on the death of john m'leod, esq,

brother to a youngdy, a particr friend of the author's.

sad thy tale, thou idle page,

and rueful thy rms:

death tears the brother of her love

from isabe's arms.

sweetly deckt with pearly dew

the morning rose may blow;

but cold essive noontide sts

mayy its beauties low.

fair on isabe's morn

the sun propitious smil'd;

but, long ere noon, eeding clouds

eeding hopes beguil'd.