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