| I wander thro' each charter’d street
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| Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,
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| And mark in every face I meet
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| Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
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| In every cry of every Man,
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| In every Infant’s cry of fear,
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| In every voice, in every ban,
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| The mind-forg'd manacles I hear:
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| How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
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| Every black’ning Church appalls,
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| And the hapless Soldier’s sigh
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| Runs in blood down Palace walls;
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| But most thro' midnight streets I hear
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| How the youthful Harlot’s curse
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| Blasts the new born Infant’s tear,
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| And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
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| (Excerpt from «AMERICA»)
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| Rise and look out; |
| his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are
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| open;
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| And let his wife and children return from the opressor’s
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| scourge.
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| They look behind at every step and believe it is a dream,
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| Singing: «The Sun has left his blackness, and has found a fresher
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| morning,
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| And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night;
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| For Empire is no more, and now the Lion and Wolf shall
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| cease.» |