Isaac Watts

False Great­ness

Mylo, for­bear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the trea­sures of the west
Meet, and con­spire to make him great
I know thy bet­ter thoughts, I know
Thy rea­son can’t descend so low.
Let a broad stream, with golden sands,
Through all his mead­ows roll,
He’s but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a nar­row soul.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poiz­ing what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of shin­ing ore.

He spreads the bal­ance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheat the beams with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.
So might the pough-boy climb a tree,

When Croe­sus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow’s grown.
Alas! how vain their fan­cies be
To think that shape their own!

Thus min­gled still with wealth and state,
Croe­sus him­self can never know;
His true dimen­sions and his weight
Are far infe­rior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur’d by my soul:
The mind’s the stan­dard of the man.

False Great­ness, by Isaac Watts

Mylo, for­bear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the trea­sures of the west
Meet, and con­spire to make him great
I know thy bet­ter thoughts, I know

Thy rea­son can’t descend so low.
Let a broad stream, with golden sands,
Through all his mead­ows roll,
He’s but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a nar­row soul.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poiz­ing what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of shin­ing ore.
He spreads the bal­ance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheat the beams with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.
So might the pough-boy climb a tree,
When Croe­sus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow’s grown.
Alas! how vain their fan­cies be
To think that shape their own!

Thus min­gled still with wealth and state,
Croe­sus him­self can never know;
His true dimen­sions and his weight
Are far infe­rior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur’d by my soul:
The mind’s the stan­dard of the man.

Isaac Watts (Southampton, Inglaterra, 1674 – Abney Park, Stoke Newington, 1748). Poeta, predicador, teólogo y pedagogo.