Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
The Ohio
By Count Anton Alexander von Auersperg (Anastasius Grün) (18061876)Translated by C. T. Brooks
A
That sweepest, murmuring, by, in holy dream,
New cities with their market-din profane,
Colossal rocks and fields of golden grain!
Uprooted by the storm, the giant tree,
The steamer’s floating palace there we view,
And yonder skims the red-man’s birch canoe!
There the poor, errant Indian’s moan was heard,
Thou listenest now the German’s heartfelt song,
That homeward floats on tide of yearning strong!
In youth, the mirror fair of purity,
And whisperest to my heart in manhood’s hour
Full many a word of earnestness and power!
As if in airy flight such angel-pair,
As bore Loretto’s house of charity,
Right from the Rhine had brought thee o’er the sea.
Great Frederick, thee! thee, Joseph, wise and mild!—
A rose-bush, climbing, peeps through window-pane,
He too, as twig, once measured the wide main.
From the safe port of home took sudden wing,
The golden sun-fleece of far springs to find,
And left his darling nightingale behind.
Like to the fiery wine’s that sparkles so,
And which, o’er farthest seas transported, glows
More deeply and a richer flavor shows.
Stumps of felled trees stand scattered o’er the ground,
An old-world’s forum, of whose columns tall
The storming foe left many a pedestal.
As Triumphator, sits a grave old man;
His flashing axe, the sceptre in his hand,
His plough, a conqueror’s car, drove through the land!
Ranged, lance to lance, and glittering all in gold!
The golden grain encamping near and far,
To guard their kernel, all arrayed for war!
And, victor, planted on Ohio’s shore;
Like homesick soldiers on a foreign strand,
They whisper of their far, dear Fatherland.
Like damsels, flutter round, the ranks to woo;
Ye wantons! leave me not unnerved, unmanned,—
One heart in all that noble foreign band!
O hero, is thy Poet Laureate;
Like his, their voice, when hunger wakes their cries,
In loudest, loftiest strains will ever rise.
Stretch out their arms, festooned in towering height,
With wanton serpent-flowers;—they suppliant stand,
Envoys of peace they came from forest-land!
Myriads of fireflies, glancing, light the scene,
’T is the illumination’s festal blaze
The captive city to its conqueror pays!
A few old patriarchs lift their arms in air,
Like ghosts of veterans in the battle slain,
Wringing their hands and writhing on the plain!
The camp-fire of the routed host may ’t be?
As if a choir of seraphs swung on high
The flaming sword, the wood lights up the sky!
She nods a greeting to the outer night,
Yet to console her, all these charms will fail,
For the familiar German nightingale.
Why sinks, old man, thy head upon thy hand?
Do the still roses of thy heart, too, miss
The nightingale of home to crown their bliss?