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SONGS OF COMRADES.
Bowing like one decrepid,
Wailing as one forlorn ;
Would it were skull, not tonsure,
That from his brain was shorn !
Credo — non possum, Father.
Kyrie — not for me :
Gloria — poor excelsis !
Sanctus — if I were free !
Gather his garments deftly,
Follow him soft and still ;
Envy and hate confess I,
Will he absolve ? he will.
There is a slothful patience,
Brutishness passeth skill.
ii.
SISTER OUTSIDE THE CHANCEL.
Close to the Reverend Father !
Well to be Leon this day !
Think of me, brother, my brother,
And for thy sister pray.
