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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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns