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.