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 siez'd his hair:
He led him by his little coat:
And all admir'd 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 strip'd him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain.
And burn'd him in a holy place,
Where many had been burn'd before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albions shore |
