Prevod

Between the Baltic and the North Sea lies an ancient swan’s nest called Denmark; in it swans have been born, and are still being born, whose names shall never die. In ancient times a flock of swans flew from here across the Alps to the green plains of Milan, where it was pleasant to dwell; this flock was called the Lombards. Another company, with gleaming feathers and faithful eyes, swooped down towards Byzantium, settled about the emperor’s throne, and spread their great white wings like shields to protect him. They were given the name Varangians.

From the coast of France rose a cry of terror at the bloodstained swans that came from the North with fire beneath their wings, and the people prayed: “God, deliver us from the wild Northmen!”

On England’s fresh green turf beside the open shore stood the Danish swan, a triple royal crown upon its head, stretching its golden sceptre over the land.

On the coasts of Pomerania the heathens fell to their knees, and the Danish swans came with the banner of the cross and drawn swords. That was in the days of old! you say.

Yet nearer our own time, too, mighty swans were seen flying from the nest. A light shone through the air, a light shone over the lands of the world; with its strong wingbeats the swan dispersed the dim mist, and the starry heavens became more clearly visible, as though they had drawn nearer to the earth. This was the swan Tycho Brahe.

“Yes, back then!” you say, “but what of our own day?” Then we saw swan after swan in glorious flight. One let its wing glide over the strings of the golden harp, and the music rang through the North; Norway’s mountains rose higher in the sunlight of antiquity; a rustling stirred the firs and birches; the gods, heroes, and noble women of the North appeared in the deep, dark reaches of the forest.

We saw a swan strike the marble mountain with its wing, so that it split apart and the beautiful forms imprisoned in the stone stepped forth into the clear light of day; and people in lands all around raised their heads to gaze upon these mighty figures.

We saw a third swan spin the thread of thought that is now strung from land to land around the earth, so that words fly through the countries at the speed of lightning.

Our Lord holds dear the ancient swan’s nest between the Baltic and the North Sea. Let mighty birds come through the air to tear it apart: “It shall not be!” Even the unfledged young stand in a ring along the edge of the nest—we have seen it. They let themselves be struck in their young breasts until their blood flows; they strike back with beak and claw.

Centuries will yet pass, and swans fly from the nest, to be seen and heard throughout the world, before the time comes when it may be said in spirit and in truth: “This is the last swan, the last song from the swan’s nest!”