Epigram to Miss Jean Scott
O had each Scot of ancient timesBeen, Jeanie Scott, as thou art;The bravest heart on English groundHad yielded like a coward.
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 loveFrom Isabella’s arms.
Sweetly deckt with pearly dewThe morning rose may blow;But cold successive noontide blastsMay lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella’s mornThe sun propitious smil’d;But, long ere noon, succeeding cloudsSucceeding hopes beguil’d.
Fate oft tears the bosom chordsThat Nature finest strung;So Isabella’s heart was form’d,And so that heart was wrung.
Dread Omnipotence aloneCan heal the wound he gave—Can point the brimful grief-worn eyesTo scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,And fear no withering blast;There Isabella’s spotless worthShall happy be at last.