on the death of john m'leod, esq,
brother to a young lady, a particular friend of the author's.
sad thy tale, thou idle page,
and rueful thy alarms:
death tears the brother of her love
from isabella's arms.
sweetly deckt with pearly dew
the morning rose may blow;
but cold successive noontide blasts
may lay its beauties low.
fair on isabella's morn
the sun propitious smil'd;
but, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
succeeding hopes beguil'd.
fate oft tears the bosom chords
that nature finest strung;
so isabella's heart was form'd,
and so that heart was wrung.
dread omnipotence alone
can heal the wound he gave—
can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
to scenes beyond the grave.
virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
and fear no withering blast;
there isabella's spotless worth
shall happy be at last.