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.