I grieved for Buonaparté, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! for who aspires
To genuine greatness but from just desires,
And knowledge such as _he_ could never 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 weak as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
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.
1801. Wordsworth.
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