Go little book! the world is wide, There's room and verge enough for thee; For thou hast learned that only pride Lacketh fit opportunity, Which comes unbid to modesty. Go! win thy way with gentleness: I send thee forth, my first-born child, Quite, quite alone, to face the stress Of fickle skies and pathways wild, Where few can keep them undefiled. Thou earnest from a poet's heart, A warm, still home, and full of rest; Far from the pleasant eyes thou art Of those who know and love thee best, And by whose hearthstones thou wert blest. Go! knock thou softly at the door Where any gentle spirits bin, Tell them thy tender feet are sore, Wandering so far from all thy kin, And ask if thou may enter in. Beg thou a cup-full from the spring Of Charity, in Christ's dear name; Few will deny so small a thing, Nor ask unkindly if thou came Of one whose life might do thee shame. We all are prone to go astray, Our hopes are bright, our lives are dim; But thou art pure, and if they say, "We know thy father, and our whim He pleases not,"--plead thou for him. For many are by whom all truth, That speaks not in their mother-tongue, Is stoned to death with hands unruth, Or hath its patient spirit wrung Cold words and colder looks among. Yet fear not! for skies are fair To all whose souls are fair within; Thou wilt find shelter everywhere With those to whom a different skin Is not a damning proof of sin. But, if all others are unkind, There's _one_ heart whither thou canst fly For shelter from the biting wind; And, in that home of purity, It were no bitter thing to die. SONNETS. I. DISAPPOINTMENT. I pray thee call not this society; I asked for bread, thou givest me a stone; I am an hungered, and I find not one To give me meat, to joy or grieve with me; I find not here what I went out to see-- Souls of true men, of women who can move The deeper, better part of us to love, Souls that can hold with mine communion free. Alas! must then these hopes, these longings high, This yearning of the soul for brotherhood, And all that makes us pure, and wise, and good, Come broken-hearted, home again to die? No, Hope is left, and prays with bended head, "Give us this day, O God, our daily bread!" II.