The Shieldmaiden and the Witch-king by Zdenka  

The Shieldmaiden and the Witch-king

Long and desperate was the battle
fought before the shining city,
Minas Tirith many-towered.
Foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled
was the city of the Stewards;
shattered was the Gate of Gondor.
Near the city was to falling;
deadly perils stood around her.

Hark! a single cock is crowing—
Hark! the horns of Rohan sounding!
Honor keeping, oaths fulfilling,
Rohan came to Gondor’s calling.
Spears were flashing in the sunlight,
hooves like thunder beat the grasses;
singing, they came charging onward.

One among that host of Riders,
Dernhelm came in bitter sorrow;
drawn by love of lord and kindred,
stung by pain of love rejected,
darkly troubled and despairing.
Hidden under Dernhelm’s mantle,
sharing grey Windfola's saddle,
sat a hobbit, small but faithful,
Merry of the distant Shire.

Wheeling o’er the field of battle
came the Ringwraiths bringing horror.
Shrill and cold, their shrieking voices
froze the blood of all that heard them.
There among the dead and dying
lay the stricken King of Rohan.
Swooping down, the Lord of Nazgûl
covered him with wings of shadow.

Yet the king was not forsaken.
Dernhelm’s sword rang from its scabbard:
“Touch him not, or I will slay you!”
And the Nazgûl coldly answered:
“Flee, or worse than death awaits you.
Fool! No living man can slay me.”

Then Dernhelm pulled off her helmet,
let her golden hair blow freely.
“’Tis no man you see before you!
I am Éowyn of Rohan,
and a woman's sword shall end you.”
Doomed and fair she stood before him,
held her ground and laughed defiance.

Silent was the Witch-king, shrouded
in his fearsome cloak of shadow,
and it almost seemed he doubted—
but his doubt was quickly banished.
Swift the fell beast struck, outspreading
wings that blotted out the sunlight,
raising iron claws to rend her.
Swift her sword flashed out in answer,
and the Nazgûl mount fell lifeless.

Lord of Nazgûl, King of Angmar,
deeply learned in dark enchantment,
bent his burning eyes upon her.
Down he smashed with mace of iron,
like a thunderbolt descending.
Éowyn, her left arm broken
and her shield in pieces shattered,
staggered on her feet unsteady.
Once again his mace was lifted.
Yet the deadly blow was halted;
valiant though his heart was quaking,
Merry, hobbit of the Shire,
struck a single blow to aid her.

Éowyn, though darkness pressed her,
stabbed with all her strength remaining
at the wraith who loomed above her,
struck her foe and struck him truly.
With a scream, his spirit scattered,
vanishing upon the breezes,
wailing, fading into nothing.
Crown and mantle fell down empty.
On the field, dismay and anguish
seized on all the host of Sauron,
since their deathless captain perished.

Hail the shieldmaid, hail her courage!
Let her deeds be aye remembered,
tell them to your sons and daughters!
Sing of it on harps of silver,
while the sun above us passes,
while the mountain's shadow dwindles,
till the shades of night are falling.
This my story now is ended.