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THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS 
 
 A ROMANCE OF CORK HARBOUR, 1884. 
 
CHILD'S-WORLD BALLADS 
 — * — 
 
 Three Little Emigrants 
 
 A ROMANCE OF CORK HARBOUR, 1884 
 ETC. 
 
 SARAH M. B. PIATT 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' A VOYAGE TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES,' ETC. 
 
 i3 
 
 7C?r 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 ROBERT CLARKE AND CO. 
 
 1887 
 

 COPYRIGHT 1887 
 
 By JOHN JAMES PIATT. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
>i^^%^jk;scjM^^^jc 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Three Little Emigrants, .... 9 
 
 The Child Mozart and St. John of Bohemia, . 19 
 The Watch of a Swan, . . . .27 
 
 A Triumph of Travel, . . . .31 
 
 The Coming Out of her Doll, . . .35 
 
 The Little Cowherd, . , , .39 
 
 A New Knight, ..... 43 
 
 The Old King's Atonement, . . .47 
 
 Comfort through a Window, . . .53 
 
 Fred's Mother, . .... 55 
 
THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS. 
 
\^^^^^^^^^\ 
 
 THEEE LITTLE EMIGRANTS: 
 
 A EOMANCE OF CORK HARBOUE,, 1884. 
 
 'T^HE soldier's coat was English-red, 
 And Irish-red was Katy's cheek : 
 " But he 's a handsome boy," she said, 
 " And it 's to-night he means to speak. 
 
 " Who 's English-born is not to blame 
 
 For that ! (He would become the green.) 
 
 Sure, but it is a burning shame 
 
 To think he will stand by the Queen. 
 
 " He and Sir Garnet, side-by- side, 
 
 Fought beautifully, though, out there, — 
 
 Faith ! he 's a splendid scar to hide 
 With all that elegant black hair ! " 
 
10 THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 So Katy set her cap — as clean 
 
 As snow, pink ribbons, snares of lace — 
 
 And waited by the hedge unseen. 
 
 (Now Katy, you will lose your place ! ) 
 
 At last the moon peeped, with a smile. 
 
 Into a face that she had met 
 Among the palm-leaves by the Nile — 
 
 A face the moon could not forget. 
 
 Upon the scarlet breast she spied 
 
 The usual medal — there to tell 
 How bravely those dark Arabs died ? 
 
 But Katy heard — the nursery-bell. 
 
 " Sure, that 's the mistress. She 's come down 
 
 To be a-meddling," Katy said ; 
 "And it's herself would say the town 
 
 By this time ought to be in bed ! " 
 
 " Where are the children, Katy ? " " Sure, 
 It is myself that ought to know ! 
 
 The air to-night, ma'am, was so pure 
 I stole outside a bit, and so " 
 
THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS, 11 
 
 " Where are the children V " It 's asleep 
 They ought to be ! Wait, ma'am, I say. 
 
 I Ve been a-thinking. — Could I keep 
 The things I couldn't see away 1 
 
 " Sure it 's the fairies ! They have got 
 The children ! It 's their way, it is. 
 
 Faith, it 's the priest could read you what 
 They're up to, in that book of his ! " 
 
 . . . There lay the little, lonely beds. 
 
 Above them bent a whiter face. 
 What hollows those three precious heads 
 
 Had left cold in the pillow-lace ! 
 
 Then, in an instant, what a flight 
 
 There was of drowsy dreams close by ! 
 
 What whispers to the pitiless night, 
 And to the strangling river nigh ! 
 
 Shadows with lanterns walked without. 
 
 (One almost heard the fall of tears.) 
 Within — within, I do not doubt, 
 
 The night was as a thousand years. 
 
12 THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 Scarce since that wailing midnight when 
 
 This quaint old rebel city heard 
 The niuffled march of Cromwell's men 
 
 Was it so passionately stirred/ 
 
 Down that black alley, where the face 
 Of Edmund Spenser peers sometimes, 
 
 Through rags and want, to see the place 
 Where once a courtier writ his rhymes ; 
 
 Through Shandon's shadow, where the earth 
 
 Lies lightly on his happy head 
 Who set its bells to ringing mirth, 
 
 The trouble, like an arrow, sped. 
 
 Even the Eed Abbey's buried chime 
 
 (Made of old silver and the best) 
 Half-lost in legend, deep in time. 
 
 Longed to be ringing with the rest ! 
 
 . . . Meanwhile, where were the children "? They 
 
 Had heard a whistle at the gate : 
 ''That's Katy's sweetheart. She's away. 
 
 Now we can go. It isn't late. 
 
THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS. 13 
 
 " Make haste, or she will catch us ! " So, 
 Without the nurse, somehow, they dressed 
 
 And started. Whither ? Did they know 1 
 They started — to the mighty West ! 
 
 Under the stars and hand-in-hand, 
 
 Held by another Hand, they went 
 Through the dim hours, as they had planned. 
 
 To seek — another continent. 
 
 Ah me, what scent of sandal-wood, 
 
 What glory of Atlantic gold. 
 Had lured them, faintly understood ? 
 
 What tales a bird of the air had told ! 
 
 The charmed swans that haunt the Lee, 
 
 A trifle fluttered, curious quite. 
 Sailed from their stately sleep to see 
 
 These pretty people of the night. 
 
 Meanwhile those blue eyes saw, no doubt. 
 Some wonder-sights that pleased them well : 
 
 Strange starlight creatures glimmered out 
 From wayside bloom and wayside shell. 
 
14 THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 From level strongholds banners flew, 
 
 Yellow or purple. (Only flowers, 
 You say 1 ) And one low trumpet blew 
 
 ( Was it the wind, indeed ?) for hours. 
 
 At Irish Tivoli they feared 
 
 To pass the evergreen's chill glooms — 
 For lo ! a knight with sharpened beard 
 
 Nodded Elizabethan plumes ! ^ 
 
 He broke a leaf or two from trees 
 
 He planted ghostly years ago, 
 And hid them in his breast. — "You'll please 
 
 Tell us the way, sir, if you know." 
 
 "I knew, my pretty folk," he said, 
 
 " God speed you ! " Oh ! his eyes were sad 
 
 And still. And what a gracious head 
 For any man to lose, he had ! 
 
 They journeyed till they met the light. 
 
 Never before was dawn so fair. 
 When Monkstown Castle stole in sight, 
 
 The sunrise birds were singing there. 
 
 1 Sir Walter Raleigh is said to have once resided at Tivoli, Cork. 
 
THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 Milkmen and market-women, gay 
 
 With primrose-gold, stared blankly out 
 
 At these wee wonders of the way, 
 
 From donkey-carts, with smile and shout. 
 
 On Queenstown Beach, a sleepy maid 
 Muttered : "A pretty time to ring ! " 
 
 At last she shivered, half afraid. 
 
 Into the hall : " Sure, such a thing," 
 
 She cried, "was never heard of yet ! " 
 There at the door they stood, all three 
 
 (Seven, five, and two their years) as wet 
 With dew as night-drenc"hed buds would be. 
 
 " We want some bread-and-butter, though, 
 And strawberry jam and tea and cake, 
 
 If you have any. You 're too slow ! — 
 
 We're tired, we've been all night awake." 
 
 Ah ! lovely sash and nun- wrought lace, 
 And fairy boots of pink and blue, 
 
 Haw did you come to such disgrace ? — 
 Whatever will your mother do ? 
 
16 THREE LITTLE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 Far off as heaven the enchanted mast 
 Was lingering on the island sky ; 
 
 The empty seas lay A^eiled and vast, 
 The Shamrock ^ gave the cruel cry. 
 
 " We have to stay here now, that 's all ! " 
 The boy sobbed, and he hid his face ; 
 
 " The tender 's gone. I tried to call 
 The Captain. It 's a splendid place ! — 
 
 " America, that 's what I mean. 
 
 It is a splendid place. Why not ? 
 Indians and bears and snakes ! — I 've seen 
 
 The pictures. . . . But the ship forgot I " 
 
 Then through his great still tears and vain, 
 The baby hero choked his sighs. . . . 
 
 Did the grey Admiral from Spain 
 
 Look Westward with such longing eyes 1 
 
 1 The name of a tender. 
 
THE CHILD MOZART AND ST. JOHN 
 OF BOHEMIA. 
 
THE CHILD MOZAET AND ST. JOHN OF 
 BOHEMIA. 
 
 'TpHE two stood in a faery place 
 
 On some Bohemian hill. 
 The boy seemed not of our own race, 
 He was so slight and still ; 
 
 A lovely alien, who had strayed 
 When some strange star went by. 
 
 Out of its shining ways, and stayed 
 On earth, he knew not why. 
 
 Bare-headed, on that lonesome height, 
 Where yet the dew was cold, 
 
 He took, as by some gracious right. 
 The sun's salute of gold ; 
 
 19 
 
20 THE CHILD MOZART AND 
 
 With lambs, above the world of men, 
 
 There in the world of birds, 
 So looked the young Apollo, when 
 
 He — quite forgot the herds. 
 
 Perhaps it was the winds and bees. 
 
 Perhaps his sweet ears rung 
 With snatches of the melodies 
 
 The morning stars had sung. 
 
 Yet this fair little foreign guest, 
 
 Born somewhere in the sky, 
 Knew — (if the truth must be confest) 
 
 The boy knew how to cry. 
 
 " Look, sister, look," he sadly said. 
 
 While great tears gathered slow, 
 " There is no butter on my bread." 
 
 She answered him : "I know. 
 
 " We are so poor, and that is why." 
 
 " Well, what do people do 
 When they are poor ? " " Sometimes they cry.' 
 
 (Their mother did, she knew.) 
 
ST. JOHN OF BOHEMIA. 21 
 
 " But don't they pray, too, sometimes ? " " Yes." 
 
 " Then, good St. John, I say 
 My mother needs a prettier dress ; — 
 
 Please send one right away." 
 
 (St. John, hurled from a parapet 
 
 At some wild Emperor's frown : 
 Five stars brood on the Moldau yet, 
 
 Five stars that saw him drown.) 
 
 " We want a new piano, too ; 
 
 Our old one used to play. 
 But it forgets its music. You 
 
 Are kind to all who pray ? 
 
 " And there 's the butter, too. But see, — 
 
 Why, here he is ! " And then 
 Came laughing from behind a tree 
 
 The handsomest of men, 
 
 Clothed in dark forest-green, his head 
 
 High as an oak's need be. 
 And shadowed by a plume. He said : 
 
 " Come, little ones, with me. " 
 
22 THE CHILD MOZART AND 
 
 And so the children's saint, the blest, 
 
 The beautiful St. John, 
 Walked with them — (rather oddly drest 
 
 You think. Of this anon). 
 
 That day a sudden dinner, such 
 
 As they had never seen, 
 Came to their table. And how much 
 
 They thanked the saint in green ! 
 
 Bright as an autumn-leaf in bloom 
 Their mother moved, and yet 
 
 That night — the absence in her room 
 Made cheek and pillow wet. 
 
 That night the old piano, too. 
 Grieved like a living thing, — 
 
 For the blonde boy, right well it knew, 
 Had vanished with the King. 
 
 (The King, I said, but, on my word. 
 It 's quite another thing, — 
 
 Somewhere in history I have heard 
 The Queen was then the King.^) 
 
 1 ' ' Long live our King — Ma.ria Theresa ! " 
 
ST. JOHN OF BOHEMIA. 23 
 
 Into a place of shining state 
 
 The child-musician went, 
 In violet velvet, to await 
 
 Court-kiss and compliment, 
 
 . . . And lo, a palace maiden bright, 
 
 A vision to admire, 
 A creature made of rose and white 
 
 And gold, in brave attire ! 
 
 The boy raised his flower-face as she 
 
 Passed him with slow regret : 
 " I say, and will you marry me, 
 
 Miss Marie Antoinette ? " 
 
 " I dare not ; what would mother say 1 — 
 
 I mean the Empress, child," 
 The enchanted princess answered. They 
 
 Who listened stared and smiled. 
 
 She tossed her shining head a bit. 
 
 With one bright backward glance ; 
 And Wolfgang Mozart wept when it 
 
 Gilded the axe of France. 
 
THE WATCH OF A SWAN. 
 
THE WATCH OF A SWAN. 
 
 T READ somewhere that a swan, snow-white, 
 
 In the sun all day, in the moon all night. 
 Alone by a little grave would sit 
 Waiting, and watching it. 
 
 Up out of the lake her mate would rise. 
 And call her down with his piteous cries 
 Into the waters still and dim ; — 
 With cries she would answer him. 
 
 Hardly a shadow would she let pass 
 Over the baby's cover of grass ; 
 Only the wind might dare to stir 
 The lily that watched with her. 
 
28 
 
 THE WATCH OF A SWAN. 
 
 Do I think that the swan was an angel 1 Oh, 
 I think it was only a swan, you know, 
 That for some sweet reason, winged and wild, 
 Had the love of a bird for a child. 
 
A TRIUMPH OF TRAVEL. 
 
A TEIUMPH OF TEAVEL. 
 
 AT EDINBURGH. 
 
 ^T^HERE rose the tragic palace towers 
 
 Against the moon. (The tale was true !) 
 The Prince's Gardens faint with flowers 
 And still with statue-spectres grew. 
 
 There, on its rock, the Castle lay, 
 
 An awful shadow-shape forlorn, 
 Among the night-lamps, and, by day — 
 
 The place where James the First was born. 
 
 There, for the Covenanters' sake. 
 
 One haunts the grasses of Grey Friars ; 
 
 There grim John Knox had loved to shake 
 His right hand full of ghostly fires. 
 
32 A TRIUMPH OF TRAVEL. 
 
 There, changed to marble, Walter Scott 
 Eeceived the world. And Burns of Ayr, 
 
 With all his loves and debts forgot, 
 A bronze immortal met you there. 
 
 No whit the seven-years' stranger cared ; 
 
 As under gables high and still 
 Through immemorial dust he fared, 
 
 He spoke his heart out with a will : 
 
 " I 'm tired of Holyrood, that 's what ! 
 
 And all the other things," he said ; 
 " There 's nothing in it ! She is not ; — 
 
 I mean Queen Mary. She is dead. 
 
 " I 'm glad I did just one thing there." 
 
 (In vain they showed him "Rizzio's bluid.") 
 
 " I put m}^ hand on every chair 
 
 That said ' Don't Touch ' at Holyrood ! " 
 
THE COMING OUT OF HER DOLL. 
 
THE COMING OUT OF HER DOLL. 
 
 YOUNG GIRL-GRADUATE TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 " '^fOW I begin to think it 's time that Rose 
 
 Should wear a train. She 's a young lady now. 
 You really cannot guess how much she knows. 
 (She's read some charming novels, anyhow.) 
 
 " How sweet she 'd look in a Commencement dress, 
 White satin and illusion, and some pearls. 
 
 Her gloves must have six buttons, and — I guess 
 She 'd get more flowers than all the other girls. 
 
 "I fancy she should have some company. 
 
 (Papa, he always comes home late and tired.) 
 And if she only had — some one, you see, 
 
 To take her out, she would be much admired. 
 
36 THE COMING OUT OF HER DOLL. 
 
 " Oh, you forget. You brought her home to me 
 Once on my birthday, years and years ago. 
 
 She could not be a baby yet, j'^ou see ; — 
 
 Why, then I was a child myself, you know ! " 
 
THE LITTLE COWHERD. 
 
THE LITTLE COWHEED. 
 
 ' /^OMEj look at her, and you will love her. 
 
 Go, lead her now through pleasant places, 
 And teach her that our New-World's clover 
 Ls sweet as Jersey Island daisies. 
 
 " Yes, you may do a little playing 
 Close to the gate, my pretty warder ; 
 
 But, meanwhile, keep your cow from straying 
 Across the elfin people's border." 
 
 So to the boy his mother jested 
 
 About his light task, lightly heeding. 
 
 While in the flowering grass he rested 
 The magic book that he was reading. 
 
40 THE LITTLE COWHERD. 
 
 At sundown for the cow's returning 
 
 The milkmaid waited long, I 'm thinking. 
 
 Hours later, by the moon's weird burning, 
 Did fairy-folk have cream for drinking ■? 
 
 . . . What of the boy ? By hill and hollow, 
 Through bloom and brier, till twilight ended, 
 
 His book had charmed him on to follow 
 The cow — the one that Cadmus tended ! 
 
 J 
 
A NEW KNIGHT. 
 
A NEW KNIGHT. 
 
 TO A SCHOOLBOY. 
 
 TTERE you sit with a picture-book, 
 
 And stare at a knight with his armour on, 
 While the bird that waited for you to look 
 
 At his scarlet coat is surely gone. 
 He sings too low and he sings too near ? — 
 It is Roland's horn you would like to hear ? 
 
 Why, the horn of Roland was only blown 
 
 Because there was something wrong, you know, 
 
 When the world was dark. But the world has 
 grown 
 A trifle brighter since then, and so 
 
 We are looking around for some new knight 
 
 Whose horn shall tell us of something right. 
 
44 A NEW KNIGHT. 
 
 You like the one in the picture best ? 
 
 Oh, he does look well in his plume and steel ; 
 But only fancy if you were dressed 
 
 In that odd fashion, how you would feel — 
 Eiding along, while the boys looked through 
 The schoolroom windows and laughed at you ! 
 
 You would storm some fortress"? — You never will; 
 
 You sleep and you dream too much for that. 
 Take care lest the boy below the hill, 
 
 With the one wild rose in his torn straw hat, 
 Who climbs the rocks, while they 're dim with 
 
 dew, 
 To bring you milk, make his squire of you ! 
 
THE OLD KING'S ATONEMENT. 
 
THE OLD KING'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 TOLD TO A BOY ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 'T^HIS is the story that a dead man writ — 
 
 Five hundred years ago it must be, quite ; 
 Worlds full of children listened once to it, 
 Who do not ask for stories now at night. 
 
 Worlds full of children, who have followed him, 
 The King they learned to love and to forgive. 
 
 About whose feet the North-snows once lay dim, 
 To the sweet land where he has srone to live. 
 
 He was a bo}' whose purple cap could show 
 As true a peacock's-plume as ever fanned 
 
 Bright royal hair, but in the gracious glow 
 
 Of his fair head strange things, it seems, were 
 planned : 
 
48 THE OLD king's ATONEMENT. 
 
 "To be a prince is well enough," thought he, 
 " But then would it not be a braver thing 
 
 To be — my father, only young ! To be," 
 
 He whispered, oh, so low — "to be the King ! — 
 
 " My father, who may live for years and years. 
 
 x\nd I meanwhile ? — Prince Henry to the last ! 
 Sin, by God's grace, may be washed out with tears. 
 
 And some day I'll have time to pray and fast." 
 
 He blew a blast that wailed from field to field ; 
 
 Then, with his sword's point hurled his father 
 down. 
 And bared his own dark forehead, and revealed 
 
 Thereon the sudden lightning of the crown. 
 
 But soon that fire of jewels round his head 
 
 Burned to his heart. He sat forlorn with grief : 
 
 " We '11 send across the mountains there," he said, 
 " To our great Priest in Italy for relief." 
 
 His Holiness sat thinking in his town 
 
 Of Eome five minutes, or, it may be, more ; 
 
 His scarlet Cardinals pulled their brave hats down, 
 And thou2rht as Cardinals never thought before. 
 
THE OLD king's ATONEMENT. 49 
 
 "Tell him," the reverend Father said, "to build 
 Strong churches, and give freely of his gold 
 
 To our poor brothers." So his realm was filled 
 With monks and abbeys. But — shall truth be 
 told 1— 
 
 His father's shadow would not let him be, — 
 Till, one fine night, out of the pleasant skies, 
 
 Mary looked down, remembering that he 
 
 Was once a child, with sweet half-human eyes : 
 
 " He shall be glad again, for he shall make 
 The little ones glad in memory of my Son," 
 
 She said. Her aureole flashed the King awake ; 
 He thought, " Let my Lord's Mother's will be done." 
 
 So from his head the cruel crown he shook. 
 And from his breast the ermine cloak he tore. 
 
 And, wrapped in serge, his lonesome way he took 
 In the weird night from dreaming door to door. 
 
 A very Saint of Christmas in the moon. 
 
 Followed by glimmering evergreens and toys, 
 
 The old King looked. And did they wake too soon. 
 Those blonde-haired, blue-eyed, far-back girls and 
 boys ? 
 
50 THE OLD king's ATONEMENT. 
 
 I only know that still the peasants say, 
 
 In his far country, that a strange King walks 
 
 All night before the Lord Christ's glad birthday. 
 And leaves no track — a King who never talks ! 
 
 And sometimes children, stealing from their bed, 
 To look if the slow morning yet be near, 
 
 Have seen his sweeping beard and hooded head. 
 And grey, still smile, with never any fear. 
 
 They know the dawn will light the loveliest things. 
 Left in the silence by their silent friend. 
 
 They know the strange King is the best of kings. 
 And mean to love him till the world shall end. 
 
COMFORT THROUGH A WINDOW. 
 
COMFOET THEOUGH A WINDOW. 
 
 (child within to tramp without.) 
 
 T T 'S not so nice here as it looks, 
 
 With china that keeps breaking so, 
 And five of Mr. Tennyson's books 
 Too fine to look in — is it, though 1 
 
 If you just had to sit here (Well !) 
 In satin chairs too blue to touch, 
 
 And look at flowers too sweet to smell, 
 In vases — would you like it much ? 
 
 If you see any flowers, they grow, 
 And you can find them in the sun. 
 
 These are the ones we buy, you know, 
 In winter-time — when there are none ! 
 
 53 
 
54 COMFORT THROUGH A WINDOW. 
 
 Then you can sit on rocks, you see, 
 And walk about in water, too — 
 
 Because you have no shoes ! Dear me ! 
 How many things they let you do ! 
 
 Then you can sleep out in the shade 
 All day, I guess, and all night too, 
 
 Because — you know, you 're not afraid 
 Of other fellows just like you ! 
 
 You have no house like this, you know, 
 (Where mamma 's cross, and ladies call)- 
 
 You have the world to live in, though. 
 And that 's the prettiest place of all ! 
 
FRED'S MOTHER. 
 
 MASTER Harry's comment. 
 
 ' TT^RED says his mother cannot tell 
 
 One-half the things he asks her. Well ! 
 
 " She doesn't even know how far 
 It is straight to that nearest star. 
 
 ' She only knows the Golden Rule. 
 —I wonder where she went to school ! ' 
 
EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY PRESS : 
 T. AND A. CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY. 
 
By the sa?ne Author. 
 
 MRS. PIATTS SELECT POEMS. 
 
 A VOYAGE TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES, 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 Small Croivn Svo, Cloth, gilt top, 5x. 
 
 Published in the United States by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co., 
 Boston and New York, Price Si.So. 
 
 Extracts from British Critical Opinions. 
 
 The Academy, December 5, 1885. 
 ' The author of these poems and her work are well known on the other side of the 
 Atlantic, and two tiny volumes of verse have recently introduced her very favour- 
 ably to English readers. The present book contains a rich and excellently selected 
 gathering from Mrs. Piatt's various works, issued in America, and it will, un- 
 doubtedly, win a warm welcome from the lovers of poetry among us, and extend 
 the radius of her influence and reputation. Mrs. Piatt's verses are characterised 
 by a distinct and pleasing originality. . . . Nothing more unfailingly distinguishes 
 her poems than the solid kernel of fresh, original thought and feeling in each of 
 them — thought and feeling which are expressed with careful and conscientious 
 artistry. . . . Not a few of the most delicate and successful pieces of the book are 
 to be found in the section titled, "In Company with Children." Here the 
 womanly nature of the poet has full scope. . . . The temptation to quote further 
 from this charming volume is almost irresistible, but we must leave the reader to 
 discover the rest of its dainty and pathetic things for himself. The book entitles its 
 author to a very honourable place in the roll of women poets of our century.' 
 
 The St. James's Gazette, November 21, 1885. 
 ' We find that Mrs. Piatt's Muse is the Muse of the American Girl. . . . And we 
 confess, for our own part, that the more completely she is the Muse of the American 
 Girl the better we like her. There is real originality in such pieces as " If I were 
 a Queen," "Caprice at Home," and "After the Quarrel." The reflection on 
 Cleopatra — 
 
 ' ' No coward of my conqueror's race 
 Should offer me his blood, I know. 
 
 If I were a Queen — " 
 is delightfully in the spirit of free Transatlantic criticism. Rhythmically, too, 
 Mrs. Piatt is at her best in these lighter pieces. In "Caprice at Home" there is a 
 pettishness of movement in the verse corresponding excellently to its mood. Take 
 tor example, the lines : — 
 
" No, I will not say good-bye, 
 Not good-bye, nor anything ; " 
 
 or 
 
 " Everything I want I miss. 
 Oh, a precious world is this " 
 
 Very arch, too, is "After the Quarrel," where one girl is consoling another for the 
 loss of her lover : — 
 
 " But he will not come? — Why, then. 
 Is no other within call ? 
 There are men and men, and men — 
 
 And these men are brothers all ! 
 Each sweet fault of his you '11 find 
 Just as sweet in all his kind." 
 
 There is so much room in our literature for verse which is playful without being 
 exactly humorous, that it is to be hoped Mrs. Piatt will pursue further a vein in 
 which she is so eminently successful. We have no wish, however, to disparage the 
 more serious efforts of this pleasing and unpretentious writer. Like Miss Ingelow 
 and other disciples of the great but unequal poetess of "Casa Guidi Windows," 
 Mrs. Piatt's mood alternates between a fantastic regret and a heart-broken idealism. 
 She bewails mystically the dead infancies of her growing children, and has dreams 
 about them in a glorified perfection. All this is well summed up in the narrative 
 poem from which the volume takes its title — the poem which tries to force on us the 
 conclusion that 
 
 " We leave the Fortunate Isles behind. 
 The Fortunate Isles to find ; " 
 and abounds in vaguely suggestive imagery, as of the butterflies 
 " That glitter, homesick for the form 
 And lost sleep of the worm." 
 
 ' In " Two Veils " and " Her Cross and Mine," Mrs. Piatt has touched skilfully on 
 the contrast between the world's perils and the safe shelter of the convent. "The 
 Altar at Athens" is a rather striking presentation of the enigma of contending 
 creeds. " The Gift of Empty Hands " and " Everything " are fables of deft inven- 
 tion if trite morality. The first stanza of " To-day" is worth quotation for its easy 
 rendering of a plaintive mood : — 
 
 "Ah, real thing of bloom and breath, 
 
 I cannot love you while you stay. 
 
 Put on the dim, still charm of death. 
 
 Fade to a phantom, float away, 
 
 And let me call you Yesterday ! " 
 
 " Asking for Tears " has something of the accent of " Sonnets from the Portuguese." 
 In the more dramatic pieces, like " The Palace- Burner," " There was a Rose," and 
 "A Wall Between," these abrupt artifices are less inappropriate. "A Wall 
 Between," which presents in some nine pages the scene of a husband coming in 
 priest's disguise to the death-bed of his neglected wife, seems to be admirably 
 adapted for recitation. The writer preserves here, as always, both delicacy and 
 taste. The piece is a good one. But we recur to our preference of Mrs. Piatt as 
 the lyrist of whim, the Muse of the American Girl.' 
 
The Irish Monthly, July j886. 
 
 ' This woman-poet's poems come to us with a New World freshness and fragrance, 
 superadded to the sweetness and tenderness, which are among the things that never 
 grow old. Some of the poems, in their largeness and freedom, their boldness in 
 seizing, and crying aloud the vague doubts and marvellings which have wearied and 
 pained us all at times, not the less that we have scarcely dared to look them in the 
 face, read like a revelation — a revelation of one's own heart, of a woman's heart. 
 The book is essentially a woman's book, though, in its breadth of treatment, it has 
 often a masculine quality of strength, — it is the book of a woman who is also a wife, 
 and the mother of children, and in the noble attributes of a developed womanliness, 
 the poetry of it must rank almost with the highest. . . . Three women's names 
 suggest themselves to the present writer, as those of distinct and individual singers 
 in our own day — Christina Rossetti, Jean Ingelow, and Alice Meynell, whose one 
 exquisite volume " Preludes," is an embodiment of the purest poetry; and to those 
 three names Sarah Piatt's may now be added as a fourth, for her marked origin- 
 ality and freshness are wonderful, in an age more than a score of hundred years after 
 Solomon bewailed the staleness of all things under the sun. The tenderness, the 
 purity of the book, is beyond all praise ; and the curious current and undertone of 
 pathos running through the highest strain — a sadness entirely natural, and not at all 
 a literary quality, as so much present-day sadness seems to be — gives the work an 
 ennobling gravity. From this true, sweet poet one wishes to quote largely, feeling 
 that the poems speak best for their own excellence ; but where all is perfect, there is 
 a difficulty in selection. . . . The poem which gives the first book its name is wise 
 and beautiful, and " A Wall Between" contains some of the best things the poet has 
 given us. . . . It has some wonderful passages. . . . Perhaps the short poems are 
 the most perfect, and the style at its best is limpidly clear. . • • Any notice of this 
 book would be incomplete, however abundant its citations, if it failed to quote from 
 the poems concerning children, which, perhaps, more than any other feature, set the 
 book apart from any other book we have ever read. Its insight into child-life, the 
 naivete of a child's thoughts, here so accurately rendered, will make the book 
 especially lovable to grown lovers of children, though here, perhaps, it stops short ; 
 it will hardly reach the children themselves, as Hans Andersen, the prophet of 
 children, does ; but rather like Mr. R. L. Stevenson's "Child's Garden of Verses," 
 it will make the grown reader sigh and wonder at the vivid reflection from his own 
 childhood. . . . And now, with little further quotation, we must leave this lovely 
 and lovable book, in which is contained the cream's cream, the best perfection of 
 the author's work. Let all who love poetry, and happily they are many, read the 
 book for themselves, and know the delight we have felt in its reading. For the 
 delicate grace of the book, the yearning sadness which fills one with a pain better 
 than pleasure, for this laying open of a beautiful heart, we are deeply thankful. . . . 
 We have tried to say little and quote much, because we felt how poorly we could 
 say all the book makes us feel — one could say it, perhaps, better in verse than in 
 prose, where enthusiasm finds hardly a fitting vehicle of expression. Only we thank 
 tne writer for the gift she has given us and the world — a gift as perfect and spon- 
 taneous as the song of a blackbird, as passionate and innocent as the heart of a rose.' 
 
 The Westminster Review, July 1886. 
 ' Many ot Mrs. Piatt's verses are concerned with the sayings and doings of 
 children. We are ot those who hold that both the pathos and the humour of the 
 
nursery should be reserved for home consumption, but for those who think otherwise 
 with regard to the "Kingdom of Heavenites," as Coleridge called babies, we can 
 safely recommend Mrs. Piatt. Among the more striking poems in this volume are 
 "A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles," "The Longest Death-Watch," and "Twelve 
 Hours Apart." We select for quotation a double quatrain, entitled " Broken 
 Promise. " ' 
 
 Merry England (Review of Professor Robertson's " Children of 
 the Poets"), March 18S7. 
 
 * Mrs. Piatt is an American writer not yet known to many in England, though 
 quickly recognised by a few. She never writes without thoughts, and her thoughts, 
 though not always concentrated, are always distinct, and with distinctness they have 
 a rare distinction. This beauty of thought will always be, in spite of the perfect 
 things that have been done in mere form, the supreme merit of poetry and of all 
 literature. But as regards utterance also Mrs. Piatt does exquisitely, having a 
 restraint of tone, a moderation of emphasis, of length, which show firm and careful 
 art ; and a quite simple vocabulary. One of her loveliest poems is this in the 
 " Children of the Poets." It is headed " Last Words," and is spoken over a little 
 bed at night.' 
 
 The Pictorial World, June 3, 1886. 
 
 • Mrs. Piatt is an American woman of genius, and the pensive tone and sweet 
 natural music which distinguish her verse have produced, in " A Voyage to the 
 Fortunate Isles," etc., poems of a delicate beauty, not easy to equal, much less 
 surpass, on either side of the Atlantic. The thought, the expression of these poems 
 are alike purely womanly. Mrs. Piatt studies no model, and takes no pattern for 
 her work; she simply expresses herself; hence her verse is just the transparent 
 mantle of her individuality. The natural refinement, the ready sympathy, the 
 tender sentiment, the quiet grace of a thoroughly womanly woman reveal them- 
 selves quite unconsciously in every poem; and the musical quality of the verse 
 increases the impression that the reader is listening to the heart-utterances of one 
 of the Imogens or Mirandas to be met with now seldom outside the radiant land 
 where Shakespeare's imagination reigns supreme. . . . The poems "In Company 
 with Children " contain some of the most distinctive and original of Mrs. Piatt's 
 work. She has especial power of entering into the child life, and she is not afraid 
 to let the children speak in her verse as they speak in life. " My Babes in the 
 Wood," "Playing Beggars," "The Little Boy I Dreamed About," "The Baby's 
 Brother," are a few of many poems which occupy in the realm of verse a quiet corner 
 entirely their own. . . . Mrs. Piatt will, we doubt not, as her poems become known 
 to English readers, become popular, or, we should rather say, dear to a wide circle 
 mainly composed of members of her own sex, for she supplies the adequate expression 
 for women whose hearts are tender and true like her own.' 
 
 The Dublin Evening Mail, April 7, 1886. 
 
 ' If Mrs. Piatt's " Irish Garland ' contains poetry like that in the volume before 
 us, it ought to be placed forthwith in the Ijest hundred Irish books. . . . 
 Originality, simplicity, tenderness, and a profoundly pathetic sense of things are 
 the notes of Mrs. Piatt's muse. In many passages she reminds us of Mrs. Barrett 
 Browning, but she is more lyrical, less rhetorical. . . . America may be proud of 
 Mrs. Piatt, and we believe is so.' 
 
The Literary World, January i, 1886, 
 
 'One of the finest poems in the book is "The Brother's Hand," founded upon 
 
 a story of the American Civil War, There is a good deal of power, passion, and 
 
 pathos in it. It is the longest poem in the book, and is marked by much true feeling 
 
 and great narrative skill." 
 
 London Figaro, February 20, 1886. 
 ' It was high time, though, that acquaintance was made with so charming a 
 writer, who, while reminding us of our Jean Ingelow and Adelaide Proctor, has 
 indubitable originality — and originality, too, of a very rare kind— of her own. . . . 
 In so short a notice it is, indeed, difficult to even name the beauties of her character- 
 istic muse. Allusion must be made, however, to her wonderful, and, as it would 
 seem, intuitive power of analysing child-nature. Many of her poems deal with 
 children, and her happiest and most winsome touches are to.be found in them. 
 Mrs. Piatt possesses genuine imagination, and, moreover, that dramatic instinct 
 which helps so greatly to make a poem intense and vivid. . . . But to multiply 
 quotations is impossible, and we must be content with giving the two stanzas with 
 which Mrs. Piatt concludes this delightful volume. She says : — 
 " Sweet World, if you will hear me now : 
 I may not own a sounding Lyre 
 And wear my name upon my brow 
 Like some great jewel quick with fire. 
 
 But let me, singing, sit apart, 
 In tender quiet with a few, 
 And keep my fame upon my heart, 
 A little blush-rose wet with dew." 
 There is the melody of real poetry here. ' 
 
 The Saturday Review, March 13, 1886. 
 ' Of all the concourse of singers, ungallantly described in their own land as 
 "female poets," Mrs. Piatt is the most racy and, in a word, the most American. 
 Mr, Stedman finds her charming " at her best," and Miss Preston most judiciously 
 commends her delightful poems of children. Mr. Howells praises her that "she 
 has not written like a man," and the Boston Repository takes Mr. Howells to task 
 for praising " the feminine quality" of Mrs. Piatt's muse. For our part, we are at 
 issue with the Repository lady (as we must assume the critic to be), and are touched 
 with the felicity of Mr. Howells' remarks. The new selection of Mrs. Piatt's poems 
 should be most welcome to all who seek in American poetry something more than a 
 pale reflex of the British commodity. In the goodly company of poetesses, all dight 
 in their singing robes, Mrs. Piatt's part is that of the inginue. Her poems, with all 
 their whim and inconstancy of mood, are charmingly sincere, artless, piquant, and 
 full of quaint surprise. Her pathos is not less individual, though we like her best in 
 her "Dramatic Persons and Moods," in such poems as " Sometime," " If I were a 
 Queen," "After the Quarrel," "Enchanted," and the like. The reflections of the 
 speaker in the second poem in rejecting the example of all historic queens are 
 exquisitely girl-like and natural, even to the rejection of Cleopatra : — 
 " Then she of Egypt — with the asp 
 To drain my deadly beauty dry ? — 
 To see my Roman lover clasp 
 
 His sword with surer love, and die 
 
Closer to it than me ? Not so. 
 
 No desert-snake with nursing grace 
 Should draw my fierce heart's fiercest glow ; 
 
 No coward of my conqueror's race 
 Should offer me his blood, I know — 
 If I were a Queen." 
 ' Very startling is the quaint epigram in the first stanza of "Marble or Dust? " : — 
 
 " A child, beside a statue, said to me. 
 With pretty wisdom very sadly just, 
 'That man is Mr. Lincoln, Mama. He 
 Was made of marble ; we are made of dust.' " 
 
 The Nation (Dublin), December 5, 1885. 
 'The titular poem in Mrs. Piatt's collection, "A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles," 
 is an allegory whose lesson is, that in seeking for distant happiness we miss that 
 which is within our grasp. The thought is an old one that has furnished food for 
 meditation to the poet and philosopher since the earliest ages. Paradise itself was 
 not free from these illusory ambitions. Love of change and desire of power and 
 knowledge were what urged our first parents to their great transgression. It is no 
 slight praise of Mrs. Piatt's poem, to say that, on a theme coeval with the world, 
 and that in every generation has found its exponents among the greatest poets, our 
 author has found a new and attractive figure by which to convey the old but ever 
 necessary warning against restlessness and discontent. ... In her description 
 of children and their ways Mrs. Piatt could not be surpassed for accuracy and 
 pathos. With intensified womanly fondness her whole heart goes out to them, as 
 she watches their movements with the deep interest of her loving, sympathetic 
 nature. . . . We would wish, did the limits of our space permit, to consider 
 more at length these extraordinary and, with all their sadness, really beautiful 
 poems, as they are well worthy of minute and careful study." 
 
 The Graphic, January 16, 1886. 
 * It is amply borne out by the present collected edition of her poems, the music 
 and finish of which it is almost superfluous to praise. But, whilst acknowledging 
 the author's great gifts, we cannot join in the chorus of unlimited praise which 
 seems to be the rule in America. She has been compared to Mrs. Browning, and 
 undoubtedly, the influence of the great English poet-woman is most apparent — one 
 most powerful piece, " A Wall Between," is almost worthy of the author of " Bertha 
 in the Lane," . . . The book is a striking one . . . and must not be neglected by 
 any one who would form a just estimate of modern poetic art.' 
 
 The Scotsman, January i, 1886. 
 ' There is a fugitive beauty, a magical suggestiveness about her poetry.' 
 
 The Freeman's Journal, February ig, 1886. 
 ' Her poetry is singularly pretty, tuneful and tender, and many of her pieces, 
 especially the descriptive and narrative ones, rise to the highest level.' 
 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., Publishers, 
 I Paternoster Square, London. 
 
' Quality and 7iot quantity is ivhnt ive ask for from the poet, and S07ne of the 
 loveliest poems in the language are also amo7ig the briefest. Here are two tiny 
 volumes that deserve a word of praise from the critic aud recognition from the 
 public.'— 'London Illustrated News, June 20, iSSs. 
 
 AN IRISH GARLAND. By Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 Small Crown Svo. Cloth 3^. dd. 
 
 Published in the United States by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co. 
 Boston and New York, Price Si. 00. 
 
 The Scotsman, December 26, 1884. 
 ' There is a peculiar charm in the short poem entitled "In Clonmel Parish Church- 
 yard," and another poem, "The Confession of My Neighbour," gives us one of 
 those quick instinctive glimpses into a woman's heart which is apt to escape man's 
 grosser vision.' 
 
 The Academy, March 21, 1885. 
 
 'This is a charming little book, and we could wish it were much longer. Rarely, 
 
 indeed, has so much thought and feeling been put into verse of the secondary order 
 
 with more flow and felicity of diction. . . . We can sincerely recommend Mrs. 
 
 Piatt's pretty, thoughtful, and tuneful volume.' 
 
 The Graphic, July n, 1885. 
 'Pathos distinguishes the best pieces, such as, "On the Pier at Queenstown," 
 and "The Confession of My Neighbour," but there is a vein of quaint humour in 
 places, as in a charming little childlike poem, " Comfort through a Window."' 
 The Saturday Review, July n, 1885. 
 ' Mrs. Piatt's slender volume risks overlooking by its mere slightness. It con- 
 tains one poem, "The Gift of Tears," which for deep-hearted suggestiveness and 
 concentrated pathos might have proceeded from Mrs. Browning. The kinship we 
 claim for it is no light thing, and it is not lightly claimed.' 
 
 The Pilot (Boston, U.S.A.), April 18, 1885. 
 ' Ought to endear her to every Irish Heart.' 
 
 THE CHILDREN OUT-OF-DOORS. 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSES. By Two in One House. 
 
 Small Crown Svo. Clolh, 3^-. 6d. 
 
 Published in the United States by ROBERT CLARKE & CO., Cincinnati,, 
 
 Price ^1.2^. 
 
 The Atlantic Monthly (Boston), April 1885. 
 'The authors of the charming book of verse called "The Children Out-of-Doors " 
 are, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. Though their names do not appear on the title- 
 page, their work is too characteristic to pass unrecognised.' 
 
 DAVID DOUGLAS, Publisher, 
 15 Castle Street, Edinburgh. 
 
IN PRIMROSE TIME— A NEW IRISH GARLAND. 
 By Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 S?nall Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt top, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Published in the United States by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., 
 Boston and New York, Price $1. 
 
 The Saturday Review, May 15, 1886. 
 ' There is a fresh scent of spring and flowers about the poems.' 
 
 The Spectator, September 25, i886. 
 'If we cannot justly say that Mrs. Piatt's tiny volume contains "infinite riches in 
 a little room," we can say that her pages will give pleasure to every reader.' 
 
 The Athenaeum, August 21, 1886. 
 
 ' This latest volume of Mrs. Piatt's • . . has its full measure of that distinctive 
 charm which consists in the blending of genuine pathos with that mirth which has 
 in it something almost sadder — ^just as smiles under certain circumstances may be 
 sadder than tears. . . . Here is a quaint and charming lyric, "The Awakening of 
 the Birds," which is entirely Mrs. Piatt's own, as, indeed, is all she writes. It is 
 not often that one has to regret the brevity of a volume of verse, but such in the 
 present instance is the case.' 
 
 The Graphic, June 26, 1886. 
 
 ' Everything that Mrs. Piatt writes must arrest attention, and these short poems, 
 inspired by her residence in the Sister Isle, are among the most graceful and 
 suggestive of her verses. Throughout, humour, pathos, and tender feeling are 
 quaintly blended, and the result is most agreeable.' 
 
 The Lady, June 17, 1886. 
 
 'Mrs. Piatt's poems are always welcome, and the small volume, " In Primrose 
 Time," contains too few of them.' 
 
 The Glasgow Herald, July 5, 1886. 
 
 ' There is much that is pleasant and bright in "In Primrose Time." . . . Thought- 
 ful readers will find more to please them in Mrs. Piatt's slim, dainty little book than 
 in many more pretentious volumes of verse.' 
 
 The Liverpool Mercury, June 5, 1886. 
 
 'Thevolumemust notbejudged of by its size. _ It may be slender, but what it 
 contains is far from being slight. Every stanza in the opening poem, from which 
 the title of the book is taken, is quite a word-picture, while there is a peculiar fresh- 
 ness and sweetness about the whole. "An Irish Fairy btory," "A Portrait at 
 Youghal," and " The Legend of Monkstown," are all equally admirable in their 
 way ; and there will be few readers, we imagine, who will not desire that each of 
 them had been longer. There is not a poem in this book but is full of womanly 
 instinct, and the quick, sharp insight of a woman's heart and eye. . . . Her 
 present dainty little volume may well endear her to every warm-hearted native of 
 Erin.' 
 
 The Freeman's Journal, June 18, i886. 
 
 ' jNIrs. Piatt's little book, beautifully produced . . . adds one other to the many 
 reasons already piled up for Ireland's love and gratitude to America and its people.' 
 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., Publishers, 
 I Paternoster Square, London. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 016 165 542 9 • 
 
 DALLADSH^^ Piatt 
 
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