The Reading Man.
By Thomas Frederick Young
With patient toil, from day to day,
The printed page he scann'd,
The page of learned book, or sheet
With news from foreign land.
And people thought him wond'rous wise,
And he himself was vain
Of all the knowledge he had stor'd
Within his jaded brain.
What other men were working at,
He knew from day to day,
But never dream'd his barren task
Was only idle play.
Fill'd with the thoughts of other minds,
His words were barren, dry;
He seldom coin'd a thought himself,
He had so many by.
And when he found himself alone,
Where self could only think,
He found the store within his brain,
A weight to make him sink.
What he had always thought were ends,
He saw were only means,
And, for his urgent purpose now,
Were worth - a row of beans.
With loud and bitter voice he curs'd
Newspapers, books and all,
That weaken'd his own manhood's force,
And drove him to the wall.
He saw that man must be himself,
Or he will live in vain,
That nothing in this world can take
The place of his own brain.
The man who rides, but never walks,
Should surely never pout,
If in a race he falls behind,
Where horses are rul'd out.
The man who thinks by press or book,
No matter how profound,
Will find a grave some day, beneath
An ink and paper mound.