Missioned from these halls I come
In the sable pomp of woe,
Here to wail and pour libations,
With the bosom-beating blow;
And my cheeks, that herald sorrow,[n4]
With the fresh-cut nail-ploughed furrow,
Grief’s vocation show.
See! my rent and ragged stole
Speaks the conflict of my soul;
My vex’d heart on grief is feeding,