Túrin Son of Húrin & Glórund the Dragon
[Intro]
Lo! the golden dragon of the God of Hell,
the gloom of the woods of the world now gone,
the woes of Men, and weeping of Elves
fading faintly down forest pathways,
is now to tell, and the name most tearful
of Niniel the sorrowful, and the name most sad
of Thalion's son Túrin o'erthrown by fate.
Lo! Húrin Thalion in the hosts of war
was whelmed, what time the white-clad armies
of Elfinesse were all to ruin
by the dread hate driven of Delu-Morgoth.
That field is yet by thе folk named
Ninin Unothradin, Unnumbered Tеars.
There the children of Men, chieftain and warrior,
fled and fought not, but the folk of the Elves
they betrayed with treason, save that true man only,
Thalion Erithámrod and his thanes like gods.
There in host on host the hill-fiend Orcs
overbore him at last in that battle terrible,
by the bidding of Bauglir bound him living,
and pulled down the proudest of the princes of Men.
To Bauglir's halls in the hills builded,
to the Hells of Iron and the hidden caverns
they haled the hero of Hithlum's land,
Thalion Erithámrod, to their throned lord,
whose breast was burnt with a bitter hatred,
and wroth he was that the wrack of war
had not taken Turgon ten times a king,
even Finweg's heir; nor Fëanor's children,
makers of the magic and immortal gems.
For Turgon towering in terrible anger
a pathway clove him with his pale sword-blade
out of that slaughter— yea, his swath was plain
through the hosts of Hell like hay that lieth
all low on the lea where the long scythe goes.
A countless company that king did lead
through the darkened dales and drear mountains
out of ken of his foes, and he comes not more
in the tale; but the triumph he turned to doubt
of Morgoth the evil, whom mad wrath took.
Nor spies sped him, nor spirits of evil,
nor his wealth of wisdom to win him tidings,
whither the nation of the Gnomes was gone.
Now a thought of malice, when Thalion stood,
bound, unbending, in his black dungeon,
then moved in his mind that remembered well
how Men were accounted all mightless and frail
by the Elves and their kindred; how only treason
could master the magic whose mazes wrapped
the children of Corthûn, and cheated his purpose.
[Intro]
Lo! the golden dragon of the God of Hell,
the gloom of the woods of the world now gone,
the woes of Men, and weeping of Elves
fading faintly down forest pathways,
is now to tell, and the name most tearful
of Niniel the sorrowful, and the name most sad
of Thalion's son Túrin o'erthrown by fate.
Lo! Húrin Thalion in the hosts of war
was whelmed, what time the white-clad armies
of Elfinesse were all to ruin
by the dread hate driven of Delu-Morgoth.
That field is yet by thе folk named
Ninin Unothradin, Unnumbered Tеars.
There the children of Men, chieftain and warrior,
fled and fought not, but the folk of the Elves
they betrayed with treason, save that true man only,
Thalion Erithámrod and his thanes like gods.
There in host on host the hill-fiend Orcs
overbore him at last in that battle terrible,
by the bidding of Bauglir bound him living,
and pulled down the proudest of the princes of Men.
To Bauglir's halls in the hills builded,
to the Hells of Iron and the hidden caverns
they haled the hero of Hithlum's land,
Thalion Erithámrod, to their throned lord,
whose breast was burnt with a bitter hatred,
and wroth he was that the wrack of war
had not taken Turgon ten times a king,
even Finweg's heir; nor Fëanor's children,
makers of the magic and immortal gems.
For Turgon towering in terrible anger
a pathway clove him with his pale sword-blade
out of that slaughter— yea, his swath was plain
through the hosts of Hell like hay that lieth
all low on the lea where the long scythe goes.
A countless company that king did lead
through the darkened dales and drear mountains
out of ken of his foes, and he comes not more
in the tale; but the triumph he turned to doubt
of Morgoth the evil, whom mad wrath took.
Nor spies sped him, nor spirits of evil,
nor his wealth of wisdom to win him tidings,
whither the nation of the Gnomes was gone.
Now a thought of malice, when Thalion stood,
bound, unbending, in his black dungeon,
then moved in his mind that remembered well
how Men were accounted all mightless and frail
by the Elves and their kindred; how only treason
could master the magic whose mazes wrapped
the children of Corthûn, and cheated his purpose.
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