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.

THE MARTYR Indicative of the passion of the people on the 15th of April, 1865

Goon Friday was the day
  Of the prodigy and crime,
When they killed him in his pity,
  When they killed him in his prime
Of clemency and calm—­
    When with yearning he was filled
    To redeem the evil-willed,
And, though conqueror, be kind;
  But they killed him in his kindness,
  In their madness and their blindness,
And they killed him from behind.

    There is sobbing of the strong,
      And a pall upon the land;
    But the People in their weeping
      Bare the iron hand;
    Beware the People weeping
      When they bare the iron hand.

He lieth in his blood—­
  The father in his face;
They have killed him, the Forgiver—­
  The Avenger takes his place,
The Avenger wisely stern,
    Who in righteousness shall do
    What the heavens call him to,
And the parricides remand;
  For they killed him in his kindness,
  In their madness and their blindness,
And his blood is on their hand.

    There is sobbing of the strong,
      And a pall upon the land;
    But the People in their weeping
      Bare the iron hand: 
    Beware the People weeping
      When they bare the iron hand.

REBEL COLOR-BEARERS AT SHILOH A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox

The color-bearers facing death
White in the whirling sulphurous wreath,
  Stand boldly out before the line;
Right and left their glances go,
Proud of each other, glorying in their show;
Their battle-flags about them blow,
  And fold them as in flame divine: 
Such living robes are only seen
Round martyrs burning on the green—­
And martyrs for the Wrong have been.