But of all the clocks that tell Time’s bead-roll,
  There are none like this in the old Cathedral;
  Never a one so bids you stand
  While it deals the minutes with even hand: 
  For clocks, like men, are better and worse,
  And some you dote on, and some you curse;
  And clock and man may have such a way
  Of telling the truth that you can’t say nay.

  So in we went and stood in the crowd
  To hear the old clock as it crooned aloud,
  With sound and symbol, the only tongue
  The maker taught it while yet ’t was young. 
  And we saw Saint Peter clasp his hands,
  And the cock crow hoarsely to all the lands,
  And the Twelve Apostles come and go,
  And the solemn Christ pass sadly and slow;
  And strange that iron-legged procession,
  And odd to us the whole impression,
  As the crowd beneath, in silence pressing,
  Bent to that cold mechanic blessing.

  But I alone thought far in my soul
  What a touch of genius was in the whole,
  And felt how graceful had been the thought
  Which for the signs of the months had sought,
  Sweetest of symbols, Christ’s chosen train;
  And much I pondered, if he whose brain
  Had builded this clock with labor and pain
  Did only think, twelve months there are,
  And the Bible twelve will fit to a hair;
  Or did he say, with a heart in tune,
  Well-loved John is the sign of June,
  And changeful Peter hath April hours,
  And Paul the stately, October bowers,
  And sweet, or faithful, or bold, or strong,
  Unto each one shall a month belong.

  But beside the thought that under it lurks,
  Pray, do you think clocks are saved by their works?

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

To win such love as Arthur Hugh Clough won in life, to leave so dear a memory as he has left, is a happiness that falls to few men.  In America, as in England, his death is mourned by friends whose affection is better than fame, and who in losing him have met with an irreparable loss.  Outside the circle of his friends his reputation had no large extent; but though his writings are but little known by the great public of readers, they are prized by all those of thoughtful and poetic temper to whose hands they have come, as among the most precious and original productions of the time.  To those who knew him personally his poems had a special worth and charm, as the sincere expression of a character of the purest stamp, of rare truthfulness and simplicity, not less tender than strong, and of a genius thoroughly individual in its form, and full of the promise of a large career.  He was by Nature endowed with subtile and profound powers of thought, with feeling at once delicate and intense, with lively and generous sympathies, and with conscientiousness so acute as to pervade and control his whole intellectual disposition.  Loving, seeking, and holding fast to the truth, he despised all falseness