  The great King Harold Harfagar In ocean’s depths is sitting, Beside his lovely water-fay; The years are over him flitting. By water-sprite’s magical arts chain’d down, He is neither living nor dead now, And while in this state of baneful bliss Two hundred years have sped now. The head of the king is laid on the lap Of the beautiful woman, and ever He yearningly gazes up tow’rd her eyes, And looks away from her never. His golden hair is silver grey, His cheekbones (of time’s march a token) Project like a ghost’s from his yellow face, His body is wither’d and broken. And many a time from his sweet dream of love He suddenly is waking, For over him wildly rages the flood, The castle of glass rudely shaking. He oftentimes fancies he hears in the wind The Northmen shouting out gladly; He raises his arms with joyous haste, Then lets them fall again sadly. He oftentimes fancies he hears far above The seamen their voices raising, The great King Harold Harfagar In songs heroical praising. And then the king from the depth of his heart Begins sobbing and wailing and sighing, When quickly the water-fay over him bends, With loving kisses replying. |
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