"The Healing Pool of Belcedare"

I raised my king to his riding chair,
And the destination, far from there,
Was the Healing Pool of Belcedare.

My king, who once looked bright and fair,
Had caught the gorgon's diseased stare.
He now sat tethered to his chair
Till he reached the Pool of Belcedare.

In all Creation, nothing's so rare
As the Gift that springs to acrid air,
The water from that ancient lair
Of life. And every bather will Heaven spare
In the Healing Pool of Belcedare.

The monarch bearing with much care,
I crossed through plains and deserts bare;
We took straight paths, climbed each steep stair.
At last arrived, we caught a glare
Making red the water flowing there
In the Healing Pool of Belcedare.

The deep maroon gave me a scare,
But the king he bade me to prepare
For his descent from the riding chair.
Toward the flow, like colt to mare,
The king he crawled. His robes did tear,
And in he fell, broke body bare,
To the Healing Pool of Belcedare.

My heart could burst; my king was where?
Had to his death I led him there?
Then I heard laughter in a blare
Of royal noise, and I gave up care.
"Come, friend," spake king, "wherefore despair?
Just scrub your face and wash your hair
In the blood that makes the foulest fair.
I am healed at the Pool of Belcedare!"

You can figure out the allegory.