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Part Fourteenth.



No. 14.


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 hud,
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!


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 LOVEB. 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 mockingsI 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 allOf the wedding and christ’ning, the mass and sick-callUp 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

As aisy as winter shakes leaves from the trees;
But the ride 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 joko 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;

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