Then came a dark-soul’d man, with magic eye,
And glozing tongue, and Blannerhasset’s mind,
Became his slave, he could not now deny
His devilish spell, a villian, smooth refin’d,
Whose mighty arts his thoughtless victim bind,
In fearful chains:  Burr was this Satan’s name,
Who crept into this Eden unconfin’d,
And drove this erring pair of later fame,
Like that of old, to roam and sigh o’er earth the same.

“Come, go with me,” said Burr, “and you shall find,
Strange honors, riches, and a deathless name,”
And Blannerhasset thought the villian kind,
Who fed his soul, on novel dreams of fame,
While Burr aspir’d to breathe a sinful flame,
Through Blannerhasset’s sweet and guiltless wife,
But she his artful cozening overcame,
And brav’d the demon with victorious strife,
And sacredly maintained the whiteness of her life.

But they were ruin’d, this sequester’d pair,
Who shunn’d the world’s alluring charms to crime,
Soon they were driven forth in dark despair,
Like the sad consorts of that earlier time. 
A grief fell on that island’s blooming prime. 
They pass’d away, and never saw again,
Their island home amid that pleasant clime. 
Awhile they roamed o’er earth’s most desolate plain,
But soon securely slept from life’s wild woe and pain.

This is real history of that isle,
That ever draws the weary traveller’s eye,
He sees its fairy greenness brightly smile,
Amid that river; as he passeth by,
Perchance his human eye’s no longer dry,
While he recalls that mournful history;
And he may ask, with sudden sorrow, why,
The dream of rapture doth so early flee
And souls so meek and good, the prey of fiends should be.

That isle is now as lovely as of yore,
Gay Nature smiles as sweetly, the wild air
Is resonant with music; the green shore
Exhales a constant fragrance, sweet and rare,
But those who made its borders still more fair,
Have slept the sleep of death, long years ago,
Yet is their memory fresh, and ever there
The pilgrim’s heart will feel the thought of woe,
His eye will blend a tear with yon fair river’s flow.

[Footnote E:  Transcriber’s note:  Spelling is different in the title of the poem; both have been kept as in the original.]

TO BETTIE.

Give me thy heart, give me thy hand,
Thy love, thy dower, thy goods, thy land;
Give me o’er thee a free command,
Then shall I be a monarch grand.

This brave great world is little worth,
Its largest wealth is but a dearth;
But fond and mutual love can make,
Another richer for its sake.

Give me thy love, thy heart, thy soul,
O’er thee a sovereign control,
Then though huge seas of sorrow roll,
I will defy their wish’d control.

Give me thy destiny, thy all
Which thou dost best and dearest call;
Then let the darts of envy fall,
Let ruffian malice ban and brawl.