Then for a little while was there such a stilling of the tumult about
him there, that he heard great and glad cries from the Road of the
South of 'The Burg and the Steer! The Dale and the Bridge! The Dale
and the Bull!' And thereafter a terrible great shrieking cry, and a
huge voice that cried: 'Death, death, death to the Dusky Men!' And
thereafter again fierce cries and great tumult of the battle.
Then Face-of-god shook Dale-warden in the air, and strode forward
fiercely, but not speedily, and the whole company went foot for foot
along with him; and as he went, would he or would he not, song came
into his mouth, a song of the meadows of the Dale, even such as this:
The wheat is done blooming and rust's on the sickle,
And green are the meadows grown after the scythe.
Come, hands for the dance! For the toil hath been mickle,
And 'twixt haysel and harvest 'tis time to be blithe.
And what shall the tale be now dancing is over,
And kind on the meadow sits maiden by man,
And the old man bethinks him of days of the lover,
And the warrior remembers the field that he wan?
Shall we tell of the dear days wherein we are dwelling,
The best days of our Mother, the cherishing Dale,
When all round about us the summer is telling,
To ears that may hearken, the heart of the tale?
Shall we sing of these hands and these lips that caress us,
And the limbs that sun-dappled lie light here beside,
When still in the morning they rise but to bless us,
And oft in the midnight our footsteps abide?
O nay, but to tell of the fathers were better,
And of how we were fashioned from out of the earth;
Of how the once lowly spurned strong at the fetter;
Of the days of the deeds and beginning of mirth.
Pages:
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541