Knowing they'd met to wreak on her their hatred 'gainst her name,
To doom her to a fearful death, to pangs of fire and flame....
One moment,—then her proud glance fled, her form she humbly bowed,
A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud:
"Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race,
Whom in the far-off Spirit Land I'll soon see face to face!
"Pour down thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise
Above the guileful Iroquois—Thine and our enemies;
And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and free,
That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, O God, with Thee."