Lord Alfred Tennyson

The old order changeth, yielding place to new.

Sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon, and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

The war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd in the parliament of man, the federation of the world.