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.