“His song is mighty as death itself, “To-night and perdition alluring; “Its tuneful glow still burns in my heart, “ A speedy death insuring.” The door of the church is hung with black, The funeral bells are ringing, Poor Madam Mette’s terrible death To public notice bringing. Poor Bender sighs, as he stands at the bier,-- ’Twas sad to hear him call so!-- “I now have lost my beautiful wife, “And lost my true dog also.” 22. THE MEETING. The music under the linden-tree sounds, The boys and the maidens dance lightly; Amongst them two dance, whom nobody knows, Of figures noble and sightly. They float about here, they float about there, In a way that strange habits expresses; They smile at each other, they shake their heads, The maiden the youth thus addresses: “My handsome youth, upon thy hat There nods a lily splendid, That only grows in the depths of the sea,-- From Adam thou art not descended. “The Kelpie art thou, who the fair village maids Would’st allure with thy arts of seduction; I knew thee at once, at the very first sight, By thy teeth of fish-like construction.” They float about here, they float about there, In a way that strange habits expresses; They smile at each other, they shake their heads, The youth the maid thus addresses: “My handsome maiden, tell me why “Thy hand so icy cold is? “And tell me why thy snow-white dress “So moist in every fold is? “I knew thee at once, at the very first sight, “By thy bantering salutation; “Thou art no mortal child of man, “But the water-nymph, my relation.” The fiddles are silent, and finish’d the dance, They part like sister and brother, They know each other only too well, And shun now the sight of each other. 23. KING HAROLD HARFAGAR. 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.