Anna Seward
Lo! the Year's final Day!—Nature performs
Its obsequies with darkness, wind, and rain;
But Man is jocund.—Hark! th' exultant strain
From towers and steeples drowns the wintry storms!
No village spire but to the cots and farms,
Right merrily, its scant and tuneless peal
Rings round!—Ah! joy ungrateful!—mirth insane!
Wherefore the senseless triumph, ye, who feel
This annual portion of brief Life the while
Depart for ever?—Brought it no dear hours
Of health and night-rest?—none that saw the smile
On lips belov'd?—O! with as gentle powers
Will the next pass?—Ye pause!—yet careless hear
Strike these last Clocks, that knell th' expiring Year!