"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 seiz'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 were 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 Albion's shore?        / england's

       [William Blake, from "Songs of Experience"]