Куплет 1:
The
world was
young, the
mountains green
No
stain yet
on, the
moon was
seen
No
words were
laid, on
stream or
stone
When
Durin woke, and
walked alone
He named the nameless
hills and
dells
He
drank from
yet untasted wells
He
stooped and
looked in
Mirrormere
And
saw a
crown of
stars appear
As
gems upon a
silver thread
Above the
shadows of his
head
The
world was
fair, the
mountains tall,
In
Elder Days before the
fall
Of
mighty kings in
Nargothrond
And
Gondolin, who
now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
the
world was
fair in
Durin's Day.
A
king he
was on
carven throne
In
many-pillared halls of
stone
With
golden roof and
silver floor,
And
runes of
power upon the
door.
The
light of
sun and
star and
moon
In
shining lamps of
crystal hewn
Undimmed by
cloud or
shade of
night
There
shone for
ever fair and
bright.
There
hammer on the
anvil smote,
There
chisel clove, and
graver wrote;
There
forged was
blade, and
bound was
hilt;
The
delver mined, the
mason built.
There
beryl, pearl, and
opal pale,
And
metal wrought like
fishes' mail,
Buckler and
corslet, axe and
sword,
And
shining spears were
laid in
hoard.
Unwearied then were
Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The
harpers harped, the
minstrels sang,
And
at the
gates the
trumpets rang.
The
world is
gray, the
mountains old
The
forge's fire, is
ashen cold
No
harp is
wrung, no hammer
falls
The
darkness dwells in
Durin's halls
The
shadow lies upon his
tomb
In
Moria, in
Khazad-dûm
But
still the
sunken stars appear
In
dark and
windless Mirrormere
There
lies his
crown in
water deep
Till
Durin wakes again from
sleep