Reflections on the Close of the Year

The year expires, and this its latest hour— Ah think, my soul, how swift the moment flies, Nor idly waste it while it's in thy pow'r; Attend time's awful call, and be thou wise. Twelve months ago, what numbers, blithe and gay, Thoughtful, plan'd schemes for the succeeding year; How vain were all their hopes, to death a prey, Nor wealth they ask, nor poverty they fear. I've follow'd worth and merit to the grave, The last sad duties to their ashes paid; How soon may I the same kind office crave, The pitying tear, sad sigh and friendly aid? Almighty Lord! be pleased to extend Thy wonted kindness; still thy blessings pour— Oh! may thy grace into my breast descend, Teach me to work thy will, and thee adore.

OF all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind— What the weak head, with strongest bias rules, Is PRIDE, the never failing vice of fools.