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 curseBlasts the new-born infant’s tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.