“Nought loves another as itself,

Nor venerates another so,

Nor is it possible to thought

A greater than itself to know.”

“And, father, how can I love you

Or any of my brothers more?

I love you like the little bird

That picks up crumbs around the door.”

The Priest sat by and heard the child;

In trembling zeal he seized his hair,

He led him by his little coat,

And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,

“Lo, what a fiend is here!” said he:

“One who sets reason up for judge

Of our most holy mystery.”

The weeping child could not be heard,

The weeping parents wept in vain:

They stripped him to his little shirt,

And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place

Where many had been burned before;

The weeping parents wept in vain.

Are such thing done on Albion’s shore?