By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose!

No gentleman can be without three copies of a book: one for show, one for use, and one for borrowers.

By cool Siloam's shady rill / How sweet the lily grows! / How sweet the breath beneath the hill / Of Sharon's dewy rose!

What though the spicy breezes / Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle, / Though every prospect pleases, / And only man is vile. In vain with lavish kindness / The gifts of God are strown, / The heathen in his blindness / Bows down to wood and stone.

From Greenland's icy mountains, / From India's coral strand, / Where Afric's sunny fountains / Roll down their golden sand.