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Poem	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 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 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.
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