Canto LXXIII
I leave thy praises unexpress’dIn verse that brings myself relief,And by the measure of my griefI leave thy greatness to be guess’d;
What practice howsoe’er expertIn fitting aptest words to things,Or voice the richest-toned that sings,Hath power to give thee as thou wert?
I care not in these fading daysTo raise a cry that lasts not long,And round thee with the breeze of songTo stir a little dust of praise.
Thy leaf has perish’d in the green,And, while we breathe beneath the sun,The world which credits what is doneIs cold to all that might have been.
So here shall silence guard thy fame;But somewhere, out of human view,Whate’er thy hands are set to doIs wrought with tumult of acclaim.