England. He knew her, and was glad to see her near him, but he was too weak to realise the parting that was coming.
He lies buried in the little Protestant cemetery, just outside the walls of Florence, looking towards Fiesole and the hills which he loved and which he had gazed on as he entered Florence, little thinking he should leave it no more. 'Tall cypresses wave over the graves, and the beautiful hills keep guard around;' nowhere could there be a lovelier resting-place.
The memory of Arthur Clough will be safe in the hearts of his friends. Few beyond his friends have known him at all; his writings may not reach beyond a small circle; but those who have received his image into their hearts, know that something has been given them which no time can take away, and to them we think no words will seem fitter than those of the poet, happily also his friend, which have cherished the memory of another beautiful soul:—
