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.