On the Death of Richard West

In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine,         And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire;     The birds in vain their amorous descant join;         Or cheerful fields resume their green attire;     These ears, alas! for other notes repine,         A different object do these eyes require;     My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;         And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.     Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer,        And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;    The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;        To warm their little loves the birds complain;    I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,        And weep the more because I weep in vain.