The Lord of the Rings Page 0,212

since the tidings of Moria that the Company had brought. Legolas was away much among the Galadhrim, and after the first night he did not sleep with the other companions, though he returned to eat and talk with them. Often he took Gimli with him when he went abroad in the land, and the others wondered at this change.

Now as the companions sat or walked together they spoke of Gandalf, and all that each had known and seen of him came clear before their minds. As they were healed of hurt and weariness of body the grief of their loss grew more keen. Often they heard nearby Elvish voices singing, and knew that they were making songs of lamentation for his fall, for they caught his name among the sweet sad words that they could not understand.

Mithrandir, Mithrandir sang the Elves, O Pilgrim Grey! For so they loved to call him. But if Legolas was with the Company, he would not interpret the songs for them, saying that he had not the skill, and that for him the grief was still too near, a matter for tears and not yet for song.

It was Frodo who first put something of his sorrow into halting words. He was seldom moved to make song or rhyme; even in Rivendell he had listened and had not sung himself, though his memory was stored with many things that others had made before him. But now as he sat beside the fountain in Lórien and heard about him the voices of the Elves, his thought took shape in a song that seemed fair to him; yet when he tried to repeat it to Sam only snatches remained, faded as a handful of withered leaves.

When evening in the Shire was grey

his footsteps on the Hill were heard;

before the dawn he went away

on journey long without a word.

From Wilderland to Western shore,

from northern waste to southern hill,

through dragon-lair and hidden door

and darkling woods he walked at will.

With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men,

with mortal and immortal folk,

with bird on bough and beast in den,

in their own secret tongues he spoke.

A deadly sword, a healing hand,

a back that bent beneath its load;

a trumpet-voice, a burning brand,

a weary pilgrim on the road.

A lord of wisdom throned he sat,

swift in anger, quick to laugh;

an old man in a battered hat

who leaned upon a thorny staff.

He stood upon the bridge alone

and Fire and Shadow both defied;

his staff was broken on the stone,

in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.

‘Why, you’ll be beating Mr. Bilbo next!’ said Sam.

‘No, I am afraid not,’ said Frodo. ‘But that is the best I can do yet.’

‘Well, Mr. Frodo, if you do have another go, I hope you’ll say a word about his fireworks,’ said Sam. ‘Something like this:

The finest rockets ever seen:

they burst in stars of blue and green,

or after thunder golden showers

came falling like a rain of flowers.

Though that doesn’t do them justice by a long road.’

‘No, I’ll leave that to you, Sam. Or perhaps to Bilbo. But – well, I can’t talk of it any more. I can’t bear to think of bringing the news to him.’

One evening Frodo and Sam were walking together in the cool twilight. Both of them felt restless again. On Frodo suddenly the shadow of parting had fallen: he knew somehow that the time was very near when he must leave Lothlórien.

‘What do you think of Elves now, Sam?’ he said. ‘I asked you the same question once before – it seems a very long while ago; but you have seen more of them since then.’

‘I have indeed!’ said Sam. ‘And I reckon there’s Elves and Elves. They’re all Elvish enough, but they’re not all the same. Now these folk aren’t wanderers or homeless, and seem a bit nearer to the likes of us: they seem to belong here, more even than Hobbits do in the Shire. Whether they’ve made the land, or the land’s made them, it’s hard to say, if you take my meaning. It’s wonderfully quiet here. Nothing seems to be going on, and nobody seems to want it to. If there’s any magic about, it’s right down deep, where I can’t lay my hands on it, in a manner of speaking.’

‘You can see and feel it everywhere,’ said Frodo.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘you can’t see nobody working it. No fireworks like poor old Gandalf used to show. I wonder we don’t see nothing of the Lord and Lady in all these days. I fancy now that she could do