The College Colonel
by
Herman Melville (1819-1891) |
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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. |
By Herman Melville (1819-1891)
Listed July 16, 2013This poem is about a young disabled
Union officer
returning from the Civil War with the
remaining
members of his command that included time in a
Confederate prison ... It is a reflection of the personal
horror of war that goes beyond the varying degrees of
wounds and ultimate sacrifce.
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