There is to whom all things are hard; but industry giveth him a crow-bar,
To force, with groaning labour, the stubborn lock of learning:
And often, when thou lookest on an eye, dim in native dulness,
Little shalt thou wot of the wealth diligence hath gathered to its gaze;
Often, the brow that should be bright with the dormant fire of genius,
Within its ample halls, hath ignorance the tenant.
Yet are not the sons of men cast as in moulds by the lot?
The like in frame and feature have much alike in spirit;
Such a shape hath such a soul, so that a deep discerner
From his make will read the man, and err not far in judgment: