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

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.

There is no such sense of solitude as that which we experience upon the silent and vast elevations of great mountains. Lifted high above the level of human sounds and habitations, among the wild expanses and colossal features of Nature, we are thrilled in our loneliness with a strange fear and elation – an ascent above the reach of life's expectations or companionship, and the tremblings of a wild and undefined misgivings.

The shadows now so long do grow,
That brambles like tall cedars show,
Molehills seem mountains, and the ant
Appears a monstrous elephant.