Of Finrod and Bëor by losselen

I.

Of Finrod tarrying in Ossiriand

In eastern land was once a wood
dense with elm and ashes grey
that under Ered Luin stood
and in its eaves did Finrod stray.
He walked by flowing river cold and trod the valley’s secret ways
when spring was young upon the mould
in woodlands of the Elder Days.

From guard and friend he turned aside
wearying of the hunt, he rode
across the Gelion's waters wide
and took upon the Dwarven-road.
His quarry gone, his arrows spent,
softly rolled the forest stream
his feet along its waters went,    
and walked as if a waking dream;
unhorsed he wandered neath the trees
he silent passed by walls of stone,
while grasses bended in the breeze:
to Thargelion, he walked alone.

For Finrod was an Elven lord,
a prince returned from Eldamar,
so bright his crown and keen his sword
in Nargothrond beneath the stars.
A thread of jewels like dews upon
a mantle dark wore Finrod king.
His belt was sewn with silver wan
and emeralds were in his ring
as serpents twain, that once was wrought
by Elven-smiths before the Dawn,
when crystal lamps lit forges hot
in the shinning halls of Tirion.

Unsounding soft did Finrod tread
in flowers and in shifting grass,
his singing voice had windless sped
headlong, as clear as chiming glass.
And free was Ossiriand that he
unbound by time had walked upon
like a dreamer deep in reverie
amazed and lost, until the dawn
and night alike had passed him by
and through the flower-meads he led
and still the dark and starry sky
wheeled above his golden head.
For long he walked in grasses strewn    
with thistle-blooms and warblers filled
and silent neath the penilune
Finrod by a clearing stilled.

II.

Of Finrod spying Men in the woods

The night was cool and Moon was clear,
a wind there gathered under shade,
it shivered on the silver mere
and shook upon the grassy glade.
For summer came and summer flew,
and gold was leaf on many trees
and clear were drops of evening dew
shaken by a sudden breeze
from upturned petals, curling fern;
and up above, remote and far
in the dark and northern sky did turn
Valacirca, star on star,
of all the world ensilvered most,
Varda’s sickle, jewel of jewels,
radiant within the shining host
and doubled in the forest pools.

And lo! he spied between the boles
a light beyond a yonder dale
as campfire leaping over coals
dancing under moonbeams pale.
He wondered whence did come this light
for Wood-land elves he knew who dwelt
there hewed no trees for warmth at night
and trapped and slew for meat or pelt
no bird or beast; for above all    
they loved the living wood and tree,
the auburn of the larches tall,
the rustling of the leafy sea,
pealing rain on the forest floor,
the trembling sway of willow-limb,
these the Green-elves loved and more;
therefore the fire troubled him
and Finrod feared that evil folk
were walking free in Ossiriand.

So shadow about him Finrod cloaked,
concealed within the wood and land
his movements subtle, his stalking stride,
and saying no more he headlong sped
towards the campfire. There he spied
not beasts or orc-shapes foul, instead
clad in roughspun clothes a folk
rejoicing in the firelight;
with unfamiliar words they spoke
as they sang beneath the starlit night.

So Felagund swiftly stilled his feet
beneath the tree-encircled shade
as dancers whirled, as drummers beat,
as harpers upon the lamb-strings played
a measure rough and quick, yet still
he heard within its melody
the gleeful turn and sudden thrill
of a music made in revelry.

Beneath the sky of autumn clear
the flaming sparks like flowers flew,
like Elven-folk some did appear
yet marked they were in mortal hue
and Finrod spied upon their face
a shadow he did not yet know
the vision of an eerie grace
that was spoken of so long ago.
From memories long and rumors dim,
forbidding words in Araman cold,
the stories Felagund recalled to him,
that Second-comers therein foretold.
When all that lay in slumber fast
arise to grace the waking earth
shall Men awake and come at last
to strath and glen, to fen and firth.
And mortal be their limb and hand
as mortal as the turning days;
brief their sojourn upon the land
and yet though fleeting be their stays
so all the brightly ere they’ve died
might blaze and burn as fires swift
their lives and deeds while they abide;
for such was Ilúvatar’s Gift.

And Finrod waited, held in place,
for wonder in his mind bestirred
a wonder at their living grace
their strain of music yet unheard,
a thought as yet unformed in mind;
though rough and strange their tune and tongue,
yet wonder in the strangeness finds
in novel words and music young.
Thus Finrod in their forms perceived    
the multiplicity of the world
more fair than Elvenesse conceived
within the Music still enfurled.

Long he stood beneath the shade
til turn by turn the dancers ceased
and embers cracked within the glade
over sleeping revelers after feast.
And casting aside his shady cloak
he walked within the fire’s light
between rustling birch and slumbering folk
quiet as the passing night.
And picking up an unused lyre
he slowly plucked its rough-made string
and seated beside the dying fire,
Finrod Felagund began to sing.

III.

Of Finrod's song of Valinor

A song he sang of Eldamar,    
of Sunless years in Valinor,
and mead that flowed in halls afar
of music falling evermore,
of golden rains on golden eaves
that fell on grasses slumberless
in silver glades where long the leaves
grew under starlights numberless.
He sang of branching streets of white
beneath a roof of woven green
entwined in beechen boughs; and light
of Mindon Eldaliéva keen
that wavered high, to and fro,
from towering spire onto the Bay,
and beneath there bathed in silver glow
in ageless year and ageless days
like living marble there still grew,
a White Tree, Galathilion.
And silver leaves and crystal dews
fell in Elven-Tirion.

He sang of Calacirya’s reach
athwart the everlasting walls
above the pearls on sparkling beach
above the shining Tirion-halls;
and clouds about the snowy knees
of Taniquetil sheer and far;
and mist upon the dusky wreaths
of bright and scarlet Fumellar
in Lórien, in meadow-beds
where singing flocked the nightingale
on drooping boughs of yews, and fed
the falling rains to runnels pale;
and havens by the roaring Sea
where argent flew the wings of mew
and shadows on the eastern lee
of Túna when there still yet grew
the ever-changing Trees, of gold
and silver were their branching boughs
in Valmar, in the days of old,
ere spoken were the dooméd vows,
when countless fell the Elven-years
that passed before the Sun or Moon
were seen above the Shadowmere
in the first mortal night and noon.
And as if caught a tolling bell
in sounding air within his song,
as if a bird call, as if a spell,
as if the leagues were not so long
from the pearly shoals of Elvenhome
to the darkling stones of Hither-lands;
a sudden love in the heart did roam
straining to hear from distant strands
the piercing cry of unknown bird
echoing in jeweléd cities far
as few Men would have ever heard,
in Valinor, where no mortals are.

So listening fast did Bëor wake
arisen from these dreaming chords,
and wonder of them stirred as ache
as image cleaved from Elven words.
And in that hour did Men behold
Finrod the fairest Elven-lord
his flaxen hair a gleam of gold,
a beryl set upon his sword.
And slow he plucked the roughmade string
its music in his Elven-hands
more fair than birds in sudden spring
sing in the woods of Eastern lands.
And beauty they had never seen
as like which shone upon his glance,
and ageless grace was in his mien
that held their hearts in love entranced.
For in his face still shone the Trees
that flowered once in Valinor,
with golden crown and silver wreath
and likes of they will never more
in all of Arda again be known
No more the singing Laurelin
her blooms of red like embers thrown
from golden branches flamed within;
and Telperion the everwhite    
on slender limbs his leaves of green
will dance no more with fain delight
and never wave in breezes keen,
bestirred from high by blessed hands    
from high above in Valinor,
down and east to Outer Lands
across the Shadow Seas. No more
their shining boles, their silver, gold,
a rain of dews like falling stars
that fell before the world was old
before the darkening, ere the mar.
Not til the mending of the world
the utter end in ages long
shall they rebloom in Music furled
as some still sing in Elven song.

IV.

Of the waking of Men and the conversation of Finrod and Bëor

The grass grew young upon the mould
and silent stood the mountain-sides
when first arose on Hither-world
the Sun from eastern margins wide.
Beneath the warm light they awoke
beside the waking meadows, Men
who wandered in the ancient oak
that grew untroubled in its glen.
They woke to beneath the rising Sun,
the last-borne fruit of Laurelin,
that first in stalwart course did run
upon the mortal day’s begin.
So woodland Elves they met at times,
the sundered folk from whom they learned
a simple tongue and rustic rhymes
made with lyres roughly formed.
But guideless they unknowing tread
the wayward forests of the east,
that twisted were and gnarled with dread,
beneath whose eaves they found but beasts
and other creatures cruel and fell
who hunted them like creatures wild,
and darkness came to mere and dell
and all by Shadow were beguilded.

But some repented, and some did seek,
by rumors growing in their midst,
the Light that dwelt beyond the peak
in west afar, though snow and mist
lay thickly on the mountain caps
between the east and surging Seas.
They wandered without guide or maps,
fleeing from cave to under trees;
of leaders brave they had but few
and many turned away, afraid,
many perished in mountains blue,
and many back to darkness strayed.

But one among them, Bëor bold,
through passes fell he deftly led
in blinding snow and endless cold
and found the paths that Dwarves would tread.
His people followed fast their lord,
over fen to trudge and ridge to climb,
through mountains sheer and icy ford
came Bëor’s folk upon a time
to Ossiriand. And now awoke
they, one by one, to Finrod’s song
while round them swayed the leafy oaks
in gentle winds and music long.
And there they hearkened, under spell
of Felagund’s voice, a melody clear,
and loud it echoed as peal of bell,
as sudden thrill that bound them there.

“O lord,” at last had Bëor cried,
“What god or herald visits us?
For wretched are we, as you’ve spied.
O’er mountains far in tatters thus,
in rags we’ve roamed. In ice and snow
we wandered lost for many a day,
by dell and pass, by heath and sloe,
at last we through the mountain-way
came hither without map or guide.
For rumors far of Light we heard
to western lands in hope we’ve hied
though naught we’ve found but beast and bird
til now. Indeed I see a Light
and wonder in your sweetest song
whose music breathed in image bright
and leapt my heart such distance long
to lands unseen, with sounds unheard,
as deep in music shimmering
was magic in your singing word
and living shadows glimmering.
What divine message do you convey,
O lord? Or maybe godly orders
and tidings borne from far away
beyond these mortal, earthly borders?”

“Soft,” there answered Finrod king,
and silence came on his command,
for loud he spoke and stilled the string.
The harp fell silent in his hand.
“None has sent me, O folk of Men,
no god nor herald am I to you    
though moving powers beyond my ken
had called me here. These mountains blue
and streaming waters of Ossiriand
did hold me here, my ways beguiled
by winding lodes in mountain land
by meadows and by flowers wild.

“Yet of your coming was foretold
by he the doomsman among Valar
o’er Sea and gnashing ice of cold
on Araman north, in West afar.
On silent mound he stood alone,
he spoke then of the Second-born,
the Men whose fates already sewn
within the fabric. And on that morn
that Sun first rose did then awaken
the sleeping Arda, beast and bird,
grasses green from slumber shaken,
and blooms and trees in Sunlight stirred.
So it was then that ye awoke
to rising morn, a second spring,
or so ’twas said among Elven folk
when Anor rose on flaming wing
from the Utter West. Though Eldar-folk
have heard no word nor rumors dim
ever reached us here that ye awoke
beyond Beleriand’s eastern rim
til now. You come from mountain ways
on many forgotten eastern roads
as Elves did too in bygone days
when high above the sky were sowed
the ancient stars by Varda, queen,
like jewels bright in sable field
was light beloved, quivering, keen,
an endless fabric thus revealed
in Cuiviénen beneath the stars.
Far east now lie forgotten lands,
those waking waters, waters far
from the shivering woods of Beleriand.
But no more we can we thither go
where lost now run the ancient ways
that Elven-fathers long ago
westward came in Twilit Days.

“But whence came you from yonder realm,
what waters fair, or tarn, or mere,
beneath what oak, or ash, or elm,
lay the sleeping waters clear?
For now I see you, child of Men,
alike to us in form and voice,
as Children twain, our brethren.
At this meeting do I rejoice,
and now I name ye, Second-born,
Atanatári, in Noldorin,
children of the Sun and morn.”
Then silence fell on all therein,
in wonder of the Elven name.    
And long they sat within the glade
while shadows thrown by dying flame
leapt about the circled shade.

Above them climbed the silver fire
of Valacirca’s sickled light,
and Finrod took up again the lyre
and music filled anew the night.
His power by his voice revealed,
and time itself did move to still.
While the earth listened, while stars wheeled,
his music rang from hill to hill.

The branches bare, the mountains old
the land now under roaring tide
the grasses high and rivers cold,  
all buried beneath the ocean wide.
And even in Ossiriand
on leaf and stone the ages lay
and gone of old are Elves from land,
for long ago, they passed away.  
And gone is Finrod Elven-king,
long he left the Hither-shore
into the West where warblers sing
and comes to Middle-Earth no more. 
He walks in Elven halls of old
beneath the shinning silver eaves
beneath the rustling boughs of gold
and wind among the dancing leaves.
And there the green, undying plains
roll on beside the Shadowmere
and earthen time like chiming rains
still fall in countless Elven-years.
But Bëor and his folk of Men,
where now they walk, none can tell,
away afar, beyond the ken
of Elven-kind, beyond the bell
of the changéd and the edgeless world
beyond the crowns of oak and elm,
beyond the staves of Music furled,
beyond the night’s murky helm.
The lands they walk, no one has seen
what sight or music, none shall know,
what azure skies and grasses green,
what air or water, joy or woe. 

But long ago, in Ossiriand
they walked the woods of hinterland
beneath the sunlight’s eastern rays
when the world was fair in Elder Days.

Chapter End Notes

This monstrously long poem took almost 10 years to write!

Several phrases, rhymes and lines are borrowed from various Tolkien poems—e.g. “grey the Norland waters [run]” (Bilbo’s Song of Eärendil) and “silver fire / of old that Men did call the Briar” (used several times in the Lay of Leithian), among many others. Of course the writerly reason is that sometimes I can’t resist how beautiful the imagery are, or that I’m not sufficiently inventive myself. And yet I think these lyric echoes are also true in a in-universe sense: in Medieval ballads can be found similar stock phrases or allusive echoes to older or contemporaneous poems. Therefore it’s nice to think of these echoes as evincing the poem’s literary lineage.

VI.

Of the death of Finrod Felagund and the deeds of the House of Bëor

The deeds of mighty Bëor’s clan
that bards still sing in Elven-song
in ages long ago began
on the sloping hills of Dorthonion.

For many years would Bëor’s folk
walk upon the stony land
and labor neath the beech and oak
of Ladros, and in Beleriand
went Baran mighty, Bregolas,    
and Morwen Eledhwen, stern and fair.
For many seasons the leaf and grass,
grew and fell in northern air
beneath the stars, and grew again.
But long ago was loud the cry    
of Barahir on flaming plain,
that rang beneath the smoking sky
when Ard-galen in embers laved,
and Finrod thus with mighty spear
in dire hour from death was saved.
His ring he gave to Barahir
borne out of the Undying West
a token of abiding bond,
and later, as unlooked for guest
did Beren come to Nargothrond
to call on everlasting ties
the oath of friendship unforsaken
and answered him did Finrod wise.
By roadways that were seldom taken
they went forth. Of pain and death
unheeding rode they, Beren bold
and Finrod fair. The bitter breath
of morgul-towers and sorcelled cold
would fare for the hand of Lúthien.
Yet there would perish Finrod king
in dungeon deep and pit within
when round him wound a creeping ring
of beastly wolves, whose iron teeth
tore into Finrod’s body bare,
who fell in darkness far beneath
the Sirion’s water that once ran clear.
And flew he then on dying wing,
from yawning gate and darkling walls
and Hither-lands passed Finrod king,
returning to the timeless Halls
where Mandos sits and looks afar,
and walks he now on Shinning Shore,
but under Moon or under star to hither comes he never more.

But Beren was, beyond all hope
saved from death by Tinúviel.
They buried Finrod on the slope
of island green, as morgul-spell
she broke and cleaned. They went alone
through woods of nightshade flying sped,
to stand uncloaked before the Throne
and dauntless meet the King of Dread.
So singing Lúthien cast him down,
and Beren cut from forgéd weld
Fëanor’s Jewel from Iron Crown.
With hands enjoined they both beheld
the Jewel of light. Though both defied
they Foe and Oath of Silmaril,
yet in the end she also died,
beside Beren dead, Tinúviel,
who danced in starlit hemlock-paths
where once the Elven-river ran
in green, inviolate Doriath,
before the mortal Sun began.

And dark the Norland waters turned
in rivers rushing down to shore,
and into ruin. Kingdoms burned
by flames of treachery and war.
Fell Gondolin and Nargothrond
and Doriath hidden, green and fair,
where nightingales in Region
once sang and thrilled the forest air.
For under waves of ocean rolling
are mountain, vale, and cave alike,
the silver harps, the clock-bells tolling,
the jeweléd pillars, sword and pike.
And foundered now is Elvenesse,
the golden halls, the carven ways,
and all the things of loveliness
that once there were in Elder Days.

V.

Of the disquiet of the Green-elves and the passing of Men into Beleriand

The autumn deepend. Red turned trees.
Softly falling one by one
were beechen-leaf in northern breeze
from branches bare. The distant Sun
streaked thin and wan in frosty air,
and leaping into kindled lights
was starry host so silver-fair
when dark and cloudless were the nights
in winter come. Then softly fell
the early snow on shaggy boughs.
And Bëor’s folk still dwelt in dell
by shallow streams and woody howes.

Houses small they built of wood,
felled from living groves of trees
that since the days of Twilight stood,
and this the Green-elves did displease,
who hid themselves from Bëor’s men.
Naught else did they treasured more    
than things that grow in wood and glen,
the leafy whirl on forest floor,
the rustling song of windy skies.
So Felagund the Nandor sought
his counsel and his kingship wise.

“These Men, Lord Finrod, we love not,
these strangers out of mountains east.
Their axes fall on many trees,
their careless spears on bird and beast.
Their fires give us great unease.
The woods of Ossiriand to us
are dearer than the fallow gold
or opal pale, and dearer thus
than diamond or silver cold,
or weapon hoards in treasury    
or shining arms. Above all worth
we hold in love and memory
the things that grow upon the earth
and bend and dance in windy glens.
We love this many-rivered realm
where nightly roam the roes and wrens,
and windy sighs the branching elm,
beneath the Moon; and near and far,
as silver on the shivering leaf,
are shadows swimming under stars
while windy sings each stalk and sheaf.
To them we give our heart and more,
as loved is every bough and stem
that weave the woods of Hither-shore
as dolven halls or carven gem
to Noldor-folk. Our love as deep
as roots unnumbered, deeper still,
for ever since the Twilit sleep
we lingered here, our songs did fill
these forests fair with fain delight,
in music made beneath the oak
in the endless years of starlit night.
So pray, lord, bade these stranger folk
depart from us, for is there not
some wood in yonder westward field,    
in your own realms where can be sought
a land or fief, for them to shield?”

Finrod gave thought unto this plea
that the newly-come should go forth
from Ossiriand, and at last agreed
to find them succor in the North.
So went the men of Bëor bold
westward to Beleriand,
across the Gelion’s waters cold,
the border of the Elven-land.
They dwelt in Estolad for a time,
until they over nothern hills
and snowy Himlad-plains did climb
through Aglon’s gorge. And onward still
they climbed by rocky highland pass
and near the founts of Rivil’s well
they northward saw the rolling grass
of Ard-galen ere the fires fell.
And on they walked in heathers wild
by Aeluin deep that windy ran
silver neath the Moonlight mild
and took as fief then, Bëor's clan,
the hills of Ladros, no more to roam
in eastern woods or mountains cold.
In Dorthonion they built their home
in green and gentle ridges rolled
in days of peace, when vigils kept
the Elven-lords on the Dreaded Foe,
who in his hold had seeming slept,
and woke not yet his beasts of woe.

A manuscript of this translation of The Lay of Felagund was brought from the library of Elrond in Imladris by King Elessar in FA 22. Copies were made of much of Elven-lore in Imladris, to be studied and preserved in the North and South Kingdoms. A second translation of Finrod and Bëor survives as well, but only in smaller fragments. The beginning is rendered thus:

In eastern lands there once a wood
that under Ered Luin stood,
dense with boughs and thickets grey;
and in its eaves did Finrod stray.

Unhorsed he wandered under trees
by flowers nodding in the breeze
he trod the valley’s secret ways
in woodlands of the Elder Days.
He walked in streaming waters cold
when spring was young upon the mould.
He silent passed its walls of stone
in Thargelion, he walked alone.

As dusk and dawn both passed him by
in wheeling stars in eastern sky
rose bright the Sun and cold the Moon.
The ever-changing night and noon
alike fell yet on Finrod-king:
Of marks of lordship, save a ring
in flowing gold-work, he wore none;
though of his ring now songs are sung.

This version seems to end at the death of Finrod and makes no mention of the later deeds of the House of Bëor.