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.