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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.
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