‘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?