Canto I

A flowing river,   with torrents strong

‘gainst rocks and stones   through hills and valleys,

the water black   like ice shining

in night starless   clouds hovering over:

the loud stream rushes   ‘tween mountain peaks

and in a green valley   cleaves into two,

and flowing separates,   again meeting

forming an isle  ‘midst waters torrential.

Once ‘twas green   a stronghold mighty

of elven arms,   swords shining

and shields blazing   of Gnomes valiant,

foes of Morgoth   bright and fierce.

A tower tall   iron crownéd,

‘twas beautiful once,   white and high,

but now in shadow   and darkness cloaked:

a citadel feared,   the Isle of Werewolves.

His dark abode   there Thû had made

haunting the valley.   A fortress of stone

iron crownéd,   the house of torment

the Lord of Wolves   the vale filled

with haunting terror.   The stones groan

lamenting their fall.   Mists of horror

o’ershadow the tower,   vast dark-pinioned.

Thû’s flaming eyes   rove the land

over rock and hollow   all things piercing,

uncloaking, demasking.   His wolves prowl in wait

white teeth gleaming   like pearléd ivory,

hungry, slavering,   filling with horror

and terror unmasked   the haunted valley.

Lo! In dungeons vile,   black pits deep

‘midst stones engraved   with Thû’s horror

to the wall chainéd   lie two companions

choked with desperation,   iron bonds biting,

devouring flesh   on bleeding wrists.

Only two are left   of the twelve travellers

on a dark quest,   valiant but hopeless;

for on the road were overtaken    by Thû’s roving eyes

and brought to his seat.   None would betray

their lord belovéd,   and were thrown in dungeons.

One by one a pair of eyes   kindle in the darkness;

the silent wolves   would inward creep,

devouring the men,   rending their limbs

with slavering sating   the blood-thirsty lust

for human flesh;   with bones crushing

pools of blood   reek a halitus noisome.

Only two now remain:   King Finrod Felagund

fairest of Elves   fulfilling his oath whatever betide

to Beren son of Barahir.    Now hopeless they lie

in gloom and desperation.    A light in the darkness

like two pale lamps   appears in the dungeon:

Beren’s doom draws nigh.   A great dark wolf

has come at last   to rend his flesh

and steal his life.   Closer is draws.

The quiet tread   of its loathsome feet

echoes on the stones.   And there Beren sits helpless,

awaiting his torment,   the searing pain.

Closer it draws.   Suddenly King Finrod

with a surge of strength,   with power unnatural

descended of old   from the Elves of Valinor,

bursts his heavy bonds   from the walls of stone

and locks in combat   with the great wolf,

snarling and biting,   howling in pain

with his last strength he fought   his oath to fulfill

to the bitter end.   With his hands and teeth

he tore at the wolf   while the horror unfolding

Beren watch helpless   held by his bonds

in a corner by the wall.

                                                The yammering ceases,

the wolf shudders   and in death lies still.

Beren watches in sorrow   as Finrod lies before him

with mortal wounds gaping   and Beren’s heart is torn

with sorrow wrenching   when Finrod speaks his final words:

‘To the Timeless Halls   beyond Western Sea

and tall mountains of Aman   I go to long awaited rest.

It will be some time   before I walk again

among my Elven kindred.   But Beren, I fear

that in death or life   not again shall we meet,

for sundered is    the fate of our kindreds.

Farewell!’ Thus he passed:   Finrod Felagund,

of the Gnomes most belovéd,   the fair and faithful

in dark Tol-in-Gaurhoth   whose tall strong walls

he himself had built.   And to this grey world

of tears and war   he returns not.

Into dark despair fell Beren,   and mourned.

But lo! A song he hears   of enchanting beauty,

innocence sweet and strong   of shining stars

and nightingales singing   in green woods and leas!

From whence did it come?   With receding strength

he answers and sings   calling out to the darkness

of Valacirca,   the Sickle that Varda

in the stars placed   to adumbrate the fall

of the Dark One,   long awaited.

Then his strength is spent   from torture and sorrow.

In a dark swoon he falls   on the floor of the dungeon.

Canto II

Upon the bridge   of the tower dark and tall

over rushing river,   sleek and black as ice

stands one whose beauty   outshines deepest horror.

Starlight on her face   and power in her voice

she stands a solitary island   of light in darkness,

and hope in despair.   A weak and lonely

but defying voice   she hears from the depths

of the terrible tower.   Can it be that he yet lives?

She answered the song   with one of great power

and Thû the Abhorred   with his flaming eyes

saw her from the window   of the vast tower’s pinions

and knew her. He smiled   wrapped in black thought.

Wolves he sent out   of such terror and strength

and hate enmeshed   in the sinews of their being

that greatest warrior   beneath their flashing gaze

would tremble and fall.   But she moved not

from her place on the bridge,   and as the wolves came

one by one,   as leaves in the wind

their lives were snuffed out,   and the burning hatred

innate to their being   was wrested from them;

for Huan the Wolfhound,   friend of the Eldar,

hound of Valinor,   grabbed their throats

and slew them all.   Yet Draugluin with bleeding throat

escaped, and with   his final breath

revealed to Thû   that Huan was there.

Then cloaked in majesty   and fathomless dread

Thû himself   took on werewolf’s form,

greater than any   that had ever been,

and stalked away   to win the bridge,

for he knew the fate decreed   for the Hound of Valinor.

Thû’s approach   was filled with such terror

that even Huan   at first leapt aside.

But soon the baying   and yelping and tearing

of their fight rang out   so that many who heard it

fell to great fear.   Yet no diabolical, sigaldric force

could overthrow   Huan of Valinor,

and Thû was pinned down   with sharp teeth to his throat.

And though shape he shifted   could not free himself

from the vise-like grip  of the maw of his foe.

Then Lúthien came   with shining face

and glass white hands   and said to him,

“Thou,” her voice was strong,   “shall for e’er

be rendered bodiless   to come quaking back

to the feet of thy Master.   Scorn and torment

ye always shall feel   unless unto me

the key to this tower   thou renderest now.”

Thû the great coward,   disloyal and treacherous

gave to the elf-maid   the key and the power

of Tol-in-Gaurhoth,    and betrayed his Master,

as the wicked do,   who serve only themselves.

Then Huan released him   and at one he rose up

In vampire’s form.   O’ershadowing the moon

eastward he sped   and to Taur-nu-Fuin came,

filling it with nightmares   tangible and real.

Then Lúthien again   in all her power and might

and beauty unknown   to mortal tongue

showed forth her power   and called out to the Isle.

Who knew but she   what was in her words

as great as castles   and crashing sea waves,

as beautiful as   the gleaming Two Trees

as powerful as   the bright light of Anar?

The wolf tower trembled   from foundation’s core.

The pinions quaked   and the dark stones shook

and loosened themselves   from the grasp of the others

and fell, fell, fell,   tumbled and piled.

They cracked and shook   ‘neath pale moonlight

and the breaking   of treacherous, jagged rocks

filled the valley   and the silent night.

When it ceased at last   no rock was left

on top of another,   all lay in scattered

and petrous ruin.   Emerging slowly

from winding tunnels   and cracked openings

rise captives at last   to the outward world.

Their poor eyes shielding   from pale moonlight,

and with joy rejoicing   over newfound freedom.

But Beren comes not,   and Lúthien fears.

Not heeding the captives   or cries of wonder

that escape from their lips,   or wondering glances,

she looks in the stones   frantically searching

for a way to get down   to the dark dungeon’s tunnels

to find her beloved.   Through dark passages

running and calling    with desperation his name.

She fears too late   she has come to his aid.

In a swoon of anguish   and dark lament

unhearing, unseeing,   motionless Beren lies

next to the body   of Finrod Beloved.

His heart is numb,   he hears not when she calls

nor her pattering feet.   She finds him thus,

and fearing him dead,   falls upon him, and descends

into forgetfulness deep.   But Beren, awakening

from dark chasms   of deepest despair,

sees her beside him,    her shadowy hair,

her quivering lips,   her soft white hands,

and then she awakens.   They gazed upon each other

in utter silence,   and through the jagged stones

the light of the dawn   shone upon them once more.