When the din of cannonading and the jarring war should cease,
From the lion’s mouth of battle there should flow the sweets of peace.
I should count repose in cities from my seventy years a loss,—
Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged albatross.
I should lay the wire-wrought cable—a ghostly depth below—
Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau;
To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should roam,
Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Christendom.
Oftentimes our stately presence in a tyrant’s port should save
Captives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and the grave;