William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.
Songs of ExperienceA Little Boy Lost
‘N
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.’
In trembling zeal he seiz’d his hair:
He led him by his little coat,
And all admir’d the priestly care.
Lo! what a fiend is here,’ said he,
‘One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy Mystery.’
The weeping parents wept in vain;
They stripp’d him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain;
Where many had been burn’d before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albion’s shore?