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.