More! More! Is The Cry Of A

My Brother Starv'd Between Two Walls,his Children's Cry My Soul Appalls

Silent As Despairing Love, And Strong As Jealousy.

Invention Depends Altogether Upon Execution Or Organization; As That Is Right Or Wrong So Is The Invention Perfect Or Imperfect.

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.

If You Cannot Imagine With The Mind's Eye Much More Than You Can See With The Mortal Eye, You Have A Very Poor Imagination Indeed.