# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Resurrection (Adamson)

RESURRECTION
HE looked back down the long lane of the years— A fleeting, over-shoulder, furtive glance Of eyes askance, Eyes of a fugitive from doubts and fears Clouding the vision. Yet for self-esteem The world would offer scaffold and roof-beam, House of two tiers, A habitation meet for the elect. For they were sober levels that he trod With genial nod For fellow-journey men; he never wrecked Laughter and banter breaking from a lip With chill and frost of reticence; the grip, Free and unchecked, Of friendliness had ever met the hand Outstretched to his; and in no woman's heart The sting and dart Of shame for rifled innocence had banned Him from the fold and fellowship of the clean. Sane and serene, He'd passed the milestones of the beaten track Leaving remorse few memories to rack; With ordered rhythm and unjostled pace For forty years he'd run an even race. And yet—and yet—he shunned the retrospect; Though it was decked With the accomplishments of a career, No sign was there Nor echo of the battle where strong men Fight the fierce fight and feel the jarring steel, Burst through the battlements, and rock and reel In the red pen Of blood and dust and rage and victory, He'd lit no beacon on a storm-tossed sea, Called no deep music from a great machine; He'd never seen The steel hull shearing sea-cliffs at his will, Felt no long silence follow his "Be still!"
​Squarely he turned about and saw laid bare The record where The tale of his long years was plainly writ: The schooldays shaped by narrow pedagogues, The ruddy flares of crackling Christmas logs, Moments of grit When he had rounded rocks and raced the tide Shoreward again; had felt the hot sand slide Beneath his feet where lucent shallows broke And stayed his stroke. Transcendent moments when an artist sang A song of rapture welling from the heart, A song of bitterness when no tears start; When rafters rang To trumpet-calls; when a great organ filled The nave and mellowed dome and flute-tones thrilled The sanctuary; When a great orator ruffled the sea Of human passion; when the morning flood Stirred his young blood And the great Alpine peaks seemed like to pierce The fragile curtains of his eyes, so fierce The instancy Of their white mantle 'gainst the azure sky.
The light of revelation lit the page, Yet with dull rage He heard the bitter verdict of his soul: Down the long gamut of occasions great, Through lack of valour or edict of fate, To him the rôle Of onlooker had fall'n. The years had flown And left the lonely critic to bemoan The hollow halls of ease and competence, The barrier-fence Raised high against the arena and the fray. His cheek burned as the vision of the day When he had lost the woman newly-won Blurred the bright sun, ​And in the fog he was again marooned, Felt the throb start again within the wound, The mortal thrust that shattered his day-dream.
Then a cold gleam Lit the high arch of intellectual days Whence solace came, borne on the thin clear rays Of truth discovered. The unfurrowed field To him did yield A harvest of essentials, winnowings Which only went to plenish his wide store And soon were dead-sea fruit, withered and hoar, The phantom things That unto reverie a tribute brought, Yet like a miser's treasures were not wrought Into a leaven for the heart and mind Of poor and blind.
"Self, Self the centre and circumference!" The judgment ran; he cursed the impotence That like a palsy held him fast enthralled— Then England called! From every arch adown the cloistered years The echo rang reverberate from the tiers That seemed to rise exultant at the cry: "England or die!" He broke the barrier and found the road, Imperious impulse spurred him like a goad, A youth was at his side, but both were dumb, They heard the drum! It tuned the tread of his responsive feet, Within his heart responsive echoes beat, To left, to right, behind, before, the cry "England or die!" Rose on the night. They marched now four abreast, A full score deep, and ever forward pressed; The rain streamed from above, splashed from below, But all aglow, Linked by one purpose, forged by one intent, The phalanx marched, their goal the battlement.
​They left him lean, Those strenuous days, but oh! they left him clean And tingling with the glow of primal joys: Rough jests of boys, The taste of bread, the shelter of the tent, The marching song, the couch beneath the stars, The laugh triumphant over shocks and jars. Rent after rent Gaped in the cloak of shibboleths effete, Blasts of strong passion through the tatters beat, Till the last remnant to the wind was borne, And one grey morn He rose in fibred panoply. At noon They numbered off the men of his platoon; And when they rose to drink to him that night, The toast "The fight!" He drained his glass, then lifted it on high: "England or die!"
Oh! see them now as they swing billetwards, Out of the dusk into the growing light, At the grey end of a long Flanders night; Each face accords In colour with the dawn, but the tired eyes Are eyes of veterans; rhythmic beat Braces the loins, lightens the weary feet; Song-snatches rise And fall down the loose files; one lifts his head To meet the morn but communes with the dead— His comrade dead, filling a shallow grave Beneath the nave Of low grey skies—curses the shrapnel death, Catches the chorus with his shuddering breath, Swings to the march again. There in the rear, Last to appear The leader comes, a stripling at his side; The alchemy of night has decked his age With a strange garb of youth; but to assuage Time's hungry tide The stripling's face carries the mask of years; ​He only hears The haunting cadence of his leader's words That touch the chords Of memory: Perdita's daffodils; Juliet's lark that she so fain would dress In notes of nightingale; the wistfulness Of Devon hills; The sob of misty seas; the fringe of foam Caressing all the contours of a bay; The soft green radiance at the close of day; The lights of home— Strange children of the murky Flanders dawn! A motor horn Rends the frail gossamer of reverie: The platoon stiffens, his voice calls a halt, The car purrs motionless: "Any assault?" "None!" the reply; The car glides on, the tramp of the platoon Beats out again beneath the morning moon.
He looked down on his dead: the sacrifice Of gallant hearts stricken before the shrine Of England and of home; saw the red wine, Wine beyond price, The blood of England's sons so freely given; Counted his living comrades, nine in all— Twenty had answered death's high bugle-call— And three shot-riven; Swore he would hold the rampart until day— The sun had set on their resplendent hour— Read grim resolve, determination dour, Lust for the fray In every eye, in every countenance. The radiance Of a clear moonlit summer sky came down To bless their fortitude, and all night long The mantle lay upon the sleeping throng; Clenched fist and frown, Arrested gesture—every lineament Of horror pent ​Within the frozen statuary of death, Was softened by that radiant 'whelming flood. Alert and silent the thin outpost stood; The deep-drawn breath Told how the tide of memory ebbed and flowed, And each heart glowed Whene'er they heard him pass from post to post, A word of home and England on his lip, The seal and guerdon of their comradeship, And fear was lost In the assurance speaking in his eyes: "He lives who dies!"
Just before dawn a cloud-bank drew the moon Behind her ramparts; the black pall of night Fell on the slope; hope vanished with the light; They listened; soon A stone dislodged the climbing feet betrayed, They searched the darkness with a fusillade; Then to the stripling: "You will keep guard here; I'll wait them there," The leader whispered, pointing with his sword Out where a furrow folded in its dead, Where a long furrow drank the stains of red— And disappeared Over the looming parapet. A breeze Ruffled the silence and died down again. Would he assail dark destiny in vain? ...... The nine hearts freeze At a low gurgling sob of agony, But flutter free As one—two—three revolver shots ring out— A stifled shout, A scuffle and a groan—and lo! the light Returns as at the call of destiny: Down the white slope the stumbling foemen flee In piteous plight— Nine rifles rattle forth, nine voices cheer, ​And from the rear A distant echo comes—they turn to see A khaki company stream through the dawn— Relief and victory with day new-born! But where is he? They call—he comes; across the open space He dashes; ere he gains the rampart's face A volley breaks—he totters through the gap— The stripling lays him riddled 'gainst the sap. ...... "The dawn's on Devon hills!" the dry lips sighed, "The hills of home!" . . .
John Ernest Adamson