All must be punish’d; I must sigh alone,
At home thy victim for her guilt atone;
And thou, unhappy! virtuous now no more,
Must loss of fame, peace, purity deplore;
Sinners with praise will pierce thee to the heart,
And saints, deriding, tell thee what thou art.” 
   Such was his fall; and Edward, from that time,
Felt in full force the censure and the crime —
Despised, ashamed; his noble views before,
And his proud thoughts, degraded him the more: 
Should he repent—­would that conceal his shame? 
Could peace be his?  It perish’d with his fame: 
Himself he scorn’d, nor could his crime forgive;
He fear’d to die, yet felt ashamed to live: 
Grieved, but not contrite, was his heart; oppress’d,
Not broken; not converted, but distress’d;
He wanted will to bend the stubborn knee,
He wanted light the cause of ill to see,
To learn how frail is man, how humble then should be;
For faith he had not, or a faith too weak
To gain the help that humble sinners seek;
Else had he pray’d—­to an offended God
His tears had flown a penitential flood;
Though far astray, he would have heard the call
Of mercy—­“Come! return, thou prodigal:” 
Then, though confused, distress’d, ashamed, afraid,
Still had the trembling penitent obey’d;
Though faith had fainted, when assail’d by fear,
Hope to the soul had whisper’d, “Persevere!”
Till in his Father’s house, an humbled guest,
He would have found forgiveness, comfort, rest. 
   But all this joy was to our Youth denied
By his fierce passions and his daring pride;
And shame and doubt impell’d him in a course,
Once so abhorr’d, with unresisted force,
Proud minds and guilty, whom their crimes oppress,
Fly to new crimes for comfort and redress;
So found our fallen Youth a short relief
In wine, the opiate guilt applies to grief, —
From fleeting mirth that o’er the bottle lives,
From the false joy its inspiration gives, —
And from associates pleased to find a friend
With powers to lead them, gladden, and defend,
In all those scenes where transient ease is found,
For minds whom sins oppress and sorrows wound. 
   Wine is like anger; for it makes us strong,
Blind, and impatient, and it leads us wrong;
The strength is quickly lost, we feel the error long: 
Thus led, thus strengthen’d, in an evil cause,
For folly pleading, sought the Youth applause;
Sad for a time, then eloquently wild,
He gaily spoke as his companions smiled;
Lightly he rose, and with his former grace
Proposed some doubt, and argued on the case;
Fate and foreknowledge were his favourite themes —
How vain man’s purpose, how absurd his schemes: 
“Whatever is, was ere our birth decreed;
We think our actions from ourselves proceed,
And idly we lament th’ inevitable deed;
It seems our own, but there’s a power above
Directs the motion, nay, that makes us move;