Waltey

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!”

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

Mellem Østersøen og Nordhavet ligger en gammel svanerede og den kaldes Danmark; i den er født og fødes svaner, hvis navne aldrig skal dø.

I oldtiden fløj en svaneflok herfra hen over alperne ned til Majlandets grønne sletter, hvor der var dejligt at bo; svaneflokken kaldtes longobarder. En anden skare, med skinnende fjer og trofaste øjne svang sig ned mod Byzans, satte sig der om kejserens trone og udbredte sine store hvide vinger som skjolde, for at beskærme ham. Den fik navnet væringer.

Der lød fra Frankrigs kyst et angstens skrig for de blodige svaner, der med ild under vingen kom fra Norden og folket bad: "Fri os Gud fra de vilde normanner!"

På Englands engfriske grønsvær ved den åbne strand stod den danske svane med tredobbelt kongekrone på hovedet, sit gyldne scepter strakte den hen over landet.

I knæ bøjede hedningerne sig på Pommerns kyster, og de danske svaner kom med korsets flag og med draget sværd.

Det var i de ældgamle dage! siger du.

Også nærmere vor tid blev set mægtige svaner flyve ud fra reden.

Det lyste gennem luften, det lyste hen over verdens lande, svanen spredte ved sine stærke vingeslag den dæmrende tåge, og stjernehimlen blev mere synlig, det var som om den kom Jorden nærmere; det var svanen Tycho Brahe.

"Ja den gang!" siger du, "men nu i vore dage!" Da så vi svane flyve ved svane i herlig flugt. En lod sin vinge glide hen over guldharpens strenge og det klang gennem Norden, Norges fjelde løftede sig højere i oldtids sollys; det susede i gran og i birk; Nordens guder, helte og ædle kvinder viste sig i den dybe mørke skovgrund.

Vi så en svane slå med vingen mod marmorfjeldet, så at det brast og de i stenen bundne skønhedsskikkelser skred frem ved solklar dag, og menneskene rundt om i landene løftede deres hoveder for at se disse mægtige skikkelser.

Vi så en tredje svane spinde tanketråden, der fæstes nu fra land til land, rundt om jorden, så at ordet flyver med lynets fart gennem landene.

Vor Herre har kær den gamle svanerede mellem Østersø og Nordhav. Lad mægtige fugle kun komme gennem luften for at sønderrive den: "Det skal ej ske!" Selv de dunløse unger stiller sig i kreds på redens kant, det har vi set, de lader sig hugge i det unge bryst, så deres blod flyder, de slår med næb og med klo.

Århundreder vil endnu gå hen, svaner flyver fra reden, ses og høres rundt om i verden, før den tid kommer, at der i ånd og sandhed skal kunne siges, "det er den sidste svane, den sidste sang fra svanereden!"

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