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.