The King beneath the mountains,
The King of carven stone,
The lord of silver fountains
Shall come into his own!
The woods shall wave on mountains
And grass beneath the sun:
His wealth shall flow in fountains
And the rivers golden run.
His crown shall be upholden,
His harp shall be restrung,
His halls shall echo golden
To songs of yore re-sung.
The streams shall run in gladness,
The lakes shall shine and burn,
All sorrow fail and sadness
At the Mountain-king's return!
The King beneath the mountains,
The King of carven stone,
The lord of silver fountains
Shall come into his own!
His crown shall be upholden,
His harp shall be restrung,
His halls shall echo golden
To songs of yore re-sung.
His crown shall be upholden,
His harp shall be restrung,
His halls shall echo golden
To songs of yore re-sung
The woods shall wave on mountains
And grass beneath the sun:
His wealth shall flow in fountains
And the rivers golden run.

Over the land there lies a long shadow,
Westward reaching wings of darkness.
The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings
Doom approaches. The Dead awaken;

For the hour is come for the oathbreakers;
At the Stone of Erech they shall stand again
And hear there a horn in the hills ringing.
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them

From the grey twilight, the forgotten people?
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.
From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:
He shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

An Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows,
A loght was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,
And fair she was and free;
And in the wind she went as light
As leaf of linden-tree.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,
By water clear and cool,
Her voice as falling silver fell
Into the shining pool.

Where now she wanders none can tell,
In sunlight or in shade;
For lost of yore was Nimrodel
And in the mountains strayed.

The elven-ship in haven grey
Beneath the mountain-lee
Awaited her for many a day
Beside the roaring sea.

A wind by night in Northern lands
Arose, and loud it cried,
And drove the ship from elven-strands
Across the streaming tide.

When dawn came dim the land was lost,
The mountains sinking grey
Beyond the heaving waves that tossed
Their plumes of blinding spray.

Amroth beheld the fading shore
Now low beyond the swell,
And cursed the faithless ship that bore
Him far from Nimrodel.

Of old he was an Elven-king,
A lord of tree and glen,
When golden were the boughs in spring
In fair Lothlórien.

From helm to sea they saw him leap,
As arrow from the string,
And dive into water deep,
As mew upon the wing.

The wind was in his flowing hair,
The foam about him shone;
Afar they saw him strong and fair
Go riding like a swan.

But from the West has come no word,
And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard
Of Amroth evermore

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone,
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.
The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty Kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shown forever far and bright.
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

Rom dark Dunharrow in the dim morning
With thane and captain rode Thengel's son:
To Edoras he came, the ancient halls

Of the Mark-wardens mist-enshrouded;
Golden timbers were in gloom mantled.
Farewell he bade to his free people,
Hearth and high-seat, and the hallowed places,

Fate before him. Fealty kept he;
Oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.
Forth rode Théoden. five nights and days
East and onward rode the Eorlingas
Through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood,

Six thousand spears to Sunlending,
Mundburg the mighty under Mindolluin,
Sea-kings; city in the South-kingdom
Foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.

Doom drove them on. Darkness took them,
Horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar
Sank into silence; so the songs tell us