| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 1356. The Forefather |
| | | By Richard Burton |
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| HERE at the country inn, | |
| I lie in my quiet bed, | |
| And the ardent onrush of armies | |
| Throbs and throbs in my head. | |
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| Why, in this calm, sweet place, | 5 |
| Where only silence is heard, | |
| Am I ware of the crash of conflict,— | |
| Is my blood to battle stirred? | |
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| Without, the night is blessed | |
| With the smell of pines, with stars; | 10 |
| Within, is the mood of slumber, | |
| The healing of daytime scars. | |
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| ’T is strange,—yet I am thrall | |
| To epic agonies; | |
| The tumult of myriads dying | 15 |
| Is borne to me on the breeze. | |
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| Mayhap in the long ago | |
| My forefather grim and stark | |
| Stood in some hell of carnage, | |
| Faced forward, fell in the dark; | 20 |
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| And I, who have always known | |
| Peace with her dove-like ways, | |
| Am gripped by his martial spirit | |
| Here in the after days. | |
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| I cannot rightly tell: | 25 |
| I lie, from all stress apart, | |
| And the ardent onrush of armies | |
| Surges hot through my heart. | |
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