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 plumed 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 wise 113 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! "Weird triads tell us that our nature knows 114 In its own cells the demons it should brave; And oft the calm of after glory flows Clear round the marge of early passion's grave!" And the dove came ere Lancelot ceased to speak, To its lord's hand--a leaflet in its beak, Pluck'd from the grave! Then Arthur's labouring thought 115 Recall'd the prophet words--and doubt was o'er; He knew the lake that hid the boon he sought Both by the grave, and by the herb it bore; He took the bitter treasure from the dove, And tasted Knowledge at the grave of Love, And straight the film fell from his heavy eyes; 116 And moor'd beside the marge, he saw the bark, And by the sails that swell'd in windless skies, The phantom Lady in the robes of dark. O'er moonlit tracks she stretch'd the shadowy hand, And lo, beneath the waters bloom'd the land! Forests of emerald verdure spread below, 117 Through which proud columns glisten far and wide, On to the bark the mourner's footsteps go; The pale King stands by the pale phantom's side; And Lancelot sprang--but sudden from his reach Glanced the wan skiff, and left him on the beach. Chain'd to the earth by spells, more strong than love, 118 He saw the pinnace steal its noiseless way, And on the mast there sate the steadfast dove, With white plume shining in the steadfast ray-- Slow from the sight the airy vessel glides, Till Heaven alone is mirror'd on the tides. NOTES TO BOOK V. 1.--Page 273, stanza iii. _First, Muse of Cymri, name the Council Three._