Not oft, nor till ages of suns and storms
Have wrought with the verdure in earthly forms,
Are these turn’d into stone, no more to decay.
But often on earth
The owners of worth
That men image in marble grow stony, that way.
Ah, man, whom in hardship you might make a friend
And turn from—beware, beware in the end,
Lest he whom you harden grow hard unto you.
O world, when ready your hero to cheer,