POEMS BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. THE EVE OF BATTLE. "It is not yet near day. Come, go with me; Shakspeare. THE night comes on, and o'er the field The moon shines bright on helm and shield; But there are many on that plain That shall not see her light again; She looks serene on countless bands Of mailed breasts and steel-bound hands; And shows a thousand faces there A lowering sound of doubt and fear Breaks sudden on the startled ear, And hands are clench'd, and cheeks are pale, And from bright blade and ringing mail A thousand hands, with busy toil, Survey the crowds who there await, Turn to yon open tent, and see And while he reads, his fancy lingers On those white hands and witching fingers That traced the darling signatures The "Yours till death," and "Truly yours:" And as by turns they meet his eye, He looks, and laughs, and throws them by, Look yonder!-on the dewy sward. On mirth and muses, shot and shells; As if it felt to-morrow's blows; Anticipation fires his brain With fights unfought, unslaughtered slain; And on the fray that is to be Comes forth a Dirge or Elegy; |