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[372] O Hampton, down by the sea!
     What voice is beseeching thee
For the scholar's lowliest place?
     Can this be the voice of him
Who fought on the Big Horn's rim?
     Can this be Rain-in-the-Face?

His war-paint is washed away,
     His hands have forgotten to slay;
He seeks for himself and his race
     The arts of peace and the lore
That give to the skilled hand more
     Than the spoils of war and chase.

O chief of the Christ-like school!
     Can the zeal of thy heart grow cool
When the victor scarred with fight
     Like a child for thy guidance craves,
And the faces of hunters and braves
     Are turning to thee for light?

The hatchet lies overgrown
     With grass by the Yellowstone,
Wind River and Paw of Bear;
     And, in sign that foes are friends,
Each lodge like a peace-pipe sends
     Its smoke in the quiet air.

The hands that have done the wrong
     To right the wronged are strong,
And the voice of a nation saith:
     “Enough of the war of swords,
Enough of the lying words
     And shame of a broken faith!”

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