| Eternally sounds the mighty waves
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| A triton’s hymn round a rock-strewn grave
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| The passing sigh for the bones that moulder
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| Over the nordic black sea, where the winds btew colder
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| Here in a bed of wrack and shingle
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| Beneath rests a sea king of the north
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| His fallen history remains unknown
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| Now his grave is just a heap of stones
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| «The waves crest sharp as an unsheated blade
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| As spume-topped breakers shorewards loom
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| And boulder on boulder on land is laid
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| The triton’s hymn round a vanished tomb»
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| The ocean cradles it’s sleepy wave
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| Round the curve of the yellow sand
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| Of the bleak and mysterious little isle
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| Where no leaf has been touched by human hands
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| Then I behold that island so fair
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| Where the tree’s lift their crown in prayers
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| To the golden glow of the evening sky
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| I hold the sword towards the moon
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| My memories echoes with cries
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| Hark, to the ocean’s cold clamerous roar
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| The pale mist hovers towards the nightly shores
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| For the fire in my burning flame
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| Hail to the father of the fallen flame
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| Acknowledge the supreme Northern (racial) purity
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| That runs in the blood of my veins
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| As the nocturnal curtain falls
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| With the total eclipse of the moon above…
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| The pale mist hovers towards the nightly shores |