From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand.
From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand.
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.
No gentleman can be without three copies of a book: one for show, one for use, and one for borrowers.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories