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[45] The stranger treads his native soil.
     And pleads, with zeal unfelt before,
The honest right of British toil,
     The claim of England's poor.

Before him time-wrought barriers fall,
     Old fears subside, old hatreds melt,
And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall,
     The Saxon greets the Celt.

The yeoman on the Scottish lines,
     The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim,
The delver in the Cornwall mines,
     Look up with hope to him.

Swart smiters of the glowing steel,
     Dark feeders of the forge's flame,
Pale watchers at the loom and wheel,
     Repeat his honored name.

And thus the influence of that hour
     Of converse on Rhode Island's strand
Lives in the calm, resistless power
     Which moves our fatherland.

God blesses still the generous thought,
     And still the fitting word He speeds
And Truth, at His requiring taught,
     He quickens into deeds.

Where is the victory of the grave?
     What dust upon the spirit lies?
God keeps the sacred life he gave,—
     The prophet never dies!


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