London

    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.