Alfred Tennyson 
The Princess 

‚O miracle of women, ‚ said the book, ‚O noble heart who, being strait-besieged By this wild king to force her to his wish, Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunned a soldier’s death, But now when all was lost or seemed as lost—Her stature more than mortal in the burst Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire—Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, And, falling on them like a thunderbolt, She trampled some beneath her horses‘ heels, And some were whelmed with missiles of the wall, And some were pushed with lances from the rock, And part were drowned within the whirling brook:O miracle of noble womanhood!‘