The poem
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.