Leaves fit to have been poor Juliet’s cradle-rhyme, With gladness of a heart long quenched in mould They vibrate still, a nest not yet grown cold From its fledged burthen. The numb hand of Time Vainly his glass turns; here is endless prime; Here lips their roses keep and locks their gold; Here Love in pristine innocency bold Speaks what our grosser conscience makes a crime. Because it tells the dream that all have known Once in their lives, and to life’s end the few; Because its seeds o’er Memory’s desert blown Spring up in heartsease such as Eden knew; Because it hath a beauty all its own, Dear Friend, I plucked this herb of grace for you. ON PLANTING A TREE AT INVERARA. Who does his duty is a question Too complex to be solved by me, But he, I venture the suggestion, Does part of his that plants a tree. For after he is dead and buried, And epitaphed, and well forgot, Nay, even his shade by Charon ferried To--let us not inquire to what, His deed, its author long outliving, By Nature’s mother-care increased, Shall stand, his verdant almoner, giving A kindly dole to man and beast. The wayfarer, at noon reposing, Shall bless its shadow on the grass, Or sheep beneath it huddle, dozing Until the thundergust o’erpass. The owl, belated in his plundering, Shall here await the friendly night, Blinking whene’er he wakes, and wondering What fool it was invented light. Hither the busy birds shall flutter, With the light timber for their nests, And, pausing from their labor, utter The morning sunshine in their breasts. What though his memory shall have vanished, Since the good deed he did survives? It is not wholly to be banished Thus to be part of many lives. Grow, then, my foster-child, and strengthen, Bough over bough, a murmurous pile, And, as your stately stem shall lengthen, So may the statelier of Argyll! 1880. AN EPISTLE TO GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. “De prodome, Des qu’il s’atorne a grant bonte Ja n’iert tot dit ne tot conte, Que leingue ne puet pas retraire Tant d’enor com prodom set faire.” CRESTIEN DE TROIES, _Li Romans dou Chevalier au Lyon_, 784-788. 1874. Curtis, whose Wit, with Fancy arm in arm, Masks half its muscle in its skill to charm, And who so gently can the Wrong expose As sometimes to make converts, never foes, Or only such as good men must expect, Knaves sore with conscience of their own defect, I come with mild remonstrance. Ere I start, A kindlier errand interrupts my heart, And I must utter, though it vex your ears, The love, the honor, felt so many years.