There is a courage, a majestic thing
    That springs forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,
    Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known,
And all the threatening future yet may bring;
Crowned with the helmet of great suffering,
    Serene with that grand strength by martyrs shown,
    When at the stake they die and make no moan,
And even as the flames leap up are heard to sing.

A courage so sublime and unafraid,
    It wears its sorrows like a coat of mail;
And Fate, the archer, passes by dismayed,
    Knowing his best barbed arrows needs must fail
To pierce a soul so armoured and arrayed
    That Death himself might look on it and quail.