Page:Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War.djvu/128



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.