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Home  »  Parnassus  »  William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.

Scale of Minds

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

(See full text.)

“HERE might I pause, and bend in reverence

To Nature, and the power of human minds;

To men as they are men within themselves.

How oft high service is performed within,

When all the external man is rude in show:

Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,

But a mere mountain chapel that protects

Its simple worshippers from sun and shower!

Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these,

If future years mature me for the task,

Will I record the praises, making verse

Deal boldly with substantial things,—in truth

And sanctity of passion speak of these,

That justice may be done, obeisance paid

Where it is due. Thus haply shall I teach,

Inspire, through unadulterated ears

Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope; my theme

No other than the very heart of man,

As found among the best of those who live,

Not unexalted by religious faith,

Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few,

In Nature’s presence: thence may I select

Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight,

And miserable love that is not pain

To hear of, for the glory that redounds

Therefrom to human kind, and what we are.

Be mine to follow with no timid step

Where knowledge leads me; it shall be my pride

That I have dared to tread this holy ground,

Speaking no dream, but things oracular,

Matter not lightly to be heard by those

Who to the letter of the outward promise

Do read the invisible soul: by men adroit

In speech, and for communion with the world

Accomplished, minds whose faculties are then

Most active when they are most eloquent,

And elevated most when most admired.

Men may be found of other mould than these;

Who are their own upholders, to themselves

Encouragement, and energy, and will;

Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words,

As native passion dictates. Others, too,

There are, among the walks of homely life,

Still higher, men for contemplation framed;

Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase.

Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink

Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse.

Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power,

The thought, the image, and the silent joy:

Words are but under-agents in their souls;

When they are grasping with their greatest strength

They do not breathe among them; this I speak

In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts

For his own service, knoweth, loveth us,

When we are unregarded by the world.”