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.