(based on Casabianca by Felicia Hemans)

The wiz stood on the burning bridge
Whence all but him had run
The flame that lit his ruffled beard
Shone round as battle begun
 
Yet cloaked in grey, so bright he stood,
As one to rule the storm;
A maiar of heroic blood,
A proud though big-nosed form.
 
The flames roll'd on; he would not go
Nor let this danger flash
Beyond the bridge it could not blow,
He voice'd "You shall not pass!"
 
He call'd aloud,  "Stay farther, stay!
The rest of you should run!"
He knew not that the others gaped
And stood there as if stunned.
 
"To shadows!"  once again he cried,
"Begone! Get you begone!"
Only the cracking whip replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.
 
Upon his brow he felt hot breath,
And in his waving hair,
And look'd from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair,
 
And shouted as bridge it crack'd,
"Fly fools, and do not stay!"
As by him fast, through smoke red-black,
The Balrog fell away.
 
It wrapt his knees with fiery whip,
It caught him from below,
And down he fell with a flap and flip,
Like flying very slow.
 
Then came a burst of opera sound;
The wiz, --- Oh !  Where was he?
(Ask of the reader, for around
This plot they've been indeed, --- )
 
The staff and hat and flowing hair,
They well had done their biz, ---
But the noblest thing that perish'd there
Was that old, faithful wiz.