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CHOICE SELECTIONS

No. 14.

THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY.-O. W. HOLMES

What flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from heaven so freshly born?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land;-
Oh, tell us what its name may be!
Is this the Flower of Liberty?
It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature's far abode

Its tender seed our fathers sowed;

The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,
Till, lo! earth's tyrants shook to see

The full-blown Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite
One mingling flood of braided light,-
The red that fires the Southern rose,
With spotless white from Northern snows,
And, spangled o'er its azure, see

The sister stars of liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

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The blades of heroes fence it round;
Where'er it springs is holy ground;
From tower and dome its glories spread;
It waves where lonely sentries tread;
It makes the land as ocean free,
And plants an empire on the sea!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,
Shall ever float on dome and tower,
To all their heavenly colors true,
In blackening frost or crimson dew,-
And God love us as we love thee,
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!

Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!

FATHER ROACH.-SAMUEL LOVER.

This story is founded on fact, and exhibits a trial of patience that one wonders human nature could support. Passive endurance, we know, is more difficult than active, and that which is recorded in the following tale is strictly true.

Father Roach was a good Irish priest,

Who stood, in his stocking-feet, six feet, at least.
I don't mean to say he'd six feet in his stockings;
He only had two-so leave off with your mockings-
I know that you think I was making a blunder:
If Paddy says lightning, you think he means thunder:
So I'll say, in his boots Father Roach stood to view
A fine, comely man of six feet two.

Oh, a pattern was he of a true Irish priest,

To carve the big goose at the big wedding feast,
To peel the big pratie, and take the big can
(With a very big picture upon it of "Dan"),

To pour out the punch for the bridegroom and bride,
Who sat smiling and blushing on either side,

While their health went around, and the innocent glee
Rang merrily under the old roof-tree.

Father Roach had a very big parish,

By the very big name of Knockdundherumdharish,
With plenty of bog, and with plenty of mountain :
The miles he'd to travel would trouble you countin'.
The duties were heavy to go through them all—
Of the wedding and christ'ning, the mass and sick-call―
Up early, down late, was the good parish pastor:
Few ponies than his were obliged to go faster.

He'd a big pair of boots and a purty big pony,

The boots greased with fat-but the baste was but bony;
For the pride of the flesh was so far from the pastor,
That the baste thought it manners to copy his master:
And, in this imitation, the baste, by degrees,

Would sometimes attempt to go down on his knees:
But in this too-great freedom the Father soon stopped him,
With a dig of the spurs-or, if need be, he whopp'd him.

And Father Roach had a very big stick,

Which could make very thin any crowd he found thick:
In a fair he would rush through the heat of the action,
And scatter, like chaff to the wind, every faction;
If the leaders escaped from the strong holy man,
He made sure to be down on the heads of the clan;
And the Blackfoot who courted each foeman's approach,
Faith, 'tis hot-foot he'd fly from the stout Father Roach.

Father Roach had a very big mouth,

For the brave, broad brogue of the beautiful south;
In saying the mass sure his fine voice was famous,

It would do your heart good just to hear his “OREMUS," Which brought down the broad-shouldered boys to their knees,

As aisy as winter shakes leaves from the trees,
But the rude blast of winter could never approach
The power of the sweet voice of good Father Roach.

Father Roach had a very big heart,

And “a way of his own "--far surpassing all art;
His joke sometimes carried reproof to a clown;

He could chide with a smile--as the thistle sheds down.
He was simple, though sage--he was gentle, yet strong;
When he gave good advice he ne'er made it too long,
But just rolled it up like a snowball and pelted
It into your ear-where, in softness, it melted.

The good Father's heart, in its unworldly blindness,
Overflowed with the milk of real human kindness;
And he gave it so freely, the wonder was great
That it lasted so long--for come early or late,
The unfortunate had it. Now some people deem
This milk is so precious, they keep it for cream;
But that's a mistake-for it spoils by degrees,
And, though exquisite milk, it makes very bad cheese.
You'll pause to inquire, and with wonder, perchance,
How so many perfections are placed, at a glance
In your view, of a poor Irish priest, who was fed
On potatoes, perhaps, or at most griddle bread;
Who ne'er rode in a coach, and whose simple abode
Was a homely thatched cot on a wild mountain road;

To whom dreams of a mitre never yet had occurred;
I will tell you the cause, then--and just in one word.
Father Roach had a MOTHER, who shed
Round the innocent days of his infant bed
The influence holy, which early inclined

In heavenward direction the boy's gentle mind,

And stamped there the lessons its softness could take, Which, strengthened in manhood, no power could shake ;— In vain might the Demon of Darkness approach

The mother-made virtue of good Father Roach!

Father Roach had a brother beside;

His mother's own darling-his brother's fond pride;
Great things were expected from Frank, when the world
Should see his broad banner of talent unfurled.
But fate cut him short-for the murderer's knife
Abridged the young days of Frank's innocent life;
And the mass for his soul was the only approach
To comfort now left for the fond Father Roach.

Father Roach had a penitent grim

Coming, of late, to confession to him;

He was rank in vice-he was steeped in crime.
The reverend Father, in all his time,
So dark a confession had never known
As that now made to th' Eternal Throne;
And when he asked was the catalogue o'er,
The sinner replied-"I've a thrifle more."

"A trifle?-what mean you, dark sinner, say?
A trifle ?--Oh, think of your dying day!
A trifle more?-what more dare meet
The terrible eye of the Judgment-seat

Than all I have heard?-The oath broken-the theft
Of a poor maiden's honor--'twas all she had left!
Say what have you done that worse could be?"
He whispered, "Your brother was murdered by me."

"O God!" groaned the priest, "but the trial is deep,
My own brother's murder a secret to keep,
And minister here to the murderer of mine-
But not my will, O Father, but thine!"

Then the penitent said, “You will not betray?"
'What, I?--thy confessor? Away, away!"

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"Of penance, good Father, what cup shall I drink?"

"Drink the dregs of thy life-live on, and think!"

The hypocrite penitent cunningly found

This means of suppressing suspicion around.

Would the murderer of Frank e'er confess to his brother? He, surely was guiltless, it must be some other.

And years rolled on, and the only record
"Twixt the murderer's hand and the eye of the Lord
Was that brother-by rule of his church decreed
To silent knowledge of guilty deed.

Twenty or more of years passed away,
And locks once raven were growing gray,

And some, whom the Father once christened, now stood,
In the ripened bloom of womanhood,

And held at the font their babies' brow

For the holy sign and the sponsor's vow;

And grandmothers smiled by their wedded girls;
But the eyes once diamond, the teeth once pearls,
The casket of beauty no longer grace;
Memory, fond memory alone, might trace
Through the mist of years a dreamy light
Gleaming afar from the gems once bright.

Oh, Time! how varied is thy sway
'Twixt beauty's growth and dim decay!
By fine degrees, beneath thy hand,
Does latent loveliness expand;

The coral casket richer grows
With its second pearly dower;
The brilliant eye still brighter glows
With the maiden's ripening hour:-

So gifted are ye of Time, fair girls;

But Time while his gift he deals,

From the sunken socket the diamond steals, And takes back to his waves the pearls!

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It was just at this time that a man, rather sallow,
Whose cold eye burned dim in his features of tallow,
Was seen, at a cross-way, to mark the approach
Of the kind-hearted parish-priest, good Father Roach.
A deep salutation he rendered the Father,

Who returned it but coldly, and seemed as he'd rather
Avoid the same track,-so he struck o'er a hill,
But the sallow intruder would follow him still.

"Father," said he, " as I'm going your way,
A word on the road to your reverence I'd say.
Of late so entirely I've altered my plan,
Indeed, holy sir, I'm a different man;

I'm thinking of wedding, and bettering my lot—”
The Father replied, "You had better not."

Indeed, reverend sir, my wild oats are all sown."

"But perhaps," said the priest "they are not yet grown:At least they're not reaped,"-and his look became keener; "And ask not a woman to be your gleaner