Song of Durin [French translation]

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone,

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty Kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away:

The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shown forever far and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There blade was forged and bound the hilt;

The delver mined the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in horde.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.