Prevod

It is autumn. We stand on the citadel ramparts, looking out over the sea at the many ships and at the Swedish coast, rising high in the evening sunshine; behind us the ramparts slope steeply down. Magnificent trees stand there, their yellow leaves falling from the branches; below lie gloomy buildings enclosed by wooden palisades, and within, where the sentry paces, all is cramped and dreary. But darker still is the space behind the barred opening; there sit the convict slaves, the worst of criminals.

A ray from the setting sun falls into the bare chamber. The sun shines on the wicked and the good! The dark, grim prisoner casts an ugly look at the cold sunbeam. A little bird flies up to the bars. The bird sings for the wicked and the good! It sings a brief “tweet,” but stays where it is, flaps a wing, plucks a feather from it, and ruffles the other feathers about its neck—and the wicked man in chains watches. A gentler expression passes over his ugly face; a thought he cannot quite grasp glimmers in his breast, akin to the sunbeam shining through the bars, akin to the scent of the violets that grow so profusely outside in spring. Now the huntsmen’s music rings out, so sweet and strong. The bird flies away from the prisoner’s bars, the sunbeam vanishes, and it is dark within the chamber, dark within the wicked man’s heart; yet the sun has shone in there, and the bird has sung.

Play on, you lovely notes of the hunting horn! The evening is mild, the sea smooth as a mirror and still.