The Fountain of Youth A Fantastic Tragedy in Five Acts. By Eugene Lee-Hamilton |
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| I. |
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| II. |
| III. |
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| III. |
| IV. |
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| IV. |
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| II. |
| V. |
ACT V. |
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| II. |
| III. |
 | The Fountain of Youth |  |
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ACT V.
SCENE I.
(A hall in the rock temple of Bimini.)Atalpa.
A month has scarcely passed. The countless flowers
Which clad this temple for the Feast of Arrows
Are hardly withered, and the sacred gardens
Have scarce had time to reach another crop,
And lo! the garland-girls again are busy,
Crouching by hundreds on the temple-pavement
For a far greater feast. No yearly pageant
Calls for their skill and fancy, but a rite
Unmatched in all the annals of our race:
The great fulfilment of a prophecy
Centuries old, which Heaven's heralds usher
With every portent, prodigy and sign.
Did not the northern sky, three days ago,
Assume the colour of the pale, thin blood
Which runs in white men's hearts, and did the earth
Not undulate and quiver under-foot?
The victim should arrive to-day at sunset,
And I am come to view thy preparations.
I see the garlanding makes rapid way—
Is all progressing for the great procession
And for the sacred dances?
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Never fear;
All will be ready by the stated moment,
And all will be upon a scale befitting
The greatness of the day. A hundred virgins,
Selected from the darkest of the tribes,
With leopard skins, and anklets of red gold,
Will lead her to the altar of destruction.
The companies of warriors have been chosen
Among the very finest, and their targes
Are studded with the nails of virgin gold.
The companies of priests are also ready,
The new white robes of sacrificial linen,
The charmers of the snakes, and sacred jugglers
Are more in number than the oldest man
Can recollect. Innumerable flowers
Of every shape and hue have been collected,
To strew the victim's path. As for the dances,
The javelin-men are practising all day
A reel of death, on a gigantic scale,
To dance around the victim in the crypt
Of the three hundred columns. Then a dance
Of sorcerers and snakemen round about her,
With new varieties of dreadful movement.
The sorcerers will show us in their fumes
Spirits that none have seen as yet,
And demon shadows through a haze of fire.
Oh, trust me that the Flower of Destruction
Has never had so grand or dread a pageant
Since the first trembling slave was offered up
To the great Executioner and Goddess
Fresh from her boundless forests.
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And the chants?
High Priest.
The beauty and the cruelty of Nature
Will find expression in a great, slow death-dirge,
Which all will chant as winds the great procession,
And slowly booms the dreadful Gong of Gongs.
The guilty beauty of the Scented Throttler—
Her heavy odour and resistless strength—
Will find their praise in sacrificial hymns
Of newest fear as we approach her altar,
And as we lay the victim in her lap.
Now I will make them chant and thou shalt hear.
Will find expression in a great, slow death-dirge,
Which all will chant as winds the great procession,
And slowly booms the dreadful Gong of Gongs.
The guilty beauty of the Scented Throttler—
Her heavy odour and resistless strength—
Will find their praise in sacrificial hymns
Of newest fear as we approach her altar,
And as we lay the victim in her lap.
Now I will make them chant and thou shalt hear.
In the hot, primeval forest
Once the Virgin Goddess dwelt,
When, before her frightful beauty
Man as yet had never knelt,
Nor her hug of horror felt.
Once the Virgin Goddess dwelt,
When, before her frightful beauty
Man as yet had never knelt,
Nor her hug of horror felt.
Snowy were her monstrous petals;
Flecked with blood, though not of man;
Through her groves a rippling streamlet
With an endless whisper ran—
Nature's loveliness surrounded,
Like a shrine, her yearly growth,
Nature's cruelty abounded:
She was goddess of them both.
Flecked with blood, though not of man;
Through her groves a rippling streamlet
With an endless whisper ran—
Nature's loveliness surrounded,
Like a shrine, her yearly growth,
Nature's cruelty abounded:
She was goddess of them both.
Great lianas in festoons,
Where the sense from odour swoons,
Hung from mossy tree to tree
Flowering for the gold wild bee;
Where the humming-bird flew bright
As an azure flash of light,
And the gaudy parrot clung
To the garlands as they swung;
Glowing flower and flaming feather
Vied in gorgeousness together.
While the panther, with a boundless
Hunger in his eyes, and soundless,
Slowly circled round and round,
Arching all his springs to bound.
Or the lazy current licked her
Of the great unrolled constrictor,
Once her rival; now surpassed
In the art of locking fast,
And of squeezing out the breath
In a silent vice of death.
Where the sense from odour swoons,
Hung from mossy tree to tree
Flowering for the gold wild bee;
Where the humming-bird flew bright
As an azure flash of light,
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To the garlands as they swung;
Glowing flower and flaming feather
Vied in gorgeousness together.
While the panther, with a boundless
Hunger in his eyes, and soundless,
Slowly circled round and round,
Arching all his springs to bound.
Or the lazy current licked her
Of the great unrolled constrictor,
Once her rival; now surpassed
In the art of locking fast,
And of squeezing out the breath
In a silent vice of death.
Human flesh had never fed her,
Nor man learnt to love and dread her;
Only if some drowsy deer
Took close by its noontide sleep,
Would her iron tendrils creep
Round about it, draw it near,
And squeeze out its writhe and spasm
Slowly in the flowery chasm;
Or she caught some blue-faced ape
With the thongs whence none escape,
Or some guileless cockatoo
Straight into her bosom flew.
Nor man learnt to love and dread her;
Only if some drowsy deer
Took close by its noontide sleep,
Would her iron tendrils creep
Round about it, draw it near,
And squeeze out its writhe and spasm
Slowly in the flowery chasm;
Or she caught some blue-faced ape
With the thongs whence none escape,
Or some guileless cockatoo
Straight into her bosom flew.
Man one day at last appeared.
And the great terrific Flower,
Luring him with beauty's power,
Slowly drowsed him as he neared,
Panting in the sultry heat
As she drew him to her feet.
Then her mighty tendrils clasped him,
Round the drowsy limbs they grasped him.
And as sank his heavy head,
Like upon a nuptial bed,
Drew him to eternal rest
On the horror of her breast.
And the great terrific Flower,
Luring him with beauty's power,
Slowly drowsed him as he neared,
Panting in the sultry heat
As she drew him to her feet.
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Round the drowsy limbs they grasped him.
And as sank his heavy head,
Like upon a nuptial bed,
Drew him to eternal rest
On the horror of her breast.
Then her appetite began
For the daily flesh of man.
Yea, and his best blood he gave,
Fed her with a daily slave.
With our own dark race we fed her,
Gave her worship, gave her hymns,
Watching how her iron tendrils
Grasped and crushed the writhing limbs.
Now we bring a whiter victim,
Since she spurns our dusky flesh,
One as white as her own petals
When they bloom with blood afresh.
For the daily flesh of man.
Yea, and his best blood he gave,
Fed her with a daily slave.
With our own dark race we fed her,
Gave her worship, gave her hymns,
Watching how her iron tendrils
Grasped and crushed the writhing limbs.
Now we bring a whiter victim,
Since she spurns our dusky flesh,
One as white as her own petals
When they bloom with blood afresh.
Hail to thee, thou Scented Throttler,
Goddess of the murderous thongs:
Hail to thee, Terrific Flower,
Take the limbs and take the songs!
Goddess of the murderous thongs:
Hail to thee, Terrific Flower,
Take the limbs and take the songs!
Atalpa.
While thou hast been preparing all these flowers
And giving all thy thoughts to the procession
And chants and dances, I have not been idle,
But I have been maturing in the shade
The other half of this great work of death.
The ambuscade to which the great white chief,
Lured by the promise of a magic spring,
Is to be drawn amid the primal forest.
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The dark and ever-memorable pool
Known as the Fountain of the Yellow Spirits,
Where sixty years ago the tribe of Hara
Was massacred to a man. The huge old trees
Which cluster round the solitary water
Are hollow one and all, and each can hold
A dozen silent warriors now as then,
And nought be lessened of the loneliness.
His escort will be small, and though they carry
The thunder-pealing arms which make each white
A match for twenty of our dusky bowmen,
Still we can hide within the hollow trunks
More warriors than the massacre requires.
High Priest.
The spot is well selected. May the ambush
Prove as successful as the one which ended
The thrice curst tribe of Hara.—Who comes here?
Atalpa.
It is a messenger.
(Enter Messenger.)
Messenger.
I come to tell you
That the white maiden will arrive at sunset
If all goes well, for I have speeded on
Faster than they could bear her in her litter.
The wounded will arrive to-morrow night
By slower stages.
Atalpa.
Wounded! Slower stages!
What dost thou mean? Explain.
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As we were fording
The River of Green Snakes, the day we started,
A sudden and most desperate attempt
To rescue the white maiden on her way
Was made at set of sun. Twice did the whites
Surround her litter, wrested from our grasp,
And bear it off; and thrice we snatched it back,
Until at last, by dint of greater numbers,
And with the help of javelin-hurling spirits,
We saved her for the Goddess at the price
Of many killed. The leader of this onslaught,
One of their younger chiefs—with a great wound—
Is in our hands and three of his companions,
And we are bringing them to swell the show.
Atalpa.
The thought was wise to spare them for the torture.
They shall be carried in the great procession,
And then be handed over to the tormentors
In sight of all. Meanwhile it is for thee,
Great Pontiff of the ever-hungry Flower,
To keep them in thy prisons with the victim
Who will arrive at sunset. This attempt
To snatch her from our hold, though it has failed,
Makes me uneasy lest the ambuscade
For the destruction of the white commander
Should be upset by something unforeseen.
I must increase the number of the warriors
That I am sending to the lonely pool:
They must be six to one.
High Priest.
I think thee wise.
An ambush laid with insufficient forces
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But if thou wishest to behold the dances
Which now are being practised, come with me,
And thou shalt see the great wild reel of death
Which is beginning: I already hear,
Like the vague roaring of a distant whirlpool,
Its roar of horrors, rising from the crypts.
[Exeunt
SCENE II.
(A dungeon in the Rock Temple.)Rosita.
How dark it is! how cold these temple crypts!
They might have given me a little light:
And yet it matters little; can a soul
Not grope its way to heaven in the dark?
Perhaps God sees us better in the blackness,
As we see fireflies. I am free to think
The agony is over; I am ready—
The martyrdom of spirit is gone through;
There waits me but the martyrdom of flesh.
But oh, the struggle has been passing keen:
I wonder if my hair has turned all white
In these three days: I hope to God it has.
I fain would go to Heaven with the badge
Of holy Age pure snowy on my brow,
Not in the livery of loathèd youth;
Since I must die before the time of wrinkles,
Oh, let me die white-headed.—I feel calm
As the most peaceful and contented eld
That ever died at ninety, and should smile
If but I knew that he is safe in Heaven
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That he is out of reach of Indian torture!
For if he is not dead, they surely hold him,
And I shall never know it upon earth.
How nearly he succeeded in the rescue!
Why, in that frightful struggle round the litter,
There was a moment when he grasped my wrist,
Just as the javelin struck him.—O God, God,
Let me not think of it; it shakes my courage,
And I am bound to die with decent strength.
I must not flinch beneath this great black vault
That holds me like the concave hand of Fate.
This is the very temple of my dream—
The temple with the spirit-crushing columns
Hewn in the living rock. I know each step
I have to take; I know the hideous end,
And now the quicker that I die the better.
How rosy seem the summits of old age
From this dark gorge of young and violent death!
I who had thought to climb them hand in hand,
And sitting in the sunset—he and I—
To look upon the plain of life beneath,
And on the path that we had slowly climbed.
Strange; every now and then I seem to hear
A faint and distant echo of his voice:
Perhaps he calls me from the other world.
Oh love, I come!
Juan.
To drink.
Rosita.
O God, O God!
His earthly voice.—Uphold me, God—I stagger.
(She gropes her way in the direction of his voice, lays her and upon his face, and kisses it.)
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(very faintly).
Each time I speak it makes the blood well up.
The wound is through the lung; my minutes run.
Rosita.
O God, again uphold me.
Juan.
Is this Hell?
And art thou come from Heaven?
Rosita.
No; this place
Is neither earth nor Hell, but Heaven's lobby;
Nor am I come from Heaven; but we go there.
The door of Death which is about to open
Has still to be passed through. I cannot see thee;
Oh for a little light to see his face!
Is this great pain, or is it boundless joy?
Juan.
There is a jug of water by my side:
I have not strength to lift it.
(She finds it, and gives him to drink.)
Rosita.
I have found it.
Where are thy lips? Drink; it is almost full.
Juan.
This is the Draught of Youth, for those who drink it
Ne'er reach old age.
Rosita.
And I am come to share it.
Is this the bitterest or the sweetest draught
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But whether it be bitter or be sweet,
Better this brackish water here in common
Upon the border of the land of shadows
Than that great lonely draught for which he thirsts.
Juan.
If he were not thy father, I would curse him
From all the deep abysses of my soul
That he has brought thee here.
Rosita.
Oh, curse him not,
Oh, curse not what I love, upon death's brink;
He knows not what he does.
Juan.
O love, O love,
If only thou hadst suffered me to save thee
When all was ready planned!
Rosita.
It might not be.
Juan.
O God, to think that we should now be both
Half-way across the ocean, with the helm
Turned full on life.—It is too horrible.
And if Hell holds—
Rosita.
Hush, hush, thou must not speak,
Or thou wilt burst thy wound. A little more
Of this existence or a little less,
'Twill all be one in some few fleeting years.
It would have been surpassing sweet, no doubt,
To walk life's path together hand in hand.
I think I should have made thee a good wife,
Perhaps have been the sunshine of thy house,
The soother of thy cares, thy loved adviser,
The mother and the trainer of thy children,
The thrifty ruler of thy growing fortune,
Until the time when thou and I, at last
Grown white together, by the dim wayside
In life's long winter twilight, would have sat
And talked about old memories sweet and dear;
Or else to the low humming of my wheel,
With all the little grandchildren about us,
Close to the crackling logs and leaping shadows,
I should have let the vital twilight creep,
And told them fairy stories as I spun.
Or thou wilt burst thy wound. A little more
Of this existence or a little less,
'Twill all be one in some few fleeting years.
It would have been surpassing sweet, no doubt,
122
I think I should have made thee a good wife,
Perhaps have been the sunshine of thy house,
The soother of thy cares, thy loved adviser,
The mother and the trainer of thy children,
The thrifty ruler of thy growing fortune,
Until the time when thou and I, at last
Grown white together, by the dim wayside
In life's long winter twilight, would have sat
And talked about old memories sweet and dear;
Or else to the low humming of my wheel,
With all the little grandchildren about us,
Close to the crackling logs and leaping shadows,
I should have let the vital twilight creep,
And told them fairy stories as I spun.
Shall I tell thee a fairy tale? Let me see, what shall
I tell thee? Shall I tell thee of the little maiden who
once upon a time wove herself a dress of sunbeams? and
how the wicked, envious fairies came and stole it away
in the night, and how, as she was standing in the tall
high rippling corn, telling her sorrows to the friendly little
field-mouse, a fairy prince came by and saw her and gave
her a kiss; and how he came day after day, and at last
carried her away in a fairy coach?
I tell thee? Shall I tell thee of the little maiden who
once upon a time wove herself a dress of sunbeams? and
how the wicked, envious fairies came and stole it away
in the night, and how, as she was standing in the tall
high rippling corn, telling her sorrows to the friendly little
field-mouse, a fairy prince came by and saw her and gave
her a kiss; and how he came day after day, and at last
carried her away in a fairy coach?
Juan.
I think that we are standing in the corn . . .
It rises to thy shoulder. . . . It is sunset . . .
The grain extends away in miles of gold . . .
And every now and then a great slow wave
Rolls past us as the breeze of evening rises . . .
The air is full of ripeness and of heat . . .
A million insects chirp all round about us . . .
At intervals there rises from a distance
A gust of reapers' song.—The fairy coach
Has come too soon to take us up to Heaven.
It rises to thy shoulder. . . . It is sunset . . .
The grain extends away in miles of gold . . .
And every now and then a great slow wave
Rolls past us as the breeze of evening rises . . .
The air is full of ripeness and of heat . . .
A million insects chirp all round about us . . .
At intervals there rises from a distance
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Has come too soon to take us up to Heaven.
Something is breaking in my bosom. Put thy lips to
mine, that my soul may kiss them as it flies away.
mine, that my soul may kiss them as it flies away.
[Dies.
Rosita
(crouching over his body, after assuring herself that he is dead, and after a long interval of silence).
O God! I thought that we were in the dark,
And now the light seems suddenly snuffed out.
Is there a dark that is the dark to darkness—
A dark compared with which the black of night
Is what the sunlight is to night herself?
His hand is heavy as a hand of clay.
He answers not, nor moves, nor moans, nor breathes.
I hear but my own breathing—he is dead.
What, leave thy love behind thee in the dark!
Brush past her through the narrow gate of Heaven!
O for this once thou art unmannerly,
And I will scold thee in the fields above.
Am I a little mad? There was a maiden
Who wove herself a garment of the sunbeams,
And when they stole it, went and told her sorrows
To nibbling field-mice in the tall, ripe corn.
Come forth, ye rats, that nibble in this dungeon,
That we may stand around the dead together
And do a little mourning. O love, love!
Would that I had the poppies and the flowers
That twine the wheat there in those auburn fields
Where first thy lips touched mine, or woodland bells
Fresh from the sweet wet woods in which we met,
To lay upon thee here now thou art dead.
But I can sing thee still the summer song
That thou dost love to hear, and I will make
The summer hazels wave above thee still.
And now the light seems suddenly snuffed out.
Is there a dark that is the dark to darkness—
A dark compared with which the black of night
Is what the sunlight is to night herself?
His hand is heavy as a hand of clay.
He answers not, nor moves, nor moans, nor breathes.
I hear but my own breathing—he is dead.
What, leave thy love behind thee in the dark!
Brush past her through the narrow gate of Heaven!
O for this once thou art unmannerly,
And I will scold thee in the fields above.
Am I a little mad? There was a maiden
Who wove herself a garment of the sunbeams,
And when they stole it, went and told her sorrows
To nibbling field-mice in the tall, ripe corn.
Come forth, ye rats, that nibble in this dungeon,
That we may stand around the dead together
And do a little mourning. O love, love!
Would that I had the poppies and the flowers
That twine the wheat there in those auburn fields
Where first thy lips touched mine, or woodland bells
Fresh from the sweet wet woods in which we met,
To lay upon thee here now thou art dead.
But I can sing thee still the summer song
That thou dost love to hear, and I will make
The summer hazels wave above thee still.
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The wild bee is humming,
The woodpecker drumming,
My sweetheart is coming
Through summer to me;
The nutters are nutting
Till summer-day's shutting;
And now he is cutting
My name on a tree.
The woodpecker drumming,
My sweetheart is coming
Through summer to me;
The nutters are nutting
Till summer-day's shutting;
And now he is cutting
My name on a tree.
The wood-dove is cooing,
And billing and wooing,
And now we are doing
As doeth the dove;
The squirrels are clinging
Where hazels are swinging,
And all of us singing
And playing at love.
And billing and wooing,
And now we are doing
As doeth the dove;
The squirrels are clinging
Where hazels are swinging,
And all of us singing
And playing at love.
Ah! here there is no light beneath these vaults,
No sunshine and no mercy and no hope;
And if they bury thee where thou hast died,
No breeze will whisper to thy lonely rest.
So soon as they have taken me away
Silence and darkness wrap thee round for ever.
No sunshine and no mercy and no hope;
And if they bury thee where thou hast died,
No breeze will whisper to thy lonely rest.
So soon as they have taken me away
Silence and darkness wrap thee round for ever.
But lo! a brightness steals upon my soul.
It's light or music, or the two united?
Is there a dawn can shine through solid stone
And set at naught such temple walls as these?
Who lifts these crushing crypts from o'er my brow
To let me see the sunrise? Overhead
Is a great sea of amber, rose and gold,
Where angel-faces, numberless as bubbles,
Appear and disappear again so quickly
That scarce the eye can catch them 'mid the reefs
Of glowing jacinth and the isles of beryl
That shift and change with every passing minute
In dazzling coruscation. Is't the sea
That once we dreamt to live in evermore,
Merman and mermaid, far from earthly woe?
I come! I come! and in that sea of death,
Oh, nought shall part us!
It's light or music, or the two united?
Is there a dawn can shine through solid stone
And set at naught such temple walls as these?
Who lifts these crushing crypts from o'er my brow
To let me see the sunrise? Overhead
Is a great sea of amber, rose and gold,
Where angel-faces, numberless as bubbles,
Appear and disappear again so quickly
125
Of glowing jacinth and the isles of beryl
That shift and change with every passing minute
In dazzling coruscation. Is't the sea
That once we dreamt to live in evermore,
Merman and mermaid, far from earthly woe?
I come! I come! and in that sea of death,
Oh, nought shall part us!
Chorus of Dawn Spirits.
From the amber of the sunriseWe are calling thee to come
Where the heartache ends for ever
And the sob of earth is done;
Where the soul no longer struggles
Like a bird that shakes a cage;
Where the song of Life is over
And there is nor Youth nor Age.
Leave the land of wistful gazes,
Leave the shore of pain and care,
Where the smile is one of sorrow
And the laughter is despair;
For its hum is as the humming
Of a hollow Dead Sea shell,
And its very cries of gladness
Echo like a faint farewell.
Leave the shore of pain and care,
Where the smile is one of sorrow
And the laughter is despair;
For its hum is as the humming
Of a hollow Dead Sea shell,
And its very cries of gladness
Echo like a faint farewell.
Glowing undiscovered islands
In a golden ocean lie,
Where a diamond rim outlineth
All the headlands of the sky;
And the light of peace is spreading
In a great transcendent fan,
Where the coasts of Death await thee,
Over-bright for eyes of man.
In a golden ocean lie,
Where a diamond rim outlineth
All the headlands of the sky;
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In a great transcendent fan,
Where the coasts of Death await thee,
Over-bright for eyes of man.
Come that we may greet and wing thee
With the pinions of the dead,
Come that we may place the halo
Of the martyr on thy head;
Come that we may gather round thee
On the battlements of gold,
Where the older count no winters,
And the younger grow not old.
Rosita.
With the pinions of the dead,
Come that we may place the halo
Of the martyr on thy head;
Come that we may gather round thee
On the battlements of gold,
Where the older count no winters,
And the younger grow not old.
The angel voices die away; the amber
Of the great seas of glory overhead
Dies back into the darkness of the dungeon.
But now my soul is strong again and peaceful;
The darkness is no longer one of iron,
But seems to hold me like the warm ripe gloom
Of summer woods at night; and as I kneel
And hold his heavy hand of clay in mine,
I half might fancy him asleep, not dead—
And that his head is lying softly resting
On some sweet mossy pillow of the forest.
I scarcely dare to breathe, lest I should wake him.
What trees are spreading over us? what flowers
Are scattered round us, waiting for the light
To open all their bells? what fairies circle
Around us on the grass to charm his sleep?
And he is dead—quite dead—and never more
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Dead, dead—quite dead for ever, ever more,
And I am waiting to be fetched for death.
Hark! hark! they come—I hear a tramp of feet
That echoes through the crypts. A glare of torches
Leaps red upon the arches of the valut.
They come to fetch me, and they find me ready.
(Enter Master of the Sacrifices, with many priests and Indians bearing torches. They proceed to bind Rosita with leather thongs.)
Master of the Sacrifices.
Are both her wrists well bound, and are we ready?
Rosita
(aside).
Where are the thongs to fasten down my soul?
Master of the Sacrifices.
I hear the Gong of Gongs begin to boom.
Now form yourselves in order of procession,
That we may gather as we go along
The hundred affluents of our human stream,
Until it rolls in sounding waves of men,
Like a great river rolling to the ocean.
Rosita
(aside).
Death's sea of gold is gleaming at my feet.
Master of the Sacrifices.
And as the great procession winds along
Intone a great, slow chant of `Lo, the victim!
We bring her to the Goddess—the Destroyer;
128
The Flower of Cruelty, the Scented Throttler—
The wondrous executioner of nature!’
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
(The neighbourhood of a lonely forest pool.)Ponce de Leon.
I see a gleam of water through the trees.
O heart, burst not my breast; and thou, O joy,
End not my life before I drain the draught,
Nor cheat me of my conquest! Good Carpaza,
I pray thee let the soldiers of the escort
And the dumb Indian guide await me here—
Here, within call, beneath these mighty boughs.
I fain would reach the margin of the fount
Alone, and not be watched. What giant trees!
Each one seems ages old. Strange, if this forest
Should be the Wood of Ancients after all?
If each was once a man within whose breast
Belief in youth died out, and who took root,
Then truly were they Titans. O Youth, Youth!
It is not I whose feet will change to roots,
Whose arms will change to boughs, for want of faith
In thy eternal power. O my heart,
Thump not so fiercely in my hollow chest!
Let me be sober in this mighty moment;
And in the last supreme and awful minutes
That Age and I keep company on earth,
O let me keep his pace.
O heart, burst not my breast; and thou, O joy,
End not my life before I drain the draught,
Nor cheat me of my conquest! Good Carpaza,
I pray thee let the soldiers of the escort
And the dumb Indian guide await me here—
Here, within call, beneath these mighty boughs.
I fain would reach the margin of the fount
Alone, and not be watched. What giant trees!
Each one seems ages old. Strange, if this forest
Should be the Wood of Ancients after all?
If each was once a man within whose breast
Belief in youth died out, and who took root,
Then truly were they Titans. O Youth, Youth!
It is not I whose feet will change to roots,
Whose arms will change to boughs, for want of faith
In thy eternal power. O my heart,
Thump not so fiercely in my hollow chest!
Let me be sober in this mighty moment;
And in the last supreme and awful minutes
That Age and I keep company on earth,
O let me keep his pace.
How lone it is!—
How strangely silent here beneath the trees!—
It almost strikes one with a chill of shadow.
'Tis as I thought, no signs or shapes of magic
Surround the fount. It looks mere natural water,
Like any other fountain of the forest.
No guarding dragons circle round and round,
With ceaseless clashing of their golden scales;
No evil angels sit upon its brink
And mirror their deep pinions in its waves.
Nothing but lovely Nature. Now I stand
Upon its very brink—the brink of Youth.
Again, thump not so wildly, O my heart!
Burst not thy dwelling in this great emotion;
But let the beauty and the silence soothe thee,
Till I can drain the draught with steady hand.
A single ray of sunlight through the branches
Strikes to the clear recesses of the pool.
How infinitely limpid is the water!
It seems like to an Indian emerald melted.
Down in the depths there quiver yellow spots—
Those surely are the pebbles of pure gold.
Upon the surface there are floating lilies;
They doubtless are immortal. How could Death
Float on the bosom of the Fount of Youth?
How strangely silent here beneath the trees!—
129
'Tis as I thought, no signs or shapes of magic
Surround the fount. It looks mere natural water,
Like any other fountain of the forest.
No guarding dragons circle round and round,
With ceaseless clashing of their golden scales;
No evil angels sit upon its brink
And mirror their deep pinions in its waves.
Nothing but lovely Nature. Now I stand
Upon its very brink—the brink of Youth.
Again, thump not so wildly, O my heart!
Burst not thy dwelling in this great emotion;
But let the beauty and the silence soothe thee,
Till I can drain the draught with steady hand.
A single ray of sunlight through the branches
Strikes to the clear recesses of the pool.
How infinitely limpid is the water!
It seems like to an Indian emerald melted.
Down in the depths there quiver yellow spots—
Those surely are the pebbles of pure gold.
Upon the surface there are floating lilies;
They doubtless are immortal. How could Death
Float on the bosom of the Fount of Youth?
Yes, I am standing by the Fount of Founts;
Beside the brightness of the gem of gems;
Upon the spot that I have seen in dreams
By night and day through all these years of yearning
At last I throw the image of my face
Upon the mirror of eternal youth
In time, in time! Now, let me kneel and cast
One long, long, lingering look of last farewell
Upon my whitening hair and whitening beard.
Before I lift the golden cup on high
In one great burning wish.
Beside the brightness of the gem of gems;
Upon the spot that I have seen in dreams
By night and day through all these years of yearning
At last I throw the image of my face
Upon the mirror of eternal youth
In time, in time! Now, let me kneel and cast
One long, long, lingering look of last farewell
Upon my whitening hair and whitening beard.
130
In one great burning wish.
Ha, what was that?
What trick was water playing? Strange, most strange—
Although mere fancy. In the crystal depths,
Down at the bottom, as my eye was sounding
The glorious brightness of the trembling water,
I thought I saw a skeleton! It's fancy;
My sense is over-heated from excitement,
And sees a nightmare even in the fount.
Yet strange, how vivid was the glimpse of horror,
The watery spectre of my own wild brain!
Now I see nothing but the golden pebbles
Which pave the bottom of the trembling pool
Like golden dreams beneath a sleeper's smile.
Oh! there is naught but splendour in these depths—
Light, glory, radiance; beauty, rapture, joy;
Triumph and life, and boundless jubilation;
With every dazzling gift a rapid hour
Can heap at once on one delighted head;
And horror dwells not in the shrine of Youth.
(He takes a golden cup from his bosom, fills it from the
fount, and holds it up.)What trick was water playing? Strange, most strange—
Although mere fancy. In the crystal depths,
Down at the bottom, as my eye was sounding
The glorious brightness of the trembling water,
I thought I saw a skeleton! It's fancy;
My sense is over-heated from excitement,
And sees a nightmare even in the fount.
Yet strange, how vivid was the glimpse of horror,
The watery spectre of my own wild brain!
Now I see nothing but the golden pebbles
Which pave the bottom of the trembling pool
Like golden dreams beneath a sleeper's smile.
Oh! there is naught but splendour in these depths—
Light, glory, radiance; beauty, rapture, joy;
Triumph and life, and boundless jubilation;
With every dazzling gift a rapid hour
Can heap at once on one delighted head;
And horror dwells not in the shrine of Youth.
Son of the Dawn-Cloud, meteor-footed spirit,
Thou with the diamond eyes, through whom all nature
Lives, breathes, enjoys; for whom all life was kindled;
Apart from whom there is but wrack and rubbish,
Regret and impotence, and lonely care;
Thou that art lord of every sense and power,
Thou for whose sole enchantment upon earth
The whiteness and the witchery of woman,
Her kisses and cajoleries, were made;
Thou for whose joyous thirst the yearly vintage
Of Sicily and Cyprus pours its streams
Of running ruby or of trickling topaz;
For whose delight the lightning-sandalled dances
Leap, fly and circle, and the soaring songs
Pierce the charmed vault of midnight. Thou for whom
The fiery-nostril'd steed of battle waits,
While every straining hound and pouncing falcon
Invites thee to the chase, oh, make me young!
If I have sought thee with the burning fire
Of love unspeakable, through all these years;
If I have given thee unnumbered dreams,
The thoughts, the fears, the pantings of a lifetime,
The sleep of night, the sweet repose of day;
If I have wasted all my natural youth
In seeking for thy youth which never dies;
If I have reached thee o'er unsounded seas
And undiscovered lands, by the same force
Which makes the moth to flutter round the flame
In ever smaller circles—grant my prayer!
Snatch from my brow the wrinkled mask of age,
Send through my veins thy mighty wave of life,
And let me be transfigured by thy radiance,
Now that I stand before thy limpid shrine,
And in thy own clear emerald drink thy health,
Divine and dazzling spirit! (As he is about to put the cup to his lips a shower of arrows from invisible hands strikes the grass and the water all round him. One of the arrows lodges in his hip. He staggers and falls, the golden cup drops from his hand and rolls into the pool.)
O my God!
A treachery! a treachery! Help! help!
(The soldiers of the escort run up at his cries. Two of
them carry him away from the brink of the Fount in
spite of his furious resistance, and lay him on the grass
at a little distance; while the others engage with the
Indians, one of the soldiers extracts the arrow from
his hip.)Thou with the diamond eyes, through whom all nature
Lives, breathes, enjoys; for whom all life was kindled;
Apart from whom there is but wrack and rubbish,
Regret and impotence, and lonely care;
Thou that art lord of every sense and power,
Thou for whose sole enchantment upon earth
The whiteness and the witchery of woman,
131
Thou for whose joyous thirst the yearly vintage
Of Sicily and Cyprus pours its streams
Of running ruby or of trickling topaz;
For whose delight the lightning-sandalled dances
Leap, fly and circle, and the soaring songs
Pierce the charmed vault of midnight. Thou for whom
The fiery-nostril'd steed of battle waits,
While every straining hound and pouncing falcon
Invites thee to the chase, oh, make me young!
If I have sought thee with the burning fire
Of love unspeakable, through all these years;
If I have given thee unnumbered dreams,
The thoughts, the fears, the pantings of a lifetime,
The sleep of night, the sweet repose of day;
If I have wasted all my natural youth
In seeking for thy youth which never dies;
If I have reached thee o'er unsounded seas
And undiscovered lands, by the same force
Which makes the moth to flutter round the flame
In ever smaller circles—grant my prayer!
Snatch from my brow the wrinkled mask of age,
Send through my veins thy mighty wave of life,
And let me be transfigured by thy radiance,
Now that I stand before thy limpid shrine,
And in thy own clear emerald drink thy health,
Divine and dazzling spirit! (As he is about to put the cup to his lips a shower of arrows from invisible hands strikes the grass and the water all round him. One of the arrows lodges in his hip. He staggers and falls, the golden cup drops from his hand and rolls into the pool.)
132
A treachery! a treachery! Help! help!
How dare you drag me from the Fountain! I tell you
I have not drunk the draught. . . . O God! O God!
I have not drunk the draught. Carry me back! carry
me back! O God! what intolerable pain! The fire
of hell is in my hip. The arrow was poisoned—I feel
the poison spreading. Will no one suck the wound?
O my God! if only Rosita were here . . . she would
suck the wound and save my life. . . .
I have not drunk the draught. . . . O God! O God!
I have not drunk the draught. Carry me back! carry
me back! O God! what intolerable pain! The fire
of hell is in my hip. The arrow was poisoned—I feel
the poison spreading. Will no one suck the wound?
O my God! if only Rosita were here . . . she would
suck the wound and save my life. . . .
What pain! what pain! A haze is forming round me;
How all the things about me dance and tremble;
My mind is clouding—tell me where I am.
My limbs and head are swelling—bigger, bigger;
My head is growing larger than the dome
Of Cordova. Oh! what an icy cold
Is seizing on my body limb by limb!
Am I imprisoned in a rock of ice?
It is old age; I know it—oh, I know it!
It is a thousand years since I was born.
There is a skeleton in the Fount of Youth,
Down at the bottom, 'mid the golden pebbles.
My hip! my hip! my hip! O God, what torture!
I cannot move an inch, my limbs are locked;
I'm taking root—I know I'm taking root . . .
My arms are changing into great black branches,
My fingers into knotted twigs. How monstrous!
My skin is changing into shrivelled bark;
Will no one root me out? It is too frightful.
Rosita; where's Rosita? Call her, call her;
Have I not always loved her? Where's Rosita?
Oh, no one heeds me; no one listens now!
How all the things about me dance and tremble;
My mind is clouding—tell me where I am.
My limbs and head are swelling—bigger, bigger;
My head is growing larger than the dome
Of Cordova. Oh! what an icy cold
Is seizing on my body limb by limb!
Am I imprisoned in a rock of ice?
It is old age; I know it—oh, I know it!
It is a thousand years since I was born.
There is a skeleton in the Fount of Youth,
Down at the bottom, 'mid the golden pebbles.
My hip! my hip! my hip! O God, what torture!
I cannot move an inch, my limbs are locked;
I'm taking root—I know I'm taking root . . .
133
My fingers into knotted twigs. How monstrous!
My skin is changing into shrivelled bark;
Will no one root me out? It is too frightful.
Rosita; where's Rosita? Call her, call her;
Have I not always loved her? Where's Rosita?
Oh, no one heeds me; no one listens now!
No, it's not that—I'm under some great weight.
Oh, now I know: it is a lump of rock—
The Passage of the Ever-Dropping Stones.
And I am lying, crushed and in the dark;
Only a Titan could remove the weight.
What pain! what pain! what pain!
Oh, now I know: it is a lump of rock—
The Passage of the Ever-Dropping Stones.
And I am lying, crushed and in the dark;
Only a Titan could remove the weight.
What pain! what pain! what pain!
There runs red fire
Through all my veins. O God! O God! what torture!
A little water! oh, a little water!
My head is full of fire; it will burst out
From mouth and ears and nostrils. Water! water!
Oh, no one listens, no one stops or answers.
Can they not hear me calling out for water?
Will no one put an end to me? O God!
Or give me but a single drop of water?
A drop of water, for the sake of Christ!
Water from any well or any ditch!
Through all my veins. O God! O God! what torture!
A little water! oh, a little water!
My head is full of fire; it will burst out
From mouth and ears and nostrils. Water! water!
Oh, no one listens, no one stops or answers.
Can they not hear me calling out for water?
Will no one put an end to me? O God!
Or give me but a single drop of water?
A drop of water, for the sake of Christ!
Water from any well or any ditch!
Chorus of Spirits of Mockery.
The fire of youth is runningIn every vein thou hast;
Success has crowned thy cunning,
And thou art young at last.
134
Why dost thou call for water
As if thou wert in hell?
Hast thou not sold thy daughter
And bought the magic well?
As if thou wert in hell?
Hast thou not sold thy daughter
And bought the magic well?
The snow the years had sprinkled
Is on thy head no more;
Thy cheek no longer wrinkled,
Nor hollow, as before.
Is on thy head no more;
Thy cheek no longer wrinkled,
Nor hollow, as before.
Why sounds so like death's rattle
Thy young exulting breath?
Hast thou not won thy battle,
And conquered Age and Death?
Thy young exulting breath?
Hast thou not won thy battle,
And conquered Age and Death?
No sweat of torture christens
Thy brow, but dew of morn,
More bright than that which glistens
At sunrise on the thorn.
Thy brow, but dew of morn,
More bright than that which glistens
At sunrise on the thorn.
Come, wreathe thy brow with flowers,
With eglantine and rose,
And use thy new-born powers;
The cup of Life o'erflows.
Ponce de Leon.
With eglantine and rose,
And use thy new-born powers;
The cup of Life o'erflows.
O God, what burning fire! Oh, water! water!
A single drop—a single, single drop!
The air is full of fire; each time I breathe
It shrivels up my lungs. Oh, water! water!
There is a broad red glare all round about me—
The Lake of Tidal Fire spreads all around;
For miles and miles there is but creeping fire.
The tide is rising, creeping ever up;
135
I hear the lapping of the waves of fire.
The reef is disappearing, inch by inch,
Minute by minute. O my God, what torture!
A little water—oh, a little water!
A little water, for the sake of Christ!
Water from any well or any ditch!
Rosita—where's Rosita? Water! water!
| The Fountain of Youth | |