"And I have made the life of spirit mine; 22 And, on the margin of my mortal grave, My soul, already in an air divine Ev'n in its terrors,--starlit, seeks to cleave Up to the height on which its source must be-- And falls again, in earthward showers, like thee. "System on system climbing, sphere on sphere, 23 Upward for ever, ever, evermore, Can all eternity not bring more near? Is it in vain that I have sought to soar? Vain as the Has been, is the long To be? Type of my soul, O fountain, answer me!" And while he spoke, behold the night's soft flowers, 24 Scentless to day, awoke, and bloom'd, and breathed; Fed by the falling of the fountain's showers, Round its green marge the grateful garland wreathed; The fount might fail its source on high to gain-- But ask the blossom if it soared in vain! The prophet mark'd, and, on his mighty brow, 25 Thought grew resign'd, serene, though mournful still. Now ceased the vesper, and the branches now Stirr'd on the margin of the forest hill-- And Gawaine came into the starlit space-- Slow was his step, and sullen was his face. "What didst thou see?"--"The green-wood and the sky." 26 "What hear?"--"The light leaf dropping on the sward." And now, with front elate and hopeful eye, Stood, in the starlight, Caradoc the bard; The prophet smiled on that fair face (akin Poet and prophet), "Child of Song, begin." "I saw a glow-worm light his fairy lamp, 27 Close where a little torrent forced its way Through broad-leaved water-sedge, and alder damp; Above the glow-worm, from some lower spray Of the near mountain-ash, the silver song Of night's sweet chorister came clear and strong; "No thrilling note of melancholy wail; 28 Ne'er pour'd the thrush more musical delight Through noon-day laurels, than that nightingale In the lone forest to the ear of Night-- Ev'n as the light web by Arachne spun, From bough to bough suspended in the sun, "Ensnares the heedless insect,--so, methought 29 Midway in air my soul arrested hung In the melodious meshes; never aught To mortal lute was so divinely sung! Surely, O prophet, these the sound and sign, Which make the lot, the search determines mine," "O self-deceit of man!" the soothsayer sigh'd, 30 "The worm but lent its funeral torch the ray; The night-bird's joy but hail'd the fatal guide, In the bright glimmer, to its thoughtless prey. And thou, bold-eyed one--in the forest, what Met _thy_ firm footstep?"--Out spoke Lancelot--