Robert Burns

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.