“The King beneath the mountains,The King of carven stone,The lord of silver fountainsShall come into his own!His crown shall be upholden,His harp shall be restrung,His halls shall echo goldenTo songs of yore re-sung.The woods shall wave on mountains.And grass beneath the sun;His wealth shall flow in fountainsAnd the rivers golden run.The streams shall run in gladness,The lakes shall shine and burn,And sorrow fail and sadnessAt the Mountain-king’s return!”

“Under the Mountain dark and tallThe King has come unto his hall!His foe is dead,the Worm of Dread,And ever so his foes shall fall.The sword is sharp, the spear is long,The arrow swift, the Gate is strong;The heart is bold that looks on gold;The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong.The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,While hammers fells like ringing bellsIn places deep, where dark things sleep,In hollow halls beneath the fells.-from The Hobbit (Dwarves Battle Song)”

“When the Dark comes rising six shall turn it back;Three from the circle, three from the track;Wood, bronze, iron; Water, fire, stone;Five will return and one go alone.Iron for the birthday; bronze carried long;Wood from the burning; stone out of song;Fire in the candle ring; water from the thaw;Six signs the circle and the grail gone before.Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of goldPlayed to wake the sleepers, oldest of old.Power from the Green Witch, lost beneath the sea.All shall find the Light at last, silver on the tree.”

“I reached out my hand, England's rivers turned and flowed the other way...I reached out my hand, my enemies's blood stopt in their veins...I reached out my hand; thought and memory flew out of my enemies' heads like a flock of starlings;My enemies crumpled like empty sacks.I came to them out of mists and rain;I came to them in dreams at midnight;I came to them in a flock of ravens that filled a northern sky at dawn;When they thought themselves safe I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood...The rain made a door for me and I went through it;The stones made a throne for me and I sat upon it;Three kingdoms were given to me to be mine forever;England was given to me to be mine forever.The nameless slave wore a silver crown;The nameless slave was a king in a strange country...The weapons that my enemies raised against me are venerated in Hell as holy relics;Plans that my enemies made against me are preserved as holy texts;Blood that I shed upon ancient battlefields is scraped from the stained earth by Hell's sacristans and placed in a vessel of silver and ivory.I gave magic to England, a valuable inheritanceBut Englishmen have despised my giftMagic shall be written upon the sky by the rain but they shall not be able to read it;Magic shall be written on the faces of the stony hills but their minds shall not be able to contain it;In winter the barren trees shall be a black writing but they shall not understand it...Two magicians shall appear in England...The first shall fear me; the second shall long to behold me;The first shall be governed by thieves and murderers; the second shall conspire at his own destruction;The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache;The second shall see his dearest posession in his enemy's hand...The first shall pass his life alone, he shall be his own gaoler;The second shall tread lonely roads, the storm above his head, seeking a dark tower upon a high hillside...I sit upon a black throne in the shadows but they shall not see me.The rain shall make a door for me and I shall pass through it;The stones shall make a throne for me and I shall sit upon it...The nameless slave shall wear a silver crownThe nameless slave shall be a king in a strange country...”

“Twelve years earlier “And then shall that Wicked be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming.” Thessalonians 2:8”

“On the day of the dead, when the year too dies,Must the youngest open the oldest hillsThrough the door of the birds, where the breeze breaks.There fire shall fly from the raven boy,And the silver eyes that see the wind,And the light shall have the harp of gold.By the pleasant lake the Sleepers lie,On Cadfan’s Way where the kestrels call;Though grim from the Grey King shadows fall,Yet singing the golden harp shall guideTo break their sleep and bid them ride.When light from the lost land shall return,Six Sleepers shall ride, six Signs shall burn,And where the midsummer tree grows tallBy Pendragon’s sword the Dark shall fall.Y maent yr mynyddoedd yn canu,ac y mae’r arglwyddes yn dod.”