'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? |