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; And hands are clinched, and cheeks are pale, A thousand hands, with busy toil, Survey the crowds who there await, Turn to yon open tent, and see Where, drunk with youth and Burgundy, Reclines, his midnight revel o'er, The beau of battle, Theodore. Before him, on his desk, he lays The billet-doux of other days; And while he reads his fancy lingers On those white hands and witching fingers That traced the darling signatures— |