But rather now they seem'd confused, constrain'd; Within their room still restless they remain'd, And painfully they felt, and knew each other pain'd. Ah, foolish men! how could ye thus depend, One on himself, the other on his friend? The Youth with troubled eye the lady saw, Yet felt too brave, too daring to withdraw; While she, with tuneless hand the jarring keys Touching, was not one moment at her ease: Now would she walk, and call her friendly guide, Now speak of rain, and cast her cloak aside; Seize on a book, unconscious what she read, And restless still to new resources fled; Then laugh'd aloud, then tried to look serene; And ever changed, and every change was seen. Painful it is to dwell on deeds of shame - The trying day was past, another came; The third was all remorse, confusion, dread, And (all too late!) the fallen hero fled. Then felt the Youth, in that seducing time, How feebly Honour guards the heart from crime: Small is his native strength; man needs the stay, The strength imparted in the trying day; For all that Honour brings against the force Of headlong passion, aids its rapid course; Its slight resistance but provokes the fire, As wood-work stops the flame, and then conveys it higher. The Husband came; a wife by guilt made bold Had, meeting, soothed him, as in days of old; But soon this fact transpired; her strong distress, And his Friend's absence, left him nought to guess. Still cool, though grieved, thus prudence bade him write - "I cannot pardon, and I will not fight; Thou art too poor a culprit for the laws, And I too faulty to support my cause: 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,