Love brought no perch on which to rest, And Lilla had not one to give him; And now the thought her soul distressed— What should she do?—where should she leave him? Love maddens to be thus half caught, His struggle Lilla’s pain increases; “He’ll fly—he’ll fly away!” she thought, “Or beat himself and wings to pieces. “His wings! why them I do not want, The restless things make all this pother!” Love tries to fly, but finds he can’t, And nestles near her like a brother. _Plumeless_, we call him Friendship now; Love smiles at acting such a part— But what cares he for lover’s vow While thus _perdu_ near Lilla’s heart? * * * * * SPECULATION: OR DYSPEPSIA CURED. BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. When the mind’s free the body’s delicate. _Lear._ The romantic traveler who enters Italy at Leghorn, cannot but feel disappointed. No antiquated repose broods, like a dream, over the scene; no architectural wonders arrest the eye. The quays present the same bustle and motley groups observable in every commercial town; and were it not for the galley slaves, whose fetters clank in the thoroughfares, and the admirable bronze group, by Pietro Tacco, around the statue of Ferdinand I., it would be difficult to point out any distinctive feature amid the commonplace associations of the spot. To a stranger’s eye, however, the principal street affords many objects of diversion. The variety of costume and physiognomy is striking in a place where pilgrims and merchants, Turks and Jews, burly friars and delicate invalids are promiscuously clustered; and one cannot long gaze from an adjacent balcony, without discovering some novel specimen of humanity. A more secluded and melancholy resort is the English burying-ground, where hours may be mused away in perusing the inscriptions that commemorate the death of those who breathed their last far from country and home. The cemeteries devoted to foreign sepulture, near some of the Italian cities, are quite impressive in their isolated beauty. There, in the language of a distant country, we read of the young artist suddenly cut off at the dawn of his career, and placed away with a fair monument to guard his memory, by his sorrowful associates, who long since have joined their distant kindred. Another stone marks the crushed hopes of children who brought their dying mother to this clime in the vain expectation to see her revive. Names, too, not unknown to fame, grace these snowy tablets—the last and affecting memorials of departed genius. Monte Nero is an agreeable retreat in the vicinity where the Italians make their _villeggiatura_, and the foreigners ride in the summer evenings, to inhale the cheering breeze from the sea. Leghorn was