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 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.