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