Amongst the first-born are those born of the First Age,
Which elsewhere is confined to page,
Oft it drives them to despair,
That they can merely recall Beleriand the Fair,
These recollections are indeed old,
But aged they have not, as you shall be told,
So free your minds from the troubles at hand,
And let them fly to Beleriand,
One of the fonder memories,
Is city by the Sirion’s six estuaries,
White were its walls and tall its towers,
Beloved of the Western Powers,
Bold Eärendil was its lord,
And though his custom was to sail abroad,
Elwing Diorwendë brought him home,
She, more beauteous than the waves and sea-foam,
On her breast she wore a jewel,
Wars it would kindle and their flames it would fuel,
When Lúthien stole it Morgoth’s cry was shrill,
For radiant was this Silmaril,
The Dark Lord was not alone in his desire,
For Fëanor, burned by Balrog-fire,
Had made his sons swear to never relinquish,
Their claim on the light that did not diminish,
Of these mighty Maedhros was eldest,
Second was Maglor whose voice none could best,
Also Amrod the hunter whose hair burned red-flame,
Where once had been seven only these three remained,
When Maedhros heard the gem he long had sought for,
Was worn in the south by the daughter of Dior,
He sent for younger of his still-living brothers,
And said, “Reclaim our inheritance from these Sindarin others,”
“But take care to soften your words,
For what is ill-spoken is often ill-heard,
This time, I hope, my sword I shall stay,
Since none of us wish to again kinslay,”
Thus Amrod departed, though without hope in his heart,
For with a Silmaril of Fëanor few wished to part,
At length he came to the dwelling by the sea,
And sought an audience with the Diorwendë,
