I saw my fellows...

I saw my fellows

In Poverty Street,—

Bitter and black with life's defeat,

Ill-fed, ill-housed, of ills complete.

And I said to myself,—

“Surely death were sweet

To the people who live in Poverty Street.”

I saw my fellows

In Market Place,—

Avid and anxious, and hard of face,

Sweating their souls in the Godless race.

And I said to myself,—

“How shall these find grace

Who tread Him to death in the Market Place?”

I saw my fellows

In Vanity Fair,—

Revelling, rollicking, debonair,

Life all a Gaudy-Show, never a care.

And I said to myself,—

“Is there place for these

In my Lord's well-appointed policies?”

I saw my fellows

In Old Church Row,—

Hot in discussion of things High and Low,

Cold to the seething volcano below.

And I said to myself,—

“The leaven is dead.

The salt has no savour. The Spirit is fled.”

I saw my fellows

As men and men,—

The Men of Pain, and the Men of Gain,

And the Men who lived in Gallanty-Lane.

And I said to myself,—

“What if those should dare

To claim from these others their rightful share?”

I saw them all

Where the Cross-Roads meet;—

Vanity Fair, and Poverty Street,

And the Mart, and the Church,— when the Red Drums beat,

And summoned them all to The Great Court-Leet.

And I cried unto God,—

“Now grant us Thy grace!”

For that was a terrible Meeting-Place.