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Ojistoh, I am she, the wife

Of him whose name breathes bravery and life

And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.

I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he

Is land, and lake, and sky—and soul to me.

Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,

Him who had flung their warriors into graves,

Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,

Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steel

To all—save me, Ojistoh, chosen wife

Of my great Mohawk, white star of his life.

Ah! but they hated him, and councilled long

With subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;

How to avenge their dead, and strike him where

His pride was highest, and his fame most fair.

Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:

They dared no war-path since my Mohawk came

With ashen bow, and flinten arrow-head

To pierce their craven bodies; but their dead

Must be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walk

In day and meet his deadly tomahawk;

They dared not face his fearless scalping knife;

So—Niyoh! —then they thought of me, his wife.