Lo! the flame of fire and fierce hatred
engulfed Gondolin and its glory fell,
its tapering towers and its tall rooftops
were laid all low, and its leaping fountains
made no music more on the mount of Gwareth,
and its whitehewn walls were whispering ash.
But Wade of the Helsings wearyhearted
Tûr the earthborn was tried in battle
from the wrack and ruin a remnant led
women and children and wailing maidens
and wounded men of the withered folk
down the path unproven that pierced the hillside,
neath Tumladin he led them to the leaguer of hills
that rose up rugged as ranged pinnacles
to the north of the vale. There the narrow way
of Cristhorn was cloven, the Cleft of Eagles,
through the midmost mountains. And more is told
in lays and in legend and lore of others
of that weary way of the wandering folk;
how the waifs of Gondolin outwitted Melko,
vanished o'er the vale and vanquished the hills,
how Glorfindel the golden in the gap of the Eagles
battled with the Balrog and both were slain:
one like flash of fire from fanged rock,
one like bolted thunder black was smitten
to the dreadful deep digged by Thornsir.
Of the thirst and hunger of the thirty moons
when they sought for Sirion and were sore bestead
by plague and peril; of the Pools of Twilight
and Land of Willows; when their lamentation
was heard in the halls where the high Gods sate
veiled in Valinor in the Vanished Isles;
all this have others in ancient stories
and songs unfolded, but say I further
how their lot was lightened, how they laid them down
in long grasses of the Land of Willows.
There sun was softer, then the sweet breezes
and whispering winds, there wells of slumber
and the dew enchantedwhere stony-voiced
that stream of Eaglesruns o'er the rocky [...]