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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOST ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MIDSUMMER NIGHT by SARA TEASDALE IN TENEBRIS: 2 by THOMAS HARDY SIX O'CLOCK by TRUMBULL STICKNEY FATA MORGANA by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS IN EMULATION OF MR. COWLEYS POEM CALL'D THE MOTTO by MARY ASTELL TO BARON DE STONNE.....TO FIND HIMSELF BETWEEN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |