SONNET.
I grieved for Buonaparté, with a vain1
And an unthinking grief ! for who aspires2
To genuine greatness but from just desires,3
And knowledge such as he could never gain ?4
’Tis not in battles that from youth we train5
The governor who must be wise and good,6
And temper with the sternness of the brain7
Thoughts motherly and weak as womanhood.8
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees :9
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk10
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk11
Of the mind’s business : these are the degrees12
By which true sway doth mount : this is the stalk13
True power doth grow-on ; and her rights are these.14