TRUE FAME.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTRY'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON.

WHO hath not hoped for immortality?

And what is immortality?-to be

Awhile remembered, when the heart is cold,

And o'er the nerveless hand bath crept the mould

Of the damp sepulchre? to be heralded

By the loud trump of Fame, when life hath fled,

Until even its echo hath gone past

And perished in the abyss of ages? No!

It is to live while memory shall last,

Shrined deep within the heart-the ceaseless flow

Of centuries only adding to the sum

Of the world's gratitude! 'tis to become
The embodied soul of genius!-such a one,

As the eye gazeth on-even WASHINGTON.

WILLIAM G. CROSBY.

HON. WILLIAM G. CROSBY, the present Whig Governor of this State, is a native of the city of Belfast, where he now resides, engaged in the practice of law. He is an alumnus of Bowdoin College and one of the 'Bowdoin Poets,' spoken of in our sketch of Mr. Weston. While a member of this institution he devoted himself quite successfully to the Muses, and we believe published a small volume of poems, although he writes us that he never meets any of his old productions without a strong desire to disclaim their authorship, and cast them into oblivion. Notwithstanding this, we feel obliged, owing to the superior merit of his poetry, and the prominent positions which he has occupied in the literary world, to place him among the Native Poets of Maine. Of late years, he has written but very little, and that prose, although his poetry is of a higher order, and is better calculated to show the true character and depth of his talent.

The works to which Mr. Crosby contributed, when devoting his unoccupied moments to literary recreation, were of the most popular kind then published. 'Among others, were 'The Token,' a Boston Annual, edited by Nathaniel P. Willis, and other distinguished literary men. 'The Legendary,' a work illustrating scenes, manners, and legends of our country, and of which we have alluded to more fully in our other sketches; and the Bowdoin Poets.' He is introduced into 'Specimens of American Poetry,' a work in three volumes, edited by Samuel Kettell, and published by S. G. Goodrich & Co., Boston, in 1829. In the Biographical Sketch,' of a few lines only, the editor introduces him as the author of Poetical Illustrations of the Atheneum Gallery, besides various other performances in verse.' The poem

given in that work as a specimen of Mr. Crosby's poetry,was one entitled, 'To a Lady, with a Withered Leaf,' which we have included in this volume.

For several years Mr. Crosby has been engaged in political matters, and filled several offices of importance and trust connected with the affairs of State and public movements. It cannot be expected that a man, however gifted and however highly and delicately cultivated his mind may be, who goes into the arena of political strife, amid its calumnies, intrigues, and debasing influences, can retain, to any honorable extent a companionship with the Muse. A man whose mind has been cultivated, as his has been, should find a sphere of greater usefulness far removed from such scenes, where he could do honor to himself, to his friends, and to the noble gifts which nature has endowed him with. How much happier, and more peacefully would his pathway down the slope of declining years be made, and how much more calmly and resignedly would he go down into his grave, over which the voice of calumny, enmity, and political wrongs would never be breathed.

TELLING THE DREAM.

'Tis a most beauteous night! Ianthe, come !

Wilt thou walk forth?

Oh! I am sick at heart

Of this gay revelry. Its busy hum

Falls heavy on mine ear.

I cannot laugh

With these light-hearted laughers, and mine eye

Is wearied with gazing,

Thy mantle round thee.

Let me fling

Is't not beautiful!

The radiance of this starry sky? How pale,
And lustreless are all we've left behind,
Compared with its bright jewelry! Perchance
Chaste Dian holds her festival to-night.
See, how she smiles! On such an eve as this,
So runs the tale, she left her home in heaven,
Lured thence to meet upon the Latmian hill
Her shepherd boy, and placed upon his lips
The kiss of immortality! Poor youth!
He only dreamed of bliss. On such a night,
The love-crazed Sappho poured her latest song

Upon Leucate's height, and swan-like died.

She dreamed but dreamed too madly! And, perchance, On such a night, the Roman Antony

Threw off the crown and purple, and gave up

Glory, dominion for a wanton's smile!

He was a dreaming madman — was he not,
Ianthe, thus to fling his all away,

For woman's smile?

Come, rest within this bower,

And I will tell thee, though thy lips may chide,

And call me Dreaming Boy.' Yes, I have dreamed
Perchance am dreaming now; but thou shalt hear:

I had lain down to slumber on a bank
Sprinkled with violets. The plaintive moan
Of far-off waters, mingling with the hum
Of thousand busy insects, gathering in
Each its own store of sweets, filling the air
With melody, spread its sweet influence

O'er my lulled senses, and methought that I

Was wandering here, with thee! 'Twas strange, Ianthe!
But then the time, the place, so like to this,

I cannot but remember. 'Twas a night
Like this, save that it wore the loveliness

And richness of a dream o'er all its charms.

The sporting moonbeams twined themselves around
The leaves and branches of the o'erhanging trees,
Like ivy round the mouldering monument-
Half seen, half hid - and from their azure depths,
The stars were looking out with eyes that watch
O'er Nature's slumbering. We had left the hall
To lighter hearts, and arm in arm had strayed
Through the long winding mazes of the grove,
Until, at length, we reached this bower. One beam
Of moonlight, streaming through its trellised roof,
Fell on thy cheek; methought it never looked