I wander thro' 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 I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every blackening Church appals, And the Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new-born Infant's tear And blights with plagues the Marriage .
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I walk through each chartered street, near the chartered Thames, and see in every face marks of weakness and sorrow. In every man's cry, every infant's frightened cry, every voice, every prohibition, I hear the shackles the mind makes for itself. The chimney-sweep's cry makes every blackening church turn pale; the unlucky soldier's sigh runs in blood down palace walls. But most, through midnight streets, I hear the young prostitute's curse wither a newborn's tear and infect the marriage carriage — which is also a hearse.