The Field of Waterloo, XVIII

Yet, even in yon sequestered spot, May worthier conquest be thy lot Than yet thy life has known; Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, A triumph all thine own. Such waits thee when thou shalt control Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, That marred thy prosperous scene:— Hear this—from no unmovéd heart, Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN!