I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant’ s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:
How the chimney-sweeper’ s cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier’ s sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’ s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’ s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.