The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor lyrics

A! the Trees of Light, tall and shapely,

gold and silver, more glorious than the sun,

than the moon more magical, o’er the meads of the Gods

their fragrant frith and flowerladen

gardens gleaming, once gladly shone.

In death they are darkened, they drop their leaves

from blackened branches bled by Morgoth

and Ungoliant the grim the Gloomweaver.

In spider’s form despair and shadow

a shuddering fear and shapeless night

she weaves in a web of winding venom

that is black and breathless. Their braches fail,

the light and laughter of their leaves are quenched.

Mirk goes marching, mists of blackness,

through the halls of the Mighty hushed and empty,

the gates of the Gods are in gloom mantled.

Lo! the Elves murmur mourning in anguish,

but no more shall be kindled the mirth of Côr

in the winding ways of their walled city,

towercrowned Tûn, whose twinkling lamps

are drowned in darkness. The dim fingers

of fog come floating from the formless waste

and sunless seas. The sound of horns,

of horses’ hooves hastening wildly

in hopeless hunt, they hear afar,

where the Gods in wrath those guilty ones

through mournful shadow, now mounting as a tide

o’er the Blissful Realm, in blind dismay

pursue unceasing. The city of the Elves

is thickly thronged. On threadlike stairs

carven of crystal countless torches

stare and twinkle, stain the twilight

and gleaming balusters of green beryl.

A vague rumour of rushing voices,

as myriads mount the marble paths,

there fills and troubles those fair places

wide ways of Tûn and walls of pearl.

Of the Three Kindreds to that clamorous throng

are none but the Gnomes in numbers drawn.

The Elves of Ing to the ancient halls

and starry gardens that stand and gleam

upon Timbrenting towering mountain

and the day had climbed to the cloudy-domed

mansions of Manwë for mirth and song.

There Bredhil the Blessed the bluemantled,

the lady of the heights as lovely as the snow

in lights gleaming of the legions of the stars,

the cold immortal Queen of mountains,

too fair and terrible too far and high

for mortal eyes, in Manwë’s court

sat silently as they sang to her.

The Foam-riders, folk of waters,

Elves of the endless echoing beaches,

of the bays and grottoes and the blue lagoons,

and silver sands sown with moonlight,

starlit, sunlit, stones of crystal,

paleburning gems pearls and opals,

on their shining shingle, where now shadows groping

clutched their laughter, quenched their mourning

their mirth and wonder, in amaze wandered

under cliffs grown cold calling dimly,

or in shrouded ships shuddering waited

for the light no more should be lit for ever.

But the Gnomes were numbered by name and in,

marshalled and ordered in the mighty square

Upon the crown of Côr. There cried aloud

the fierce son of Finn. Flaming torches

he held and whirled in his hands aloft,

those hands whose craft in hidden secret

knew, that no Gnome or mortal

hath matched or mastered in magic or in skill.

“Lo! slain is my sire by the swords of fiends,

his death he has drunk at the doors of his hall

and deep fastness, where darkly hidden

the Three were guarded, the things unmatched

that Gnome and Elf and the Nine Valar

can never remake nor renew on earth,

recarve or rekindle by craft or magic,

not Fëanor Finn’s son who fashioned them of yore-

the light is lost whence he lit them first,

the fate of Faërie hath found its hour.

Thus the witless wisdom its reward hath earned

of the God’s jealousy, who guard us here

to serve them, sing to them in our sweet cages

to contrive them gems and jewelled trinkets,

their leisure to please with our loveliness,

while they waste and squander work of ages,

nor can Morgoth master in their mansions sitting

at countless councils. Now come ye all

who have courage and hope! My call harken

to flight, to freedom in far places!

The woods of the world whose wide mansions

yet in darkness dream drowned in slumber,

the pathless plains and perilous shores

no moon yet shines on nor mounting dawn

in dew and daylight hath drenched for ever,

far better were those for bold footsteps

than gardens of the Gods gloom-encircled

with idleness filled and empty days.

Yea! though the light lit them and the loveliness

beyond hearts desire that hath held us slaves

here long and long. But that light is dead.

Our gems are gone, our jewels ravished;

and the Three, my Three, thrice-enchanted

globes of crystal by gleam undying

illumined, lit by living splendour

and all hues’ essence, their eager flame-

Morgoth hath them in his monstrous hold,

my Silmarils. I swear here oaths,

unbreakable bonds to bind me ever,

by Timbrenting and the timeless halls

of Bredhil the blessed that abides thereon-

may she hear and heed- to hunt endlessly

unwearying, unwavering through world and sea,

through leaguered lands, lonely mountains,

over fens and forest and the fearful snows,

till I find those fair ones, where the fate is hid

of the folk of Elfland and their fortune locked,

where alone now lies the light divine.”

Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen,

crafty Curufin, Celegorm the fair,

Damrod and Díriel and dark Cranthir,

Maglor the mighty, and Maidros tall

(the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt

than his father’s flame, than Fëanor’s wrath;

him fate awaited with fell purpose),

These leapt with laughter their lord beside,

With linked hands there lightly took

the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter

it spilled like a sea and spent the swords

of endless armies, nor hath ended yet:

“Be he friend or foe of foul offspring

of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark

that in after days on earth shall dwell,

shall no law nor love nor league of Gods,

no might nor mercy, not moveless fate,

defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance

of the sons of Fëanor, whoso seize or steal

or finding keep the fair enchanted

globes of crystal whoso glory dies not,

the Silmarils. We have sworn for ever!”

Then a mighty murmuring was moved abroad

and the harkening host hailed them roaring:

“Let us go! yea go from the Gods for ever

on Morgoth’s trail o’er the mountains of the world

to vengeance and victory! our vows are ours!”

• Artist:J. R. R. Tolkien