Strong of faith in that mute umpire, some have conquered, and withstood
All the pangs of long endurance, the dear pains of fortitude;
Felt a harsh misapprehension gall the wounds of martyrdom;
In the present rancor measured even the scorn of days to come;
Known that never should the whiteness of their virtue shine revealed,
Never should the truer Future rub the tarnish from the shield.
That diviner abnegation hath not yet been asked of thee:
Art thou able to attain it, if perchance it were to be?
O, our feeble tests of greatness! Look for one so calm of soul
As to take the even chalice of his life and drink the whole.