The Meeting-Place

(A Warning)     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.