The wave-worn cavern sends Hoarse echoes from the deep, And the patriot call is heard afar From every giant steep! And the young hearts glow with the sacred fires That burned in the breasts of their gallant sires. The glittering pageant's past, But martial forms are seen, With bounding step and eagle glance, Careering o'er the green; And lovely woman by their side, With her blushing cheek and her eye of pride. Sunset upon the wave, Its burnished splendours pour, And the bird-like bark with its pinions sweeps Like an arrow from the shore! There are golden locks in the sunbeam, fanned On the mirrored stream by the breezes bland. They have passed like shadows by That fade in the morning beam, And the sylph-like form, and the laughing eye, Are remembered like a dream; But memory's sun shall set in night Ere my soul forget those forms of light. THANKSGIVING AFTER ESCAPE FROM INDIAN PERILS. BY MRS. ANNE E. BLEECKER.--1778. Alas! my fond inquiring soul, Doomed in suspense to mourn, Now let thy moments calmly roll, Now let thy peace return. Why should'st thou let a doubt disturb Thy hopes which daily rise, And urge thee on to trust his word, Who built and rules the skies? When Murder sent her hopeless cries, More dreadful through the gloom, And kindling flames did round thee rise, Deep harvests to consume. Who was it led thee through the wood, And o'er the ensanguined plain, Unseen by ambushed sons of blood, Who track'd thy steps in vain. 'Twas pitying Heaven that check'd my tears, And bade my infants play, To give an opiate to my fears And cheer the lonely way. And in the doubly dreadful night, When my Abella died, When horror-struck--detesting light, I sunk down by her side; When winged for flight my spirit stood, With this fond thought beguiled, To lead my charmer to her God, And there to claim my child. Again his mercy o'er my breast Effus'd the breath of peace, Subsiding passion sunk to rest, He bade the tempest cease. Oh, let me ever, ever praise Such undeserved care, Though languid may appear my lays, At least they are sincere. It is my joy that thou art God, Eternal and supreme; Rise, Nature--hail the power aloud, From whom Creation came. BALLAD. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. "La rose cueillie et le coeur gagné ne plaisent qu'un jour." The maiden sat at her busy wheel, Her heart was light and free, And ever in cheerful song broke forth Her bosom's harmless glee. Her song was in mockery of love, And oft I heard her say, "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, Can charm but for a day."