Chapter LXXV

The Poet leaves the praises of his friend unexpressed, because no words can duly convey them; and the greatness thus unrecorded must be guessed, by the measure of the survivor's grief.

Indeed, he does not care

"in these fading days
To raise a cry that lasts not long,
And round thee with the breeze of song,
To stir a little dust[50] of praise."

The world only applauds accomplished success, and does not care for what might have been done, had opportunity been given. It is therefore sufficient that silence should guard Hallam's fame here; because the writer is assured, that what he is elsewhere doing

"Is wrought with tumult of acclaim."

One cannot but feel that were it not for this immortal elegy, its subject would have been long since forgotten, like other promising youths who have died in their Spring.