CHIDHER'S WELL.
Of Chidher's Well, the Eastern λουτρον παλιγγενεσιας, Von Hammer,
in the very interesting introduction to his History of Persian Poetry,
gives this account: ‘Contemporary with Moses lived the Prophet Chiser,
of whom some hold that he is the same with Elias, while others altogether
distinguish them. He is one of the chief personages of Eastern
mythology, the ever-ready helper of the oppressed, the Genius of spring,
the deliverer in peril, the admonisher of princes, the avenger of unrighteousness,
the guide through the wilderness of the world, and,
finally, the ever-youthful guardian of the fountain of life. As such he
revives the youth of men and beasts and plants, gives back lost beauty,
and in spring arrays the dead earth with its fresh garments of green.
His fountain bestows on whomsoever drinks it eternal beauty, youth,
and wisdom. What wonder then that all mortals with burning desire
seek it, though as yet not one, not even Alexander, the conqueror of
the world, who, in quest of it, undertook an expedition into the land of
darkness, has found it!’ Probably this, his journey through the land
of darkness, is but a mythic form of his expedition through the Libyan
desert to the temple of Jupiter Ammon.
Thee have thousands sought in vain
Over land and barren main,
Chidher's Well,—of which men say,
That thou makest young again;
Fountain of eternal youth,
Washing free from every stain.
To thy waves the agëd moons
Aye betake them, when they wane;
And the suns their golden light,
While they bathe in thee, retain.
From this fountain drops are flung
Mingling with the vernal rain,
And the old earth decks itself
With its young attire again.
Thitherward the freckled trout
Up the water-courses strain;
And the timid wild gazelles
Seek it through the desert plain.
Great Iskander,
mighty lord,
Sought that fountain, but in vain;
Through the land of darkness went
In its quest with fruitless pain,
When by wealth of conquered worlds
Did his thirst unslaked remain.
Many more with parchëd lip
Must lie down and dizzy brain,
And of this, a fountain sealed
Unto them, in death complain.
If its springs to thee are known,
Weary wanderer, tell me plain.
From beneath the throne of God
It must well, a lucid vein.
To its sources lead me, Lord,
That I do not thirst again;
And my lips not any more
Shall the earth's dark waters stain.
