I always liked Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), more as a guy than as a poet particularly, a good republican and a reformer raging against the bloated and corrupt Regency. Insanely prolific, but then, weren't they all back then. Destined to be one of the men remembered for who he knew (Keats, Shelley, the rest of the lot) more than what he did, he's not entirely worthy of oblivion.
It flows through old hush'd Ægypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream;
And times and things, as in a vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands.--
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roam'd through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing long
'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.
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