It was his custom every morning after he had dressed himself for the day to be attended by his bard David Williams, and it was now the hour for the old man to present himself with his harp at the door of his patron’s chamber: whilst he was in it, all approach was interdicted; the mind of De Lancaster seemed in a peculiar manner to sympathize with the melody of the harp: he had not only a national predilection for that instrument in common with his countrymen of the principality, but professed an hereditary attachment to it as a true De Lancaster, whose ancestors had worn it on their shields from the days of King Bardus. He had now heard the signal, that announced the morning visit of his minstrel, but a doubt struck him whether he could admit him to perform without hazarding an infringement upon his own order for general silence throughout the castle, as recommended by the sage Llewellyn: whilst pausing upon this dilemma it luckily occurred to his recollection, that there was a piano as well as a forte upon his favourite instrument, and furthermore, that the apartment of his daughter-in-law was at the greatest possible distance from his own; balancing these considerations in his mind, the good man became satisfied upon the point in doubt so far, that David was allowed to enter, and perform his morning serenade under suitable restrictions. There was a stool, on which Williams always sate during his performances, and an easy chair, in which the patron reposed himself, and indulged his silent meditations. By signals audibly given, on the arms of the aforesaid chair the blind musician was directed to modulate the character and spirit of his movements, so as to correspond and accord with the movements of the hearer’s mind. It was a communication without language, perfectly well understood by the performer, who no sooner heard the signal for soft music than he began a prelude so exquisitely tender, that the strings only whispered under his fingers, till at length being filled with the inspiration of his muse, he broke forth extemporaneously into the following strains-- “Shine forth, bright sun, and gild the day, “That greets our new-born hope with light! “Give me to feel thy cheering ray, “Tho’ these dark orbs are wrapt in night. “Yet Heav’n in pity hath allow’d “These hands to wake the tuneful string, “The muse her influence hath bestow’d, “And taught her sightless bard to sing. “Sound then, my harp, thy softest strain, “Melodious solace of the blind! “Airs, that may heal a mother’s pain, “And sooth a father’s anxious mind! “Hush, hush! for now the infant sleeps-- “Let no rude string disturb its rest; “And lo! instinctively it creeps “To nestle at its parent breast. “Ah luckless me! these curtain’d eyes “Shall never view its lovely face; “I ne’er must see that star arise, “The day-spring of an ancient race.