| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 384. The College Colonel |
| | | By Herman Melville |
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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. | |
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| He brings his regiment home, | 5 |
| 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,— | 10 |
| Again and again breast the surge, | |
| And at last crawl, spent, to shore. | |
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| A still rigidity and pale, | |
| An Indian aloofness, lones his brow; | |
| He has lived a thousand years | 15 |
| Compressed in battle’s pains and prayers, | |
| Marches and watches slow. | |
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| There are welcoming shouts and flags; | |
| Old men off hat to the Boy, | |
| Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet, | 20 |
| But to him—there comes alloy. | |
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| 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. | 25 |
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| 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— | 30 |
| Ah heaven!—what truth to him! | |
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