I wander through each chartered street,

Near where the chartered Thames^[1] does flow,

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every^[2] 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 black'ning Church appalls;

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.