Is it to be supposed that the lady Eleanor looked more coldly on her lover, now that every difficulty in the way of their union was removed: or that the young heir was less eager to possess himself of his bride, because, by wedding her, he would preserve to her the possessions which otherwise she would lose? Truth compels us to answer both questions in the negative. Scarcely a month had elapsed before the young knight led his blooming cousin to the altar, while his new-found father looked on with a joy which he had thought, as a childless man, he could never more have experienced. And in the proud array of England’s proudest chivalry, which met at Torston castle to celebrate the nuptials, no one demeaned himself more gallantly, or won more triumphs in the lists, than the young knight, now no longer Harry Bowbent, the soldier of fortune, but the heir of the richest earldom in the realm. Clairfait Hall, 1841. * * * * * SIGHS FOR THE UNATTAINABLE. BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. My heart is like the basin deep, From which a fountain’s waters flow— It cannot all its treasures keep, Nor find them welcome when they go. From its recesses dark and drear, There bubble up a thousand springs, Sparkles of hope, and drops of fear, Wild thoughts and strange imaginings. ’Tis full of great and high desires— It swells with wishes proud but vain— And on its altar kindle fires, Whose wasted warmth but nurtures pain. And feelings come, with potent spell, In many a wildering throng combined, Whose force no words can ever tell, Nor language e’er a likeness find. But, ah! how sinks my saddened soul, To know, with all its longings high, It ne’er can reach the tempting goal, Nor to the lofty issue fly. To feel the ardent wish to range The world of thought and fancy o’er, Yet know—oh! contradiction strange! It owns a wing too weak to soar. To have the love of all that’s fair, And beautiful and pure and free, Yet find it choked with weeds of care, Flung from the world’s tempestuous sea. To feel affections warm and high, Boiling within my panting breast, And meet a careless, cold reply, Where sought my weary soul for rest. Oh! give me Nature’s kindly charm, A scene where quiet beauty reigns— Give me a heart with feeling warm, To share my joy, to soothe my pains. And they who love the stormy path Of wild Ambition’s wildered scheme, May revel in its rage and wrath, Most welcome to the bliss they dream. * * * * * THE SYRIAN LETTERS. WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.