LITMIR.BIZ

      The Gnomes come to the narrowing of the seas, and prepare to sail. While they are encamped upon the shore Fëanor and his sons and people sail off taking with them all the boats, and leave Fingolfin on the far shore treacherously, thus beginning the curse of Swanhaven. They burn the boats as soon as they land in the East of the world, and Fingolfin’s people see the light in the sky. The same light also tells the Orcs of the landing.

      Fingolfin’s people wander miserably. Some under Fingolfin return to Valinor to seek the Gods’ pardon. Fingon leads the main host North, and over the Grinding Ice. Many are lost.

      Among the poems that my father embarked on during his years at the University of Leeds (most notably the Lay of the Children of Húrin in alliterative verse) was The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor. This poem, also in alliterative verse, was abandoned after 150 lines. It is certain that it was written at Leeds, in (I think it extremely probable) 1925, the year in which he took up his appointment to the professorship of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford. From this poetic fragment I will cite a part, beginning at the ‘vast concourse on the square on the summit of Kôr’ where Fëanor ‘made a violent speech’, described in a passage of the Sketch of the Mythology p.32. The name Finn at lines 4 and 16 is the Gnomish form of Finwë, the father of Fëanor; Bredhil at line 49 the Gnomish name of Varda.

      But the Gnomes were numbered by name and kin,

      marshalled and ordered in the mighty square

      upon the crown of Kôr. There cried aloud

      the fierce son of Finn. Flaming torches

      5

      he held and whirled in his hands aloft,

      those hands whose craft the hidden secret

      knew, that none Gnome or mortal

      hath matched or mastered in magic or in skill.

      ‘Lo! slain is my sire by the sword of fiends,

      10

      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 or renew on earth,

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      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

      20

      of the Gods’ 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,

      25

      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

      30

      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 these for bold footsteps

      35

      than gardens of the Gods gloom-encircled

      with idleness filled and empty days.

      Yea! though the light lit them and the loveliness

      beyond heart’s desire that hath held us slaves

      here long and long. But that light is dead.

      40

      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 –

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      Morgoth has 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 –

      50

      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

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      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,

      60

      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,

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      with linkéd hands there lightly took

      the

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