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 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. The Eagle of the Blue.[12] Aloft he guards the starry folds Who is the brother of the star; The bird whose joy is in the wind Exultleth in the war. No painted plume--a sober hue, His beauty is his power; That eager calm of gaze intent Foresees the Sibyl’s hour. Austere, he crowns the swaying perch, Flapped by the angry flag; The hurricane from the battery sings, But his claw has known the crag. Amid the scream of shells, his scream Runs shrilling; and the glare Of eyes that brave the blinding sun The vollied flame can bear. The pride of quenchless strength is his-- Strength which, though chained, avails; The very rebel looks and thrills-- The anchored Emblem hails. Though scarred in many a furious fray, No deadly hurt he knew; Well may we think his years are charmed-- The Eagle of the Blue. A Dirge for McPherson,[13] Killed in front of Atlanta. (July, 1864.) Arms reversed and banners craped-- Muffled drums; Snowy horses sable-draped-- McPherson comes. _But, tell us, shall we know him more, Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?_ Brave the sword upon the pall-- A gleam in gloom; So a bright name lighteth all McPherson’s doom. Bear him through the chapel-door-- Let priest in stole Pace before the warrior Who led. Bell--toll! Lay him down within the nave, The Lesson read-- Man is noble, man is brave, But man’s--a weed. Take him up again and wend Graveward, nor weep: There’s a trumpet that shall rend This Soldier’s sleep. Pass the ropes the coffin round, And let descend; Prayer and volley--let it sound McPherson’s end. _True fame is his, for life is o’er-- Sarpedon of the mighty war._ At the Cannon’s Mouth. Destruction of the Ram Albermarle by the Torpedo-Launch. (October, 1864.)