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Poem by William Wordsworth
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I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind--what can it be? what food Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could 'he' gain? 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. Wisdom doth live with children round her knees: Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 10 Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk Of the mind's business: these are the degrees By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
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