World-wearied man, thou knowest not on the earth104
What regions lie beyond, yet near, thy ken!
But couldst thou find them, where would be the worth?
Life but repeats its triple tale to men.
Three truths unite the children of the sod—
All love—all suffer—and all feel a God!
By Ægle's grave the royal mourner sate,105
And from his bended eyes the veiling hand
Shut out the setting sun; thus, desolate,
He sate, with Memory in her spirit-land,
And took no heed of Lancelot's soothing words,
Vain to the oak, bolt-shatter'd, sing the birds!
Vain is their promise of returning spring!106
Spring may give leaves, can spring reclose the core?
Comfort not sorrow—sorrow's self must bring
Its own stern cure!—All wisdom's holiest lore,
The "KNOW THYSELF" descends from heaven in tears;
The cloud must break before the horizon clears.
The dove forsook not:—now its poisèd wing,107
Bathed in the sunset, rested o'er the lake;
Now brooded o'er the grave beside the King;
Now with hush'd plumes, as if it fear'd to wake
Sleep, less serene than Death's, it sought his breast,
And o'er the heart of misery claim'd its nest.
Night falls—the moon is at her full;—the mere108
Shines with the sheen pellucid; not a breeze!
And through the hush'd and argent atmosphere
Sharp rise the summits of the breathless trees.
When Lancelot saw, all indistinct and pale,
Glide o'er the liquid glass a mistlike sail.
Now, first from Arthur's dreams of fever gain'd,109
And since (for grief unlocks the secret heart)
Briefly confess'd, the triple toil ordain'd
The knightly brother knew;—so with a start
He strain'd the eyes, to which a fairy gave
Vision of fairy forms, along the wave.
Then in his own the King's cold hand he took,110
And spoke—"Arise, thy mission calls thee now!
Let the dead rest—still lives thy country!—look,
And nerve thy knighthood to redeem its vow.
This is the lake whose waves the falchion hide,
And yon the bark that becks thee to the tide!"
The mourner listless rose, and look'd abroad,111
Nor saw the sail;—though nearer, clearer gliding,
The Fairy nurseling, by the vapoury shroud
And vapoury helm, beheld a phantom guiding.
"Not this," replied the King, "the lake decreed;
Where points thy hand, but floats a broken reed!
"Where are the dangers on that placid tide?112
Where are the fiends that guard the enchanted boon
Behold, where rests the pilgrim's plumèd guide
On the cold grave—beneath the quiet moon!
So night gives rest to grief—with labouring day
Let the dove lead, and life resume, the way!"
Then answer'd Lancelot—for he was wise113
In each mysterious Druid parable:—
"Oft in the things most simple to our eyes,
The real genii of our doom may dwell—
The enchanter spoke of trials to befal;
And the lone heart has trials worse than all!