When navies are forgotten
And fleets are useless things,
When the dove shall warm her bosom
Beneath the eagle's wings, —
When memory of battles
At last is strange and old,
When nations have one banner
And creeds have found one fold, —
When the Hand that sprinkles midnight
With its powdered drift of suns
Has hushed this tiny tumult
Of sects and swords and guns, —
Then hate's last note of discord
In all God's worlds shall cease,
In the conquest which is service,
In the victory which is peace!
In "Love Triumphant."
