The College Colonel

He rides at their head;

  A crutch by his saddle just slants in view,

One slung arm in splints, you see,

  Yet he guides his strong steed — how coldly too.

He brings his regiment home —

  Not as they filed two years before,

But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn,

Like castaway sailors, who — stunned

    By the surf's loud roar,

  Their mates dragged back and seen no more —

Again and again breast the surge,

  And at last crawl, spent, to shore.

A still rigidity and pale —

  An Indian aloofness lines his brow;

He has lived a thousand years

Compressed in battle's pains and prayers,

  Marches and watches slow.

There are welcoming shots, and flags;

  Old men off hat to the Boy,

Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet,

  But to him — there comes alloy.

It is not that a leg is lost,

  It is not that an arm is maimed,

It is not that the fever has racked —

  Self he has long since disclaimed.

But all through the Seven Days' Fight,

  And deep in the Wilderness grim,

And in the field-hospital tent,

  And Petersburg crater, and dim

Lean brooding in Libby, there came —

  Ah heaven! — what truth to him.