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With their weapons and their war-gear,
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Painted like the leaves of Autumn,
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Painted like the sky of morning,
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Wildly glaring at each other;
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In their faces stern defiance,
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In their hearts the feuds of ages,
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The hereditary hatred,
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The ancestral thirst of vengeance.
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Gitche Manito, the mighty,
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The creator of the nations,
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Looked upon them with compassion,
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With paternal love and pity;
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Looked upon their wrath and wrangling
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But as quarrels among children,
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But as feuds and fights of children!
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Over them he stretched his right hand,
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To subdue their stubborn natures,
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To allay their thirst and fever,
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By the shadow of his right hand;
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Spake to them with voice majestic
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As the sound of far-off waters,
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Falling into deep abysses,
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Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:
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"O my children! my poor children!
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Listen to the words of wisdom,
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Listen to the words of warning,
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From the lips of the Great Spirit,
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From the Master of Life, who made you!
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"I have given you lands to hunt in,
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I have given you streams to fish in,
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I have given you bear and bison,
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I have given you roe and reindeer,
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I have given you brant and beaver,
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Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl,
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Filled the rivers full of fishes:
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Why then are you not contented?
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Why then will you hunt each other?
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"I am weary of your quarrels,
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Weary of your wars and bloodshed,
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Weary of your prayers for vengeance,
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Of your wranglings and dissensions;
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All your strength is in your union,
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All your danger is in discord;
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Therefore be at peace henceforward,
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And as brothers live together.
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"I will send a Prophet to you,
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A Deliverer of the nations,
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Who shall guide you and shall teach you,
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Who shall toil and suffer with you.
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If you listen to his counsels,
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You will multiply and prosper;
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If his warnings pass unheeded,
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You will fade away and perish!
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"Bathe now in the stream before you,
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Wash the war-paint from your faces,
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Wash the blood-stains from your fingers,
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Bury your war-clubs and your weapons,
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Break the red stone from this quarry,
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Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes,
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Take the reeds that grow beside you,
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Deck them with your brightest feathers,
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Smoke the calumet together,
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And as brothers live henceforward!"
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Then upon the ground the warriors
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Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin,
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Threw their weapons and their war-gear,
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Leaped into the rushing river,
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Washed the war-paint from their faces.
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Clear above them flowed the water,
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Clear and limpid from the footprints
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Of the Master of Life descending;
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Dark below them flowed the water,
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Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson,
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As if blood were mingled with it!
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From the river came the warriors,
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Clean and washed from all their war-paint;
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On the banks their clubs they buried,
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Buried all their warlike weapons.
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Gitche Manito, the mighty,
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The Great Spirit, the creator,
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Smiled upon his helpless children!
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And in silence all the warriors
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Broke the red stone of the quarry,
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Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes,
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Broke the long reeds by the river,
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Decked them with their brightest feathers,
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And departed each one homeward,
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While the Master of Life, ascending,
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Through the opening of cloud-curtains,
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Through the doorways of the heaven,
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Vanished from before their faces,
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In the smoke that rolled around him,
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Cried the warriors, cried the old men,
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When he came in triumph homeward
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With the sacred Belt of Wampum,
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From the regions of the North-Wind,
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From the kingdom of Wabasso,
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From the land of the White Rabbit.
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He had stolen the Belt of Wampum
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From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa,
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