Shakespeare In The Mountains

At the hour the sweet morning star Begins to soften and melt, His well-horned mountain goats Trotting along in front, Temenday the Celtic shepherd comes Returning to his sweet fold Alone and singing through the broom Of Xallas, decked with heather so white. Trembling vague with solitude, He begins his song like this: “Ancient tomb of Pïosa, The wind so sad to hear Moans in the mute heather Over all the hills around you And pierces with animal roar Castromaior, near Portomarín With pained groan. Under your mantle Brave Brandomil lies Unforgotten, in the arms Of sweet and eternal sleep: He has on his right side His golden pagan helmet His strong spear and shield, Where once the sun would sparkle While with pleasure the Celts looked Shut up in the waste lands of Xallas. Oh, brave son of Ogas And of sweet and noble Eiriz, The long memory of you Will forever remain! And when the son of the Celts, In times yet to come Walking lost in thought May happen to pass this way, When in those times He sees the moon shin