Theodor Fontane
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Updated: October 30, 2023
by Theodor Fontane
Translated by Julie and Amy Huberman
© 1996
"Who is John Maynard?"
"John
Maynard was our helmsman true.
To solid land he carried us
through.
He saved our lives, our noble king.
He died for
us; his praise we sing.
John Maynard."
From Detroit
to Buffalo
As mist sprays her bow like flakes of snow
Over
Lake Erie the "Swallow" takes flight
And every heart
is joyful and light.
In the dusk, the passengers all
Can
already make out the dim landfall,
And approaching John Maynard,
their hearts free of care,
They ask of their helmsman, "Are
we almost there?"
He looks around and toward the shore:
" Still 30 minutes.... a half hour more."
All
hearts are happy, all hearts are light --
Then out of the hold
comes a cry of fright.
" Fire!" it is, that terrified
shout.
From the cabin and hatch black smoke pours out.
Smoke, then fire and flames aglow,
And still 20 minutes to
Buffalo.
And the passengers, in a colorful crowd
Stand
pressed together on the bow.
Up on the bow there is still air
and light
But the smoke at the helm forms a thick, dark
night.
" Where are we? Where?" the men must know,
And still 15 minutes to Buffalo. --
The wind grows strong
but the smoke cloud stays.
To the helm the captain turns his
gaze.
The helmsman is hidden by the raging fires
But
through the bullhorn the captain enquires:
" Still there,
John Maynard?"
" Yes, sir. I am."
"
Onto the beach! Into the surf!"
" Yes, sir. That's my
plan."
And the people cry: "Hold on! Hallo!"
And still 10 minutes to Buffalo.--
"Still there, John
Maynard?" And the answer is clear,
Though with dying voice:
"Yes, sir. I'm still here."
And in the surf, rocks,
obstacles afloat,
Into their midst he plunges the boat.
To
be saved, it's the only way to go.
Salvation: the shores of
Buffalo!
The fire is out. The ship's run aground.
All are
saved. Only one can't be found.
The bells ring out, their notes
all fly
From churches and chapels to heaven on high.
The
city is still but for funeral bells.
For one service only the
sad sound swells:
In the procession ten thousand go by,
Or
maybe more -- and not one dry eye.
With layers of flowers the
grave they soften.
Under more flowers they bury the coffin.
With golden script in marble stone
The city has its tribute
shown:
"Here lies John Maynard! In smoke and fire
He
held fast to the wheel; he did not tire.
He saved our lives, our
noble king.
He died for us; his praise we sing.
John
Maynard!"