'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 his 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 things done on Albion's shore?
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