Book XII.
The Book opens:
Bleak was the morn: said Richard, with a sigh, }
“I must depart.”—“That, Brother, I deny,” }
Said George, “you may; but prithee tell me why.” }
This point before had been discuss’d, but still
Richard submitted to his Brother’s will;
But every day gave birth to doubt and fear;
He heard not now, as he was wont to hear.
George had discover’d such regret and pain,
That Richard still consented to remain.
Silence ensued—when, from the village bell
Came sound for one who bade the world farewell.
Enquiry made, and it was quickly found
Sir Owen Dale had caused the doleful sound,
Lord of a distant village, and his clay
Was borne through Binning on its homeward way.
“Knew you the Knight? Our Rector knew him well,
And he’ll the story of his feelings tell,
That show at least he had them.—Let us dine,
I’ll introduce the subject with the wine.
It is a compound story, if he paints
The whole—and we must ply him, if he faints.
The tale foreshorten’d, nothing is descried,
But certain persons, that they lived and died;
But let him fill the canvas, and he brings }
In view the several passions and their springs, }
And we have then more perfect view of things.” }
The Vicar came; he dined; and they began
Freely to speak of the departed man;
Then ask’d the Vicar to repeat the tale
That he could give them of Sir Owen Dale. (O.M.)
l. 19. Creswell.
instead of ll. 243–4:
Scarcely his generous heart the ills sustain’d,
And vows of vengeance for his ease remain’d:
The shapeless purpose of a soul that feels,
And half suppresses rage, and half reveals. (O.M.)