I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And 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 black’ning church appeals,
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.