"Master, it was long ago you rode me; Master, you were careful of me then; Never was there anyone bestrode me Equal to my master among men. When we flew the hedge and ditch together-- '_Good lass!_'--how it made me prick my ear! Horn and hound, bright steel and polished leather, Long ago--if you but saw me here!" _Pitiless wind and heaving surge, A fevered foot and a running sore, The siren's shriek for a funeral dirge, And a hobble to death on the further shore._ "Master, it was long ago you bought me; Master, you were proud to see me strain, Matching all my might as nature taught me With the loaded burden of the wain. When I drew the harvest waggon single-- '_Good lad!_'--how I turned my head to see! Chain and hames and brasses all a-jingle, Long ago--do you remember me?" _Pitiless surge and driving hail, A ship a-roll in a dazing roar, A shoulder split on an iron rail, And a hobble to death on the further shore._ "Master, you were saddened when we parted, Begged of my new master to be kind; Divers owners since and divers-hearted Leave me old and weary, lame and blind. Voices in the tempest passing over-- '_Good lass!_'--I can scarcely turn my head. Oats and deep-strewn stall and rack of clover, Long ago--and oh that I were dead!" _Piteous fate--too long to live, Piteous end for a friend of yore; Was it too much of a boon to give A merciful death on the nearer shore?_ * * * * * THE NEW "WHITE HOPE." "'I passed through several drawing-rooms,' she says. 'I saw ladies who were so shy that they couldn't utter a word before me, but who suddenly put a ribbon round my wrist to measure it'--you know, of course, by reputation Polaire's 15-inch wrist."--_Sunday Chronicle._ If the biceps is in proportion, Bandsman BLAKE should tremble. * * * * * AT THE PLAY. "The Darling of the Gods."