When Morgoth held his stronghold long ago
And elvish warrior kings opposed his might
The Dagor Bragollach its flame did throw
O'er all the lands to cast its ruinous light;
Thus on the Noldorim now fell the night—
Or seemed it so to High King Fingolfin—
For great courageous legions gone to fight,
And elvish clans, and too his bravest kin,
Were slaughtered on a battle-ground they did not win.

In wrath and great despair he took his horse
And from his final bastion blazing rode;
Toward Angband's might he ever set his course
And in Anfauglith's ash Rochallor strode:
As wind through choking dust he took his road.
A light Valarin-fell now filled his eyes;
As Oromë he seemed as power flowed
And flashed about him in his furious cries
To echo in his raging madness to the skies.

To Angband's brazen gates now came alone;
His horn he sounded, smote upon the door;
He made a single combat challenge known
And Morgoth called to settle now his score.
The craven lord of slaves could not ignore
His insults and his horn-calls keen and clear:
Before his captains' faces set to war
With this great elf whose flaming eyes so near
Now set the Dark Lord's teeth on edge in wretched fear.

Came Morgoth, iron-crowned, with blackened shield
And Underworld's Hammer Grond the great;
Beneath him, as a star in darkest field,
Stood Fingolfin in glittering silver's weight,
Blue-crystal guard, blade ice-keen, gleaming straight.
So challenged came like thunder from his lair
When challenger's bright fury set his fate,
For to assay great enemy he'd dare
That all his evil works to him he might repair.

With thund'rous voice aloft he hammer sent
Hurled toward the elf who from it sprang away;
A chasm pit in rocky earth it rent
From whence there darted smoke and fire's ray.
In battle-prowess lunged the elf-king fey
And, wielding Ringil, wounded Morgoth sore;
He fought as lightning rending through the day,
And in dismay fell Angband's hosts galore
As seven times its lord he gravely wounded more.

Yet finally weary grew the warrior king
And Morgoth his great shield on him bore down;
Thrice to his knees was crushed, and thrice did spring
Again with stricken shield and broken crown.
The earth in pitted ash was rent around,
And stumbled he and fell at Morgoth's feet:
With one his neck he forced into the ground:
The elf with final strokes it hewed and beat,
And black blood filled the pits, there smoking in their heat.

So died great Fingolfin the Noldor's lord,
News of whose death the Eagle brought to kin:
As body took he Morgoth's visage scored
So ever after scarred his face's skin
And limped he did where blade had pierced within.
The orcs were ever wary to assay
The mountains past the grave of Fingolfin;
And men and elves indeed recall that day
When he, their great High King, had stood unmoved and fey.

A/N: And finally...Sophia comes through with the long-promised Next Song! *cue cheers.* Sorry for the long wait...other poems, stories, and stuff (most of which I've posted, if you're interested) took over my Muse, and she only returned here because I finally buckled down and made her work at it. I figured that since I mention "mighty kings" in the summary of SftHoF it was long past time to have a mighty king exemplified here, so I simply re-wrote the death of Fingolfin from those several paragraphs in the Silmarillion in poetry form. 'Twas a good way to get back into narrative poems. I hope you liked it! Maybe the next one will come sooner...you never know! (Review, please?)

In case anyone's interested, the slightly odd-seeming rhythm here was intentional: it's called Spenserian Metre, named after Edmund Spenser who used it throughout (what he completed of) the Faerie Queene. I just recently read (a re-spelled) Book I of that, and it was amazing, so I figured I could give good old Spenser a shout-out by writing something in his metre. Here's the specifics:

Each stanza is eight lines of Iambic Pentameter, followed by one line of Iambic Hexameter.

The rhyme scheme is ABABBCBCC .

Not an easy metre to write in, but it was super fun! :)