The third age found these few Maiar –
Pallando, Radagast, and Alatar –
In lands from Valinor too far
Alone, in a land by violence scarred.
The Ithryn Luin went to the East
And battled many a po'erful beast
But to the grief of Curumo not least
Did not return for the Tuesday feast.
For with them Curumo too had gone,
But he returned to the Western dawn
And over time he did go on
To become the much-feared Saruman.
Radagast, the Brown, the Fool,
Was in the end an unfortunate tool
Caught inside a deadly duel
'Twixt Istari in a world cruel –
A world created by the Ainur
Under the direction of a hand so sure;
The hand of Eru, the One, the pure,
The Valar to whom the very fur
Of every beast no doubt belongs,
For it was he who wrote the songs
That brought forth from the darkness throngs
Of followers who spent ages long
Working toward Arda's making.
Through this world of chaos breaking
Strode one who could set Goblins quaking
In their boots, their huge knees shaking
At the very name of his Elven sword –
Glamdring, by the ancients forged
To cut through many a beastly horde
And emerge victorious, a thing of lore.
Olórin was he, who carried the blade
By which the Goblin King to rest was laid,
But better known to those who made
The Silmarils as the Pilgrim Grey –
Mithrandir, who wandered far
And spent many a night 'neath the stars,
Who bore beneath his robes the scars
Of battles best witnessed from afar.
A/N: This was actually written for my English class (we had to write a poem with the day of the week in it, thus the 'Tuesday feast'), but I had way too much fun writing it ^grin^ It came back with a note that said, "You're going to love Beowulf." Should I be scared?