"How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoyed in you!The languid strings do scarcely move!The sound is forced, the notes are few!"

“And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love,And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceIs but a cloud, and like a shady grove.”

“My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O! my soul is white;White as an angel is the English child,But I am black as if bereaved of light.”

“Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life and bid thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly bright.”

“Sing louder aroundTo the bells' cheerful sound,While our sports shall be seenOn the ecchoing green.”

“And I made a rural pen,And I stained the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.”

“Piping down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:"Pipe a song about a Lamb."So I piped with merry cheer;"Piper, pipe that song again."So I piped; he wept to hear.”