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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.