Portland Gazette, And Maine Advertiser

FROM THE BOSTON MIRROR.

A young lady who employs her leisure in extracting the superior productions which sometimes appear in the daily newspapers, like flowers in the desert, has permitted the editor to rummage her work basket. Marmontel, in his memoirs, tells a good story of Panard, a French writer to whom he used to apply whenever he needed some choice poetry for his Mercure-- Panard would tell him, rummage my twig box, and Marmontel says that he seldom found the search prodigals. We can pay our fair friend work basket the same compliment. The selections which she has made do not a little honor to her taste; and that our readers may think as we do we publish one of them, taken from an English journal of a remote date.

RESIGNATION

The rose has its thorn: and the violet tho' fair,
From its sweet purple leaves deadly poison supplies;
And when brightest is the sky, oft and gentle the air,
How oft unexpected a storm will arise!
Yet who would thro' fear, pass unnotic'd the rose,
Or shun the perfume of the violet's sweet breath?
Or shrink from the air, while the mild zephyr blows,
Lest a cloud yet unseen, scatter tempest and death?
The thorn of the rose, when 'tis gather'd with care,
Has seldom been known the power to wound;
And the peasant scarce shudders the tempest to bear,
Remembering the verdure it pours on the ground,
The poison conceal'd in the sweet violet's leaves.
Lies harmless till forced into action by art;
And the sorrows of life which mild Patience receives,
Have lost half their power to torture the heart
Bloom on lovely rose: modest violet bloom
Unhurt by the tempest, undrench'd by the rain.
Yet a canker, alas! may thy beauty consume
And scatter thy withering limbs on the plain.
But thy thorn is forgot while we think on thy sweets;
The tempest not dreaded, while clear is the sky;
And the heart which resign'd on calamity meets,
Thinks on blessings receiv'd and represses the sigh.