Lament for Númenor

First birthed beneath the glorious sun

For mighty deeds and battles done—

Small ripples played across the waves;

Marred Arda trembled ‘neath His gaze—

Behold! arising silently,

His light-suffused, proud artistry—

I dream of fairest Númenor.

O towers, shine! Skilled craftsmen, build!

Sailors, with wind may your sails be filled!

Tall sea-kings, lead! Wise men, create!

Busy your hands; look not to fate!

The kindly lights of Elvenhome

Send guiding words on waves of foam—

I dream of rising Númenor.

Now shines the city, fair and whole;

Gold joy pervades, and glories grow;

From jewel-strewn shores and towers starred,

Brave men take leave to seek afar.

Now wisdom learns; old follies burn;

Sweet light and peace the land has earned—

I dream of noontide Númenor.

Yet ‘midst their highest, glorious time,

Men sit and muse on immortal rhyme;

Kings trace their noble ancestry,

And long for that which ought to be:

The everlasting Elven light—

To reach and grasp eternal life—

I dream of thirsting Númenor.

The trumpets call, the ships set sail,

The men stand armed in glitt’ring mail;

Unfurled, the golden banners fly,

And softly sing that doom is nigh.

Undaunted, to the West men go

To wrest birthright from fancied foe—

I dream of proudest Númenor.

Now creeping through my fitful sleep:

Chill visions dark of waters deep;

And sea-waves, topped with foam, do rise—

In greedy jaws snatch grim their prize;

Belated cries for help resound,

Yet who now can save the too-proud drowned?

I dream of fallen Númenor—

And weep for that which is no more.