A Little Boy Lost

William Blake was an English poet, painter and printmaker.

v'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 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 thing done on Albion's shore?

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