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I griev'd for Buonaparte, with a vainAnd an unthinking grief! the vital bloodOf that Man's mind what can it be? What foodFed his first hopes? What knowledge could He gain?'Tis not in battles that from youth we trainThe Governor who must be wise and good,And temper with the sternness of the brainThoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talkMan holds with week-day man in the hourly walkOf the mind's business: these are the degreesBy which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalkTrue Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
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