Of Finrod and Bëor by losselen  

Canto I: Of Finrod tarrying in Ossiriand

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.