XLIV.

_THE PRESENT._

_Convien al secol nostro._

Black robes befit our age. Once they were white; Next many-hued; now dark as Afric's Moor, Night-black, infernal, traitorous, obscure, Horrid with ignorance and sick with fright. For very shame we shun all colours bright, Who mourn our end--the tyrants we endure, The chains, the noose, the lead, the snares, the lure-- Our dismal heroes, our souls sunk in night. Black weeds again denote that extreme folly Which makes us blind, mournful, and woe-begone: For dusk is dear to doleful melancholy; Nathless fate's wheel still turns: this raiment dun We shall exchange hereafter for the holy Garments of white in which of yore we shone.