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—Salvage val de Brantóa,
En terra de Bergantiños;
Ou val, amado dos celtas,
E dos fungadores pinos:
Cando Gundar prob' e 'scuro,
Sea d' este mundo ido;
No teu seo silencioso,
Concédelle, val amigo,
Sepulcro a modo dos celtas,
Tan só de ti conocido.
Qu' hai tempo que n' este mundo,
Anda o bardo peregrino,
Deseando chegar ó cabo,
D' un traballo escurecido;
E somente repousar,
Deséa do seu camiño.
N' hé a vellez a que causa
O fondo dolor que sinto;
Pois que son do tempo voso,
Carballos de Carballido:
Suidades de non sei qué,
Recordos quezáis do espírito,
D' aIgunha perdída pátria,
Ou d' antigo ben perdido,
N' esta peregrinación
Miña, van sempre comigo;
E son os meus compañeiros,
No traballoso camiño,
Suspiros por non sei quén,
E por non séi qué suspiros.
Salvage val de Brantóa,
Pátria do forte Cou-d'-lndo;
Ond' a garrida Rentar,
Trougo co paso fugitivo,
Os corzos, co curvo arco,
Animosa perseguindo;
Na tua soedá recebe,
Este bardo peregrino;
Ou valle das vagas brétomas,
E dos rumorosos pinos.»
—Nobre Gundar, fillo d' Ouco,
Ou bardo dos negros ollos,
De nobre andar e garrido
Escudo, de voz gemente,
D' un acento nunca oído;
O rumor asomellante,
Do vento nos altos pinos:
Teus vagos e doces cantos,
Certo non desconocidos
Me son, e non veces poucas,
Os teño quezáis oído;
Ben no m' acordo s' agora,
Ou quezáis en tempo antigo;
Mais cos oídos da alma,
Que cos corpóreos oidos.
Un bardo que tan ben canta,
Non debe temé-l-o olvido;
Ou cantor dos nobres celtas,
Os de corpos ben cumpridos,
Que na terra de Brigándsia,
Pol-a pátria sucumbino!
Esa indecisa inquietude,
Cando me vés, bardo amigo,
Suidades son d' unha pátria,
Q' un dia a alma perdío;
Son misteriosas lembranzas,
Do desterrado afrigido,
Que s' acorda da sua terra,
En terra alléa cautivo;
E quer volver outra vez,
Ós pátrios eidos amigos.
Os bardos son nobre cousa
E grande, e non comprendidos
Soen asaz ser dos fillos
Dos homes, e duros casos
Muitos, proban os divinos.
Tan só tí, soedade agreste,
Asilo és dos bardos digno!
E pois que qués repousar,
No meu seo verdecido,
Repousarás, sin que turbe
Ningun rumor teus oidos;
Refrescando cas suas augas,
Tua frente, doce olvido;
(Non pra memoria dos homes,
Mais pra olvido de ti mismo;
Q' he doce ó home olvidar
O pesar e o ben perdido)
Antr' as uces de Brigándsia,
Cabo do dólmen amigo,
Da fugitiva Rentar,
E do esforzado Cou-d'-lndo,
FilIa do moreno Ourens,
E do nobre Lugar fillo.»
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Oaks: Wild Valley of Brantóa
In the land of Bergantiños,
O beloved valley of the Celts
And of the rumbling pines:
When poor and unknown Gundar
Be from this world parted
Grant him, friendly valley,
Sepulchre in your silent bosom
After the custom of the Celts
With which you alone are familiar,
For long since the pilgrim bard
Inhabits this world
Wishing to reach the end
Of an obscure task
And he desires only
Rest from his journey.
Gundar: It is not old age that causes
The deep pain that I feel
For I am as old as you,
Oaks of Carballido:
Hankerings after I know not what—
Souvenirs perhaps of the spirit,
Of some vanished homeland,
Of some vanished ancient blessing—
Accompany me always
In this pilgrimage
And on this toilsome path
My fellow travellers are
Sighs for I know not who
And sighs for I know not what.
Oaks: Wild Valley of Brantóa,
Land of sturdy Cou-d'-lndo,
Whereto the ravishing Rentar
Brought the roe deer
With elusive step and curved bow
Courageous in the chase:
Welcome in to your solitude
This roving bard,
O valley of the rambling fogs
And of the rumorous pines.
Valley: Noble Gundar son of Ouco,
O bard of the black eyes,
Of noble gait and flamboyant
Shield, of plaintive voice
With unheard of accent
Akin to the wind's rumour
Among the tall pines:
True, your vague and sweet songs
Are not unknown to me
And times not few
Perchance I've heard them—
I don't recall precisely if presently
Or maybe in ancient times—
With the ears of the spirit more
Than with corporeal ears.
Oaks: A bard who sings so well
Must not fear oblivion,
O singer to the noble Celts,
They of the well honed bodies
Who in the land of Brigándsia
Succumbed for the homeland!
Valley: That indecisive apprehension
Upon seeing me, bard friend of mine,
Is yearnings for a homeland
The soul left behind one day,
They are mysterious memories
Of the grief-stricken exile
Who captive in alien land
Remembers his own land
And longs to return again
To the friendly tilth of home.
Oaks: Bards are a noble and weighty matter
And usually not sufficiently
Understood by the sons of men
And many hard trials
Test the divine.
You alone, lonesome hinterland,
Are a worthy shelter for bards!
Valley: And since you wish to repose
In my verdant bosom
You shall repose with no rumour
Disturbing your ears,
Sweet oblivion refreshing
Your forehead with its waters—
Not oblivion by men
But oblivion of your own self
For it is sweet to man to forget
Sorrow and the lost blessing—
Past the welcoming dolmen
Among the tree heaths of Brigándsia
And of elusive Rentar
Daughter of tan Ourens
And of hardy Cou-d'-lndo
Son of noble Lugar.
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