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J R R Tolkien - The Second Version Of The Children Of Húrin : I. The Children Of Húrin
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Ye Gods who girt     your guarded realms
with moveless pinnacles,      mountains pathless, 
o`er shrouded shores     sheer uprising
of the Bay of Faëry     on the borders of the World! 
Ye Men unmindful     of the mirth of yore, 
wars and weeping     in the worlds of old, 
of Morgoth`s might     remembering nought! 
Lo! Hear what Elves     with ancient harps, 
lingering forlorn     in lands untrodden, 
fading faintly     down forest pathways, 
in shadowy isles    on the Shadowy Seas, 
sing still in sorrow    of the son of Húrin, 
how his webs of doom     were woven dark
with Niniel`s sorrow:     names most mournful. 

A! Húrin Thalion     in the hosts of battle
was whelmed in war,     when the white banners
of the ruined king    were rent with spears, 
in blood beaten;     when the blazing helm
of Finweg fell     in flame of swords, 
and his gleaming armies`     gold and silver
shields were shaken,     shining emblems
in darkling tide     of dire hatred, 
the cruel Glamroth`s     countless legions, 
were lost and foundered --     their light was quenched! 
That field yet now     the folk name it
Nirnaith Ornoth,     Unnumbered Tears: 
the seven chieftans     of the sons of Men
fled there and fought not,     the folk of the Elves
betrayed with treason.     Their troth alone
unmoved unremembered     in the mouths of Hell
Thalion Erithámrod     and his thanes renowned. 
Torn and trampled     the triple standard
of the house of Hithlum     was heaped with slain. 
In host upon host    from the hills swarming
with hideous arms    the hungry Orcs
enmeshed his might,     and marred with wounds
pulled down the proud     Prince of Mithrim. 
At Bauglir`s bidding     they bound him living; 
to the halls of Hell     neath the hills builded, 
to the Mountains of Iron,     mournful, gloomy, 
they led the lord     of the Lands of Mist, 
Húrin Thalion,     to the throne of hate
in halls upheld     with huge pillars
of black basalt.     There bats wandered, 
worms and serpents     enwound the columns; 
there Bauglir’s breast     was burned within
with blazing rage,     baulked of purpose: 
from his trap had broken     Turgon the mighty, 
Fingolfin`s son; Fëanor`s children, 
the makers of the magic and immortal gems. 
For Húrin standing     storm unheeding 
unbent in battle,     with bitter laughter
his axe wielded --     as eagle’s wings
the sound of its sweep,    swinging deadly; 
as livid lightning   it leaped and fell, 
as toppling trunks     of trees riven
his foes had fallen.     Thus fought he on, 
where blades were blunted     and in blood foundered
the Men of Mithrim;     thus a moment stemmed
with sad remnant     the raging surge
of ruthless Orcs,     and the rear guarded, 
that Turgon the terrible      towering in anger
a pathway clove     with pale falchion
from swirling slaughter.     Yea! his swath was plain
through the hosts of Hell,     as hay that is laid
on the lea in lines,    where long and keen
goes sweeping scythe.     Thus seven kindreds, 
a countless company,     that king guided
through darkened dales     and drear mountains
out of the ken of his foes -     he comes no more
in the tale of Túrin.     Triumph of Morgoth
thus to doubt was turned,     dreams of vengeance, 
tus his mind was moved     with malice fathomless, 
thoughts of darkness,     when the Thalion stood
bound unbending,     in his black dungeon.

Said the dread Lord of Hell:     `Dauntless Húrin, 
Stout, steel-handed,     stands before me
Yet quick a captive,     as a coward might be! 
Then he knows my name,     or needs be told
What hope he has     in the halls of iron? 
The bale most bitter,     Balrogs` torment!`

Then Húrin answered,     Hithlum’s chieftain --
his shining eyes     with sheen of fire
in wrath were reddened:     `O ruinous one, 
by fear unfettered     I have fought thee long, 
nor dread thee now, not thy demon slaves, 
fiends and phantoms,     thou foe of Gods!`
His dark tresses,     drenched and tangled, 
that fell o`er his face     he flung backward, 
in the eye he looked     of the evil Lord – 
since that day of dread     to dare his glance
has no mortal Man     had might of soul. 
There the mind of Húrin     in a mist of dark
neath gaze unfathomed      groped and foundered, 
yet his heart yielded not    nor his haughty pride. 
But Lungorthin     Lord of Balrogs
on the mouth smote him,     and Morgoth smiled: 
`Nay, fear when thou feelest,     and when the flames lick thee
and the whistling whips     thy white body
and wilting flesh     weal and torture!`
Then hung they helpless     Hurin dauntless
in chains by fell     enchantments forged
that with fiery anguish     his flesh devoured, 
yet loosed not lips     locked in silence
to pray for pity.     Thus prisoned saw he
on the sable walls     the sultry glare
of far-off fires     fiercely burning
down deep corridors      and dark archways
in the blind abysses     of those bottomless halls; 
the throb and thunder     of the thudding forges’
brazen clangour;     belched and spouted
flaming furnaces;     their faces sad
through the glooms glided     as the gloating Orcs
their captives herded     under cruel lashes. 
Many a hopeless glance     on Húrin fell, 
for his fearless torment     many tears were spilled.

Lo! Morgoth remembered    the mighty doom, 
the  weird of old,     that the Elves in woe, 
in ruin and wrack     by the reckless hearts
of mortal Men     should be enmeshed at last; 
that treason alone     of trusted friend
should master the magic     whose mazes wrapped
the children of Côr,     cheating his purpose, 
from defeat fending     Fingolfin`s son, 
Turgon the terrible,     and the troth brethren
The sons of Fëanor,     and secret, far, 
Homes hid darkly     in the hoar forest
Where Thingol was throned     in the Thousand Caves.

Then the Lord of Hell     lying-hearted
to where Hurin hung     hastened swiftly, 
and the Balrogs about him     brazen-handed
with flails of flame     and forged iron
there laughed as they looked     on his lonely woe;
but Bauglir said:     `O bravest of Men, 
`tis fate unfitting     for thus fellhanded
warrier warfain     that to worthless friends
his sword he should sell,     who seek no more
to free him from fetters     or his fall avenge. 
While shrinking in the shadows     they shake fearful
in the hungry hills    hiding outcast
their league belying,     lurking faithless, 
he by evil lot     in everlasting
dungeons droopeth     doomed to torment
and anguish endless.     That thy arms unchained
I had fainer far     should a falchion keen
or axe with edge     eager flaming
wield in warfare     where the wind bloweth
the banners of battle --    such a brand as might
in my sounding smithies     on the smitten anvil
of glowing steel     to glad thy soul
be forged and fashioned,     yea, and fair harness
and mail unmatched --     than that marred with flails
my mercy waiving     thou shouldst moan enchained
neath the brazen Balrogs`     burning scourges: 
who art worthy to win     reward and honour
as a captain of arms    when cloven is mail
and shields are shorn,     when they shake the hosts
of their foes like fire     in fell onset. 
Lo! receive my service;     forswear hatred,
ancient enmity     thus ill-counselled --
I am a mild master      who remembers well
his servants` deeds.      A sword of terror
thy hand should hold,     and a high lordship
as Bauglir`s champion,      chief of Balrogs, 
to lead o`er the lands     my loud armies, 
whose royal array     I already furnish; 
on Turgon the troll     (who turned to flight
and left thee alone,     now leaguered fast
in waterless wastes     and weary mountains) 
my wrath to wreak,     and on redhanded
robber-Gnomes, rebels,     and roaming Elves, 
that forlorn witness     the Lord of the World
defy in their folly --     they shall feel my might. 
I will bid men unbind thee,     and thy body comfort! 
Go follow their footsteps     with fire and steel, 
with thy sword go search     their secret dwellings; 
when in triumph victorious     thou returnest hither, 
I have hoards unthought of     but Hurin Thalion
suffered no longer      silent wordless; 
through clenched teeth      in clinging pain, 
`O accursed king`,     cried unwavering, 
`thy hopes build not      so high Bauglir; 
no tool am I     for thy treasons vile, 
who tryst not troth     ever true holdest --
seek traitors elsewhere.`

                                             Then returned answer
Morgoth amazed     his mood hiding: 
‘Nay, madness holds thee;     thy mind wanders; 
my measureless hoards     are mountains high
in places secret      piled uncounted
agelong unopened;     Elfin silver
and gold in the gloom     there glister pale; 
the gems and jewels     once jealous warded
in the mansions of the Gods,     who mourn them yet, 
are mine, and a meed     I will mete thee thence
of wealth to glut     the Worm of Greed.`

Then Hurin, hanging,     in hate answered: 
`Canst not learn of thy lore     when thou look`st on a foe, 
O Bauglir unblest?     Bray no longer
of the things thou hast thieved     from the Three Kindreds! 
In hate I hold thee.     Thou art humbled indeed
and thy might is minished      if thy murderous hope
and cruel counsels      on a captive sad
must wait, on a weak and weary man.`
To the hosts of Hell      his head then he turned: 
`Let thy foul banners     go forth to battle, 
ye Balrogs and Orcs;     let your black legions
go seek the sweeping     sword of Turgon. 
Through the dismal dales     you shall be driven wailing
like startled starlings     from the stooks of wheat. 
Minions miserable     of master base, 
your doom dread ye,     dire disaster! 
The tide shall turn;     your triumph brief
and victory shall vanish.    I view afar
the wrath of the Gods     roused in anger.`

Then tumult awoke,      a tempest wild
in rage roaring     that rocked the walls; 
consuming madness     seized on Morgoth, 
yet with lowered voice     and leering mouth
thus Thalion Erithámrod     he threatened darkly: 
`Thou hast said it! See     how my swift purpose
shall march to its mark     unmarred of thee, 
nor thy aid be asked,     overweening
mortal mightless.     I command thee gaze
on my deeds of power     dreadly proven. 
helpless to hinder     or thy hand to raise, 
and thy lidless eyes     lit with anguish
shall not shut for ever,     shorn of slumber
like the Gods shall gaze     there grim, tearless, 
on the might of Morgoth     and the meed he deals
to fools who refuse     fealty gracious.`

To Thangorodrim     was the Thalion borne, 
that mountain that meets     the misty skies
on high over the hills     that Hithlum sees
blackly brooding     on the borders of the North. 
There stretched on the stone     of steepest peak 
in bonds unbreakable     they bound him living; 
there  the lord of woe     in laughter stood, 
there cursed him for ever     and his kindred all
that should walk and wander     in woe’s shadow
to a doom of death      and dreadful end. 
There the mighty man     unmoved sat, 
but unveiled was his vision      that he viewed afar
with eyes enchanted     all earthly things, 
and the weird of woe     woven darkly
that fell on his folk --     a fiend`s torment.
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