And Pocahontas raised her head,
A wide plain stretched before her
Where the forest once had stood.
And the pale-faces of your people
Were as many as the sands of the sea.
Far away where the wintry sun
Sinks into its bed to rest,
There the diminished tribes of my people
Wandered alone and forsaken.”
“Truly a strange dream, my child,” Smith slowly replied. “The Great Spirit sends me no answer. We must look to the coming years for its meaning. Of one thing I am certain, the God of the white man has you in His keeping. No harm shall come to Pocahontas, His ministering angel.”