to Frederick Locker-Lampson

Skerryvore, September 4, 1886.

Not roses to the rose, I trow,
   The thistle sends, nor to the bee
Do wasps bring honey.  Wherefore now
   Should Locker ask a verse from me?

Martial, perchance,—but he is dead,
   And Herrick now must rhyme no more;
Still burning with the muse, they tread
   (And arm in arm) the shadowy shore.

They, if they lived, with dainty hand,
   To music as of mountain brooks,
Might bring you worthy words to stand
   Unshamed, dear Locker, in your books.

But tho’ these fathers of your race
   Be gone before, yourself a sire,
To-day you see before your face
   Your stalwart youngsters touch the lyre—

On these—on Lang, or Dobson—call,
   Long leaders of the songful feast.
They lend a verse your laughing fall—
   A verse they owe you at the least.