Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By RichardBurton

1356 The Forefather

HERE at the country inn,

I lie in my quiet bed,

And the ardent onrush of armies

Throbs and throbs in my head.

Why, in this calm, sweet place,

Where only silence is heard,

Am I ware of the crash of conflict,—

Is my blood to battle stirred?

Without, the night is blessed

With the smell of pines, with stars;

Within, is the mood of slumber,

The healing of daytime scars.

’T is strange,—yet I am thrall

To epic agonies;

The tumult of myriads dying

Is borne to me on the breeze.

Mayhap in the long ago

My forefather grim and stark

Stood in some hell of carnage,

Faced forward, fell in the dark;

And I, who have always known

Peace with her dove-like ways,

Am gripped by his martial spirit

Here in the after days.

I cannot rightly tell:

I lie, from all stress apart,

And the ardent onrush of armies

Surges hot through my heart.