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.