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 p.r.o.ne 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 d.a.m.ning 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 G.o.d, our daily bread!"

II.

Great human nature, whither art thou fled?

Are these things creeping forth and back agen, These hollow formalists and echoes, men?

Art thou entombed with the mighty dead?

In G.o.d's name, no! not yet hath all been said, Or done, or longed for, that is truly great; These pitiful dried crusts will never sate Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread; We were not meant to plod along the earth, Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange; We were not meant to struggle from our birth To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways range; Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will!

Up and be doing! G.o.d is with us still.

III.

TO A FRIEND.

One strip of bark may feed the broken tree, Giving to some few limbs a sickly green; And one light shower on the hills, I ween, May keep the spring from drying utterly.

Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be; Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain, And so they are not wholly crushed with pain.

But live and linger on, far sadder sight to see; Much do they err, who tell us that the heart May not be broken; what, then, can we call A broken heart, if this may not be so, This death in life, when, shrouded in its pall, Shunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart, Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low?

IV.

So may it be, but let it not be so, O, let it not be so with thee, my friend; Be of good courage, bear up to the end, And on thine after way rejoicing go!

We all must suffer, if we aught would know; Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away This b.l.o.o.d.y sweat, and thou shalt find on earth, That woman is not all in all to Love, But, living by a new and second birth, Thy soul shall see all things below, above, Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day.

V.

O child of Nature! O most meek and free, Most gentle spirit of true n.o.bleness!

Thou doest not a worthy deed the less Because the world may not its greatness see; What were a thousand triumphings to thee, Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere Of mighty-souledness and majesty?

Thy soul is not too high for lowly things, Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak, Not for itself unto itself is dear, But for that it may guide the wanderings Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear.

VI.

TO ----

Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth, That I should wish my verse beloved of thee; 'Tis love's deep thirst which may not quenched be.

There is a gulf of longing and unrest, A wild love-craving not to be represt, Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea, The streams of feeling do forever flow.

Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, Filling those springs which else had sunk full low, Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, Or parched by pa.s.sion's fierce and withering blaze.

VII.

Might I but be beloved, and, O most fair And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee, How should I feel a cloud of earthly care, If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me?

O woman's love! O flower most bright and rare!

That blossom'st brightest in extremest need, Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air, And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts, Who can be little even in the light Of thy meek holiness--while souls more great Are left to wander in a starless night, Praying unheard--and yet the hardest parts Befit those best who best can cope with Fate.