More Lay of Leithian...

I thought instead of going to a '62 Rite High Mass in Hatfield this morning that I'd take a much needed sojourn in the Great Lands instead. Let us return to the gest of Beren and Lúthien. Canto V of The Lay of Leithian does not cover a narrative of any significant length, merely the mourning of Tinúviel, the treachery of Dairon [Daeron], the building of the Tree-house in great Hirilorn and finally the escape of Tinúviel (and one could add, perhaps, the repentence and wandering of Dairon, something which survives into The Silmarillion), and even appears to be at variance with the narrative of The Silmarillion on at least one point (the ''curse of silence'' for example - whence came this?), and so I shall skip to Canto VI instead, which speaks of the wandering of Beren.

Now Beren came unto the pools,

wide shallow meres where Sirion cools

his gathered tide beneath the stars,

ere chafed and sundered by the bars

of reedy banks and mighty fen

he feeds and drenches, plunging then

into vast chasms underground,

where many miles his way is wound.

Umboth-Muilin [Aelin-uial], Twilight Meres,

those great wide waters grey as tears

the Elves then named. Through driving rain

from thence across the Guarded Plain

the Hills of the Hunters Beren saw

with bare tops bitten bleak and raw

by western winds; but in the mist

of streaming rans that flashed and hissed

into the meres he knew there lay

beneath those hills the cloven way

of Narog, and the watchful halls

of Felagund beside the falls

of Ingwil [Ringwil] tumbling from the wold.

An everlasting watch they hold,

the Gnomes of Nargothrond renowned,

and every hill is tower-crowned,

where wardens sleepless peer and gaze

guarding the plain and all the ways

between Narog swift and Sirion pale;

and archers whose arrows never fail

there range the woods, and secret kill

all who creep thither against their will.

Yet now he thrusts into that land

bearing the gleaming ring on hand

of Felagund, and oft doth cry:

''Here comes no wandering Orc or spy,

but Beren son of Barahir

who once to Felagund was dear.''

So ere he reached the eastward shore

of Narog, that doth foam and roar

o'er boulders black, those archers green

came round him. When the ring was seen

they bowed before him, though his plight

was poor and beggarly. Then by night

they led him northward, for no ford

nor bridge was built where Narog poured

before the gates of Nargothrond,

and friend nor foe might pass beyond.

To northward, where that stream yet young

more slender flowed, below the tongue

of foam-splashed land that Ginglith pens

when her brief golden torrent ends

and joins the Narog, there they wade.

Now swiftest journey thence they made

to Nargothrond's sheer terraces

and dim gigantic palaces.

They came beneath a sickle moon

to doors there darkly hung and hewn

with posts and lintels of pondrous stone

and timbers huge. Now open thrown

were gaping gates, and in they strode

where Felagund on throne abode.

Fair were the words of Narog's king

to Beren, and his wandering

and all his feuds and bitter wars

recounted soon. Behind closed doors

they sat, while Beren told his tale

of Doriath; and words him fail

recalling Lúthien dancing fair

with wild white roses in her hair,

remembering her elven voice that rung

while stars in twilight round her hung.

He spake of Thingol's marvellous halls

by enchantment lit, where fountain falls

and ever the nightingale doth sing

to Melian and to her king.

The quest he told that Thingol laid

in scorn on him; how for love of maid

more fair than ever was born to Men,

of Tinúviel, of Lúthien,

he must essay the burning waste,

and doubtless death and torment taste.

(The History of Middle-earth, Volume III, The Lays of Beleriand).