Darkness lies on ancient throne,
Seven circles wrought of stone,
Carven marble walls of white,
Powerless to stem the night.
Deathly crimson run the tides
Endless fear where death resides
Terror’s legions’ blackened flood
Turn the moonlit stone to blood.
Men of ancient noble race
Proud of glance and fair of face,
Led the city – now no more;
Death has found a secret door.
Stone of nightshade, gleaming black
Twisting fires swirling back
Snared the lord who dared to strive
With despair whom none survive.
By the orb the eldest forth
Went to death far in the North
Now the last remaining son
Dies for what his brother won.
Wolves of fire rage below
Gates of silver molten flow
As a beacon falling far
Blazes like a dying star.
Where are they, the Lords of Light?
Who can stem this tide of night?
Victory has passed away
Hopeless as the coming day.
Sudden, from the sable East
O’er the roar of Mordor’s feast
Clear and wild crying forth
Sound the voices of the North.
Against the murky, clouded skies
Like a dream shadows arise;
Faint among their banners run
The first shafts of the rising sun.
Banners crimson wrought with gold,
Beneath them fields of green unfold,
Horses white gilded with flame,
Emblems of an ancient name.
The night is breaking ‘ere ordained
Death finds his terror’s power stained
Victory slips from his dark grasp
Who proudly thought he held it fast.
Before his host spurs forth the King
His arms of gold bright glimmering
His steed whiter than snow by far
And swifter than a falling star.
His helm is like a burning brand
His shield a sun-shaft in his hand
His sword upraised blazes with light
As beacons kindled in the night.
Three times the Rohirrim cry out
Three times they raise their fearful shout
Then charge as, thousands with one breath,
They call upon the name of Death.
Amid the shadows sounds a horn,
Beneath their feet thunder is born
Six thousand spears gleam cold and bright
Like stars upon a moonless night.
A fell light gleams within their eyes
Their foes quail trembling at their cries
Along their line spears laid in rest
Shine like a dark wave’s foaming crest.
Stand not, foemen, to abide
The power of the coming tide;
Mordor’s might is swept away
As the Men of Rohan play.
Iron hooves shod with despair
Pound the earth, now black, once fair
Blood dissolves the ancient rust
As bright steel grinds all to dust.
Who can stand before their force?
Fell the rider, swift his horse
Lords of Rohan’s sweeping plain
Field’s of Pelennor regain.
Darkness’ forces turn and flee;
‘Make thou safe Gondor’s city!’
Glory to Theoden King
And the mighty Rohirrim.