Mr. De Lancaster told him that Miss Amelia Jones was present, and had expressed herself much pleased with the melody, which he had been rehearsing in the hall: Could he play it over to them again?
Perhaps not quite the same: He would attempt something as like it as he could recollect, he hoped it would be not much worse, but he doubted if it would be exactly the same.
David, said De Lancaster again, you have enquired if Miss Jones is present; I have told you that she is, and if you could see her, and be satisfied how fair a lady you are invited to address, your muse, inspired by her beauty, would be propitious, and mere melody would not be all, that we should hear from you.
Roused by this challenge to his genius, the blind old bard spread his hands upon the harp, and having rested his forehead on the frame of it for a very few minutes, after an appropriate prelude, extemporaneously broke forth as follows.
“Lady, they tell me thou art passing fair,
And blest by Heaven with a celestial mind;
I hear thee speaking, but I know not where,
For woe is me, poor minstrel! I am blind.
Yet when the muse inspires me, I can trace
Forms, that to mental vision seem divine;
My fancy can pourtray an angel’s face,
Dress it in angel smiles, and call it thine.
Still through the windings of these antient tow’rs
Your dark musician can explore his way,
For my dear patron’s animating pow’rs
To these benighted orbs can give the day.
Object of all our love, of all our care.
To thee, brave youth, our honest praise is giv’n;
Thy deeds, recorded in the poor man’s pray’r,
With that sweet incense shall ascend to Heav’n.
Oft have I bless’d thee, borne thee in my arms,
And oft have hush’d thy wailing infant cry,
Or witching thy young heart with music’s charms
Chang’d the loud laugh to pity’s melting sigh.
And shall not he, that feels the virgin’s wrongs,
In some fond virgin’s nuptial arms be blest,
Whilst grateful bards record him in their songs
In love the happiest, and in heart the best?