The College Colonel.

He rides at their head;

A crutch by his saddle just slants in view,

One slung arm is 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 lones his brow;

He has lived a thousand years

Compressed in battle's pains and prayers,

Marches and watches slow.

There are welcoming shouts, 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 disclaimed.

But all through the Seven Day's 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.