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.