‘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?