of the ancient days, the olden years,
the glory unmatched of the Gods of High Heaven,
the light of the lamps on the land of Bannur
where the Elves dwelt, where ancient kings
yet walked the mould? Wot ye the mighty
mountains of Bannur, mist-enshrouded
trees of stone, temples of the Sky-Lord?
Those awesome peaks, old as time
reached to the sky, rent and scarred
with the passage of years, and powerful still:
clouds caressed their cold summits.
Know ye the northern, never-ending
tangled forests, with trees filled
to overflowing? Their awesome trunks
stood like soldiers: stark, unmoving
against the wind. Their golden leaves
fell to the ground in the failing season
like flocks of birds that flee the winter.
Strong and steadfast, towering trees
held their ground, and hale they remained
amidst the seasons, the moving weather
the wandering ages that wither all.
Do your minstrels remember the mystic streams,
the rivers of Bannur that raced and flowed
as swift as the sword, or the searing flame;
and bubbled and splashed with the boon of life
from their home in the hills through the heaths and lows
to the sea, to the water that surges with spirit?
Ah, but if only those awesome seas
had kept their course, and conquered never
that land, nor leapt upon its plains!
If only the seas had eased their rage
And their anger assuaged at the Elves of the land!
But they unleashed their wrath, and the land was o'erthrown
Bannur was swallowed by the bursting seas
and thrust beneath old Tharnil's waves,
returning never. Toppled were the mountains,
torn were the rivers. The trees rotted
and turned to dust. With terrifying doom
the waters came, and warriors with them:
dwellers in darkness, demon-fiends.
They brought the fire that burned the trees.
They cast the spells that conquered Bannur.
The dark hordes of the days of wrath
assailed the land, and the sea rejoiced
to send its waves to the sorcerous ruin,
and assist the mighty servants of Hell.
The waves reeled, the waters churned
the flames burned, and Bannur fell.
And forever lost by fire and sea
are the ancient tales of the Elves of that land
save to a few: a singing people,
the fading folk's final remnant.
Their tales bespeak of the towers of stone
and the mighty mountains, and the tangled trees
and the rushing rivers, and the holts and heaths
and the Elvish folk of ancient legend
that dwelt of old in doomèd Bannur.
Their tales tell of the tribes of the Elves
and the deeds of valor done by their heroes.
They tell of the gathering terror of darkness
and the wars that were fought in the Wealdings' homeland
which the seas now have consumed, and hold