Sad thy tale, thou idle page,And rueful thy alarms:Death tears the brother of her loveFrom Isabella’s arms.4
Sweetly deckt with pearly dewThe morning rose may blow;But cold successive noontide blastsMay lay its beauties low.8
Fair on Isabella’s mornThe sun propitious smil’d;But, long ere noon, succeeding cloudsSucceeding hopes beguil’d.12
Fate oft tears the bosom chordsThat Nature finest strung;So Isabella’s heart was form’d,And so that heart was wrung.16
Dread Omnipotence aloneCan heal the wound he gave—Can point the brimful grief-worn eyesTo scenes beyond the grave.20
Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,And fear no withering blast;There Isabella’s spotless worthShall happy be at last.24