“My Lord is mad! Lord Denethor is mad!
I never dreamed that things could be as bad
As this! Lord Denethor took Faramir
With him. Now for his life I greatly fear.
Lord Faramir still in a fever lies.
His father has gone mad. Whyfor he dies?
Lord Denethor is choosing suicide
Like the old pagan kings, who, in their pride
Eased their own passing by burning their kin
On their own pyres. But till they this door win
No pyres shall be lit: the needed flame
Is brought by other guards – on whom be shame! –
To burn the steward on the hasty pyre
Heaped up inside. Yet still he lacks the fire
To light the blaze. So here I am – aware
Our steward, mazed by grief, broke by despair
Ascends Rath Dínen as the warden stayed
My path. In haste I argue with my blade
To cut him down, and snatch the warden’s key
To pass the gate and follow where I see
The steward goes. I hurry from the gate
Praying the Vala I am not too late
And come here to the mausoleum door
Drive back the guards by force, to whom I swore
I’d cut them down before they might bring fire
To burn Lord Faramir or his own sire.
What insane frenzy or hysteria brings
Such men to this? My trusty longsword swings
About. I cut one down, then two I lay
Upon the stones. This is but a delay
Till I am overborne. But – who is here?
Great Vala in the West! ‘Tis Mithrandir!”
And Gandalf came in wrath, his blinding light
Lit up the Rath Dínen and banished night.
Gandalf stood down the guards, then Denethor
Confronted who emerged from the crypt-door
With sword upraised. Gandalf arrests his stroke
By raising up his hand. Denethor broke
Into a cry – his sword flies from his hand.
He flinches from the wizard’s stern command:
“Where is your son? Where is Lord Faramir?”
The Steward cackles. “Here! My son is here!
He burns! I’ve set a fire to his flesh
Which turns to ash this frail, human-mesh
Of blood and bone…” Gandalf, seeing him mad
Brushed him aside, and seeing all he had
Prepared within, building himself a pyre
To immolate himself in burning fire
On top of which lay Faramir – he leapt
Atop the heap, lifting the body, kept
Moving until the son he gently laid
Some lengths away. But Denethor then made
To stab his son to death with his own knife
Except I stepped between to save his life:
With my own naked blade I force him back.
The steward, crazed, foiled in his attack
Stares with demented eyes before he cries
And seized a torch. Before our very eyes
He lit the pyre, then broke in pieces twain
His staff with all the strength of the insane
Then takes himself and lies down with his head
Upon his bed of flames, that quickly fed
Upon the oil-drenched wood. A palantir
He drew from neath his cloak, which he held near
His heart. No more we see as we retreat
With haste escaping from the searing heat
Filling the chamber as we dragged the bier
On which still lay, unconscious, Faramir.
Behind us, wrapt in flame, and billowing smoke,
The intense heat the mausoleum broke:
Caving its roof, while its walls cracked and fell
Into the flames, forming a fiery shell
Of stone where fires burned. As the stones crack
Apart, upon it all I turned my back
To follow Gandalf, leaving Denethor
To burn to ash on the hill of Gondor.
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