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.