The Fountain of Youth A Fantastic Tragedy in Five Acts. By Eugene Lee-Hamilton |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. | SCENE III. |
 | The Fountain of Youth |  |
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!—
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'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.
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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,
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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.)
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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 . . .
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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.
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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;
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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 | |