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

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

Lean brooding in Libby, there came —  Ah heaven! — what truth to him.