large/7841/battle-pieces_aspects_war_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/battle-pieces_33_melville_64kb_3
large/7841/battle-pieces_aspects_war_1501_librivox_64kb_mp3/battle-pieces_33_melville_64kb
English
7841
But all through the Seven Day's 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. 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 THE LIBBY THERE CAME AH HEAVEN WHAT TRUTH TO HIM
y throngs that press, Till forth from the throngs they bear him dead-- Dead in his meagreness. The College Colonel. 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. DODORK BY CLAIR TERNEY AT CLARK UNIVERSITY RECORDED NOVEMBER OF TWO THOUSAND TWELVE WORD PRESS DOT CLARK EU D E D U SLASH M E N E U M A N SLASHLEY BRAVOX 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 SERF'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 STILLER RIGIDITY AND PALE AN INDIAN ALOOFNESS LOANS HIS BROW HE HAS LIVED A THOUSAND YEARS COMPRESSED IN BATTLES 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
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