John Oxenham

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.
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