I Wandered 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.