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

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EXPERIENCE.
117

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?


 
IS this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?