Near where the charter'd 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-forg'd manacles I hear.
How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning church appals；
And the hapless 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 hearse.