Not unto hirelings, Prince of Shepherds, leave
This distant flock. The wolf, long kept at bay,
No longer in sheep's clothing seeks its prey,
Nor prowls at midnight round the fold's low eave,
Its weak, unwary victim to deceive;
But rampant in the flock at noon of day,
Careering leaps, to scatter, mangle, slay,
While from afar the banished shepherds grieve.
How long must sycophants wax blandly wise,
And meek-faced aspirants rebuke the cries