On The Death Of Richard West

1 In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine, 2 And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire; 3 The birds in vain their amorous descant join; 4 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire; 5 These ears, alas! for other notes repine, 6 A different object do these eyes require; 7 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; 8 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 9 Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 10 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; 11 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; 12 To warm their little loves the birds complain; 13 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 14 And weep the more because I weep in vain.