quiet, and he enjoyed tranquil sleep. About six o'clock on the morning of the 26th, he asked his brother to hand him some books, in order to look out certain passages, that he had in mind; he then ordered his breakfast, and conversed with his usual vivacity till eight. Towards nine he asked his brother to play for him on the piano, and soon after fell asleep. Frederick Schlegel soon after entered the chamber, and found him sleeping quietly. This sleep lasted till twelve o'clock, at which hour he expired without a struggle; and unchanged in death his countenance retained the same pleasant expression, that it exhibited during life. Thus died our author before he had finished his nine-and-twentieth year. In him we may alike love and admire his extensive knowledge and his philosophical genius, as well as his poetical talents. With a spirit much in advance of his times, his country might have promised itself great things of him, had not an untimely death cut him off. Yet his unfinished writings have already had their influence; many of his great thoughts will yet inspire futurity; and noble minds and deep thinkers will be enlightened and set on fire by the sparks of his spirit.