5

Far in the Northern hills of stone

in caverns black there was a throne

by flame encircled; there the smoke

in coiling columns rose to choke

the breath of life, and there in deep

and gasping dungeons lost would creep

to hopeless death all those who strayed

by doom beneath that ghastly shade.

A king there sat, most dark and fell

of all that under heaven dwell.

Than earth or sea, than moon or star

more ancient was he, mightier far

in mind abysmal than the thought

of Eldar or of Men, and wrought

of strength primeval; ere the stone

was hewn to build the world, alone

he walked in darkness, fierce and dire,

burned, as he wielded it, by fire.

He 'twas that laid in ruin black

the Blessed Realm and fled then back

to Middle-earth anew to build

beneath the mountains mansions filled

with misbegotten slaves of hate:

death's shadow brooded at his gate.

His hosts he armed with spears of steel

and brands of flame, and at their heel

the wolf walked and the serpent crept

with lidless eyes. Now forth they leapt,

his ruinous legions, kindling war

in field and frith and woodland hoar.

Where long the golden elanor

had gleamed amid the grass they bore

their banners black, where finch had sung

and harpers silver harps had wrung

now dark the ravens wheeled and cried

amid the reek, and far and wide

the swords of Morgoth dripped with red

above the hewn and trampled dead.

Slowly his shadow like a cloud

rolled from the North, and on the proud

that would not yield his vengeance fell;

to death or thraldom under hell

all things he doomed: the Northern land

lay cowed beneath his ghastly hand.

But still there lived in hiding cold

Bëoring, Barahir the bold,

of land bereaved and lordship shorn

who once a prince of Men was born,

and now an outlaw lurked and lay

in the hard heath and woodland grey.