But though English are few on the Pincian Hill, One grave politician is lingering still; From Montorio looks down on the Tiber, and thinks That the problem of Rome beats the _crux_ of the Sphinx; That no one can tell us the ultimate bias Of the city of CÆSAR, and PASQUIN, and PIUS; That the milk of the She Wolf meant bloodshed and sorrow; And――will there be milk at the Caffè to-morrow? _The Globe._ London. ――――:o:―――― FROM THE CRADLE. They tell me I was born a long Three months ago, But whether they are right or wrong I hardly know. I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl, But I can cry―― At present I am rather small―― A babe am I. The changing lights of sun and shade Are baby toys; The flowers and birds are not afraid Of baby-boys. Some day I’ll wish that I could be A bird and fly; At present I can’t wish――you see A babe am I. FREDERICK LOCKER. ―――― FROM THE CRADLE. They tell me I was calved a long Three weeks ago; But whether they are right or wrong I hardly know. I sleep, I suck, I cannot bawl, But I can cry; At present I am rather small―― A calf am I. With changing food from swede to blade, My mammy toys, Nor she nor I are yet afraid Of butcher-boys. Some day I’ll wish that I could be A bird, and fly. At present I can’t wish, you see―― A calf am I. _Funny Folks_, May 15, 1880. ――――:o:―――― A GALLERY OF FAIR WOMEN. _Mrs. Golightly._ Her piles of hair are ultra-blonde; Her tints are ultra-splendid; Her eyes are shallow, brilliant, fond, And belladonna――friended. An air of langorous command About her always lingers. She has a very shapely hand, With long, bejewelled fingers. Her foot is neat――not oversmall, But exquisitely booted. Her figure, faulty after all, Is admirably suited. Her teeth are good, and if her lip Glow with a warmer crimson Than lovers care to see or sip, Why, blame her woman, Simson. A bishop’s daughter, born to dare, She made a reckless marriage. She has a cottage in Mayfair, No children, and a carriage, And is an universal pet, An innocent Bohemian, A Dian feigning to forget The legalised Endymion. With many a bachelor she plays A dainty little whimsy, Like Musset’s acts, or Locker’s lays, Brief, elegant, and flimsy. She loves to woo, to win, to part; Forsaken and forsaking, Her heart――she says she has a heart―― Will bear a deal of breaking. She shines in all things strange and new―― Plays, pictures, Prince’s, polo. She gives the odds on either Blue, She never answers “Nolo.” To-day she raves of Rubinstein, To-morrow of Albani; To-day “Aïda” is divine, To-morrow “Don Giovanni.”