This page needs to be proofread.
116
SONGS OF COMRADES.
Tis not the enemy, Satan,
My gargoyle, carved in wood ;
But Brother Anselmo, the cunning, the base,
Who all my deeds withstood.
'Tis " Oh for a change in the spectres ! "
My reeling soul doth sigh.
Ho ! churl of a forester, welcome, my friend !
God sent you passing by.
iii.
God, it is just, though 'tis bitter,
That I should come to lie,
Lonely and dry as a severed branch,
Here in my wood to die.
Yet hast Thou shown me Thy mercy
Out of the herbs obscure
Many a simple my hands have culled,
Many an ill to cure.
Now, by so much as I served them
Count I my brethren kin ;
Now, by so much as they loved me, Lord,
Let me Thy pardon win.
