William Blake (1757–1827)

“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 stript 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?