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Stop!—ye go to ruin and wrack!—
(Dogs! And not a word comes back!)
The Dean.
Think of household and of home!
Voices from the Multitude.
To a greater Home we come!
The Mayor.
Think of meadow-plot and field;
Think of teeming stall and fold!
Voices.
Heavenly dews did manna yield
When the chosen starved of old!
The Dean.
Hark! your women cry in chorus
Voices.
[In the distance.]
Ours they are not if they quail!
The Dean.
"Father's gone!" your children wail.
The whole Multitude.
Be against us, or be for us!
The Dean.
[Gazes a while with folded hands after them;
then dejectedly.]
By his faithless flock deserted
Stands the old shepherd, heavy-hearted,
Plunder'd to the very skin!
