But that sweet village where my black-eyed maid
  Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night’s shade,
  Whene’er I enter, more than mortal fire
  Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.

  TO THE MUSES

  Whether on Ida’s shady brow,
  Or in the chambers of the East,
  The chambers of the sun, that now
  From ancient melody have ceased;

  Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
  Or the green corners of the earth,
  Or the blue regions of the air,
  Where the melodious winds have birth;

  Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
  Beneath the bosom of the sea
  Wandering in many a coral grove
  Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

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

INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF INNOCENCE

  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.

  ’Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
  Sing thy songs of happy cheer:’ 
  So I sang the same again,
  While he wept with joy to hear.

  ’Piper, sit thee down and write
  In a book, that all may read.’ 
  So he vanished from my sight,
  And I plucked a hollow reed,

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

  THE LAMB

  Little Lamb, who made thee? 
  Dost thou know who made thee? 
  Gave thee life and bid thee feed
  By the stream and o’er the mead;
  Gave thee clothing of delight,
  Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
  Gave thee such a tender voice,
  Making all the vales rejoice? 
  Little Lamb, who made thee? 
  Dost thou know who made thee?

  Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee;
  Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee: 
  He is called by thy name,
  For He calls himself a Lamb. 
  He is meek, and He is mild;
  He became a little child. 
  I a child, and thou a lamb,
  We are called by His name. 
  Little Lamb, God bless thee! 
  Little Lamb, God bless thee!

  THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

  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.

  My mother taught me underneath a tree,
  And, sitting down before the heat of day,
  She took me on her lap and kissed me,
  And, pointing to the east, began to say: 

  ’Look on the rising sun,—­there God does live,
  And gives His light, and gives His heat away;
  And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
  Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.