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There Curufin had left his life,
had Lúthien not stayed that strife.
Waking she rose and softly cried
standing distressed at Beren’s side:
‘Forbear thy anger now, my lord!
nor do the work of Orcs abhorred;
for foes there be of Elfinesse,
unnumbered, and they grow not less,
while here we war by ancient curse
distraught, and all the world to worse
decays and crumbles. Make thy peace!’
Then Beren did Curufin release;
but took his horse and coat of mail
and took his knife there gleaming pale,
hanging sheathless, wrought of steel.
No flesh could leeches ever heal
that point had pierced; for long ago
the dwarves had made it, singing slow
enchantments, where their hammers fell
in Nogrod ringing like a bell.
Iron as tender wood it cleft,
and sundered mail like woollen weft.
But other hands its haft now held;
its master lay by mortal felled.
Beren uplifting him, far him flung,
and cried ‘Begone!’, with stinging tongue;
‘Begone! thou renegade and fool,
and let thy lust in exile cool!
Arise and go, and no more work
like Morgoth’s slaves or curséd Orc;
and deal, proud son of Fëanor,
in deeds more proud than heretofore!’
Then Beren led Lúthien away,
while Huan still there stood at bay.
‘Farewell,’ cried Celegorm the fair.
‘Far get you gone! And better were
to die forhungered in the waste
than wrath of Fëanor’s sons to taste,
that yet may reach o’er dale and hill.
No gem, nor maid, nor Silmaril
shall ever long in thy grasp lie!
We curse thee under cloud and sky,
we curse thee from rising unto sleep!
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