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A king there was in days of old:

ere Men yet walked upon the mould

his power was reared in caverns' shade,

his hand was over glen and glade.

Of leaves his crown, his mantle green,

his silver lances long and keen;

the starlight in his shield was caught,

ere moon was made or sun was wrought.

In after-days, when to the shore

of Middle-earth from Valinor

the Elven-hosts in might returned,

and banners flew and beacons burned,

when kings of Eldamar went by

in strength of war, beneath the sky

then still his silver trumpets blew

when sun was young and moon was new.

Afar then in Beleriand,

in Doriath's beleaguered land,

King Thingol sat on guarded throne

in many-pillared halls of stone:

there beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

and metal wrought like fishes' mail,

buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

and gleaming spears were laid in hoard:

all these he had and counted small,

for dearer than all wealth in hall,

and fairer than are born to Men,

a daughter had he, Lúthien.