Page:The Poems of William Blake (Shepherd, 1887).djvu/141

Rh 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 stripp'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 Albion's shore?

HOLY THURSDAY.