The Unknown Ones (From Gazette & Herald)

The Unknown Ones

It is not you, the splendid saints and heroes,

Honours in window, stone and oft-repeated story,

Exalted, pegged in form, appointed veneration,

Declared to all yet strange, aloof in well-secured glory;

It is not you, however harsh your trial,

However shyly you picked up fate's gauntlet, wildly thrown,

Though rare your courage, meek your spirit,

And richly warranted the pedestals you own.

It is not you who silently will steal upon my weakness,

To gently mock or spur when unfulfilled the dream,

Not you who shame with soft reproach the new surrender,

Or prick the puffed-up crust of self-allured esteem.

Nor is it you, the humble but remembered,

Who in some common cause together died,

Your memory lives, a seeping through of our awareness,

Your names in countless tablets rest in pride.

But it is you, that great grey host of uncommemorated Martyrs,

You who were crumbled in some tragic, private war,

Who, keeping faith, of sorts, went down in lonely torment,

And come, uprising now to force my conscience door.

'Was it for naught our quiet submergence?'

Anonymous, the whispered questioning returns, returns again,

A hushed, insistent murmuring from oblivion,

"Was it then, all in vain? In vain? In vain?"

Submitted by J S Scruton,

Malton

Updated: 10:26 Wednesday, March 12, 2003