Silent As Despairing Love, And Strong As

Work Up Imagination To The State Of Vision.

The Crow Wished Everything Was Black, The Owl, That Everything Was White.

I Wander Thro' Each Charter'd Street, 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 Appalls; 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.

General Good Is The Plea Of The Scoundrel, Hypocite, Flatterer.

Pity Would Be No More, If We Did Not Make Somebody Poor. Mercy No More Could Be, If All Were Happy As We.