London

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 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.