There is a vast concourse on the square on the summit of Kôr about the tower of Ing, lit by torches. Fëanor makes a violent speech, and though his wrath is for Morgoth his words are in part the fruit of Morgoth’s lies. He bids the Gnomes fly in the darkness while the Gods are wrapped in mourning, to seek freedom in the world and to seek out Morgoth, now Valinor is no more blissful than the world outside. Fingolfin and Fingon speak against him. The assembled Gnomes vote for flight, and Fingolfin and Fingon yield; they will not desert their people, but they retain command over a half of the Noldoli of Tûn.
The flight begins. The Teleri will not join. The Gnomes cannot escape without boats, and do not dare to cross the Grinding Ice. They attempt to seize the swan-ships in Swanhaven, and a fight ensues (the first between the races of the Earth) in which many Teleri are slain, and their ships carried off. A curse is pronounced upon the Gnomes, that they shall after suffer often from treachery and the fear of treachery among their own kindred in punishment for the blood spilled at Swanhaven. They sail North along the coast of Valinor. Mandos sends an emissary, who speaking from a high cliff hails them as they sail by, and warns them to return, and when they will not, speaks the ‘Prophecy of Mandos’ concerning the fate of after days.
The Gnomes come to the narrowing of the seas, and prepare to sail. While they are encamped upon the shore Fëanor and his sons and people sail off taking with them all the boats, and leave Fingolfin on the far shore treacherously, thus beginning the curse of Swanhaven. They burn the boats as soon as they land in the East of the world, and Fingolfin’s people see the light in the sky. The same light also tells the Orcs of the landing.
Fingolfin’s people wander miserably. Some under Fingolfin return to Valinor to seek the Gods’ pardon. Fingon leads the main host North, and over the Grinding Ice. Many are lost.
Among the poems that my father embarked on during his years at the University of Leeds (most notably the Lay of the Children of Húrin in alliterative verse) was The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor. This poem, also in alliterative verse, was abandoned after 150 lines. It is certain that it was written at Leeds, in (I think it extremely probable) 1925, the year in which he took up his appointment to the professorship of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford. From this poetic fragment I will cite a part, beginning at the ‘vast concourse on the square on the summit of Kôr’ where Fëanor ‘made a violent speech’, described in a passage of the Sketch of the Mythology p.32. The name Finn at lines 4 and 16 is the Gnomish form of Finwë, the father of Fëanor; Bredhil at line 49 the Gnomish name of Varda.
But the Gnomes were numbered by name and kin,
marshalled and ordered in the mighty square
upon the crown of Kôr. There cried aloud
the fierce son of Finn. Flaming torches
5
he held and whirled in his hands aloft,
those hands whose craft the hidden secret
knew, that none Gnome or mortal
hath matched or mastered in magic or in skill.
‘Lo! slain is my sire by the sword of fiends,
10
his death he has drunk at the doors of his hall
and deep fastness, where darkly hidden
the Three were guarded, the things unmatched
that Gnome and Elf and the Nine Valar
can never remake or renew on earth,
15
recarve or rekindle by craft or magic,
not Fëanor Finn’s son who fashioned them of yore –
the light is lost whence he lit them first,
the fate of Faërie hath found its hour.
Thus the witless wisdom its reward hath earned
20
of the Gods’ jealousy, who guard us here
to serve them, sing to them in our sweet cages,
to contrive them gems and jewelled trinkets,
their leisure to please with our loveliness,
while they waste and squander work of ages,
25
nor can Morgoth master in their mansions sitting
at countless councils. Now come ye all,
who have courage and hope! My call harken
to flight, to freedom in far places!
The woods of the world whose wide mansions
30
yet in darkness dream drowned in slumber,
the pathless plains and perilous shores
no moon yet shines on nor mounting dawn
in dew and daylight hath drenched for ever,
far better were these for bold footsteps
35
than gardens of the Gods gloom-encircled
with idleness filled and empty days.
Yea! though the light lit them and the loveliness
beyond heart’s desire that hath held us slaves
here long and long. But that light is dead.
40
Our gems are gone, our jewels ravished;
and the Three, my Three, thrice-enchanted
globes of crystal by gleam undying
illumined, lit by living splendour
and all hues’ essence, their eager flame –
45
Morgoth has them in his monstrous hold,
my Silmarils. I swear here oaths
unbreakable bonds to bind me ever,
by Timbrenting and the timeless halls
of Bredhil the Blessed that abides thereon –
50
may she hear and heed – to hunt endlessly
unwearying unwavering through world and sea,
through leaguered lands, lonely mountains,
over fens and forest and the fearful snows,
till I find those fair ones, where the fate is hid
55
of the folk of Elfland and their fortune locked,
where alone now lies the light divine.’
Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen,
crafty Curufin, Celegorm the fair,
Damrod and Díriel and dark Cranthir,
60
Maglor the mighty, and Maidros tall
(the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt
than his father’s flame, than Fëanor’s wrath;
him fate awaited with fell purpose),
these leapt with laughter their lord beside,
65
with linkéd hands there lightly took
the