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 armored and arrayed
  That Death himself might look on it and quail.