And all that Roderick in these fated scenes Beheld, was grief and wretchedness, ... the waste Of recent war, and that more mournful calm Of joyless, helpless, hopeless servitude. ’Twas not the ruin’d walls of church or tower, Cottage or hall or convent, black with smoke; ’Twas not the unburied bones, which where the dogs And crows had strewn them, lay amid the field Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart With keenest anguish: ’twas when he beheld The turban’d traitor shew his shameless front In the open eye of Heaven, ... the renegade, On whose base brutal nature unredeem’d Even black apostacy itself could stamp No deeper reprobation, at the hour Assign’d fall prostrate; and unite the names Of God and the Blasphemer, ... impious prayer, ... Most impious, when from unbelieving lips The accursëd utterance came. Then Roderick’s heart With indignation burnt, and then he long’d To be a King again, that so, for Spain Betray’d and his Redeemer thus renounced, He might inflict due punishment, and make These wretches feel his wrath. But when he saw The daughters of the land, ... who, as they went With cheerful step to church, were wont to shew Their innocent faces to all passers eyes, Freely, and free from sin as when they look’d In adoration and in praise to Heaven, ... Now mask’d in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque Holding uncompanied their jealous way, His spirit seem’d at that unhappy sight To die away within him, and he too Would fain have died, so death could bring with it Entire oblivion. Rent with thoughts like these, He reach’d that city, once the seat renown’d Of Suevi kings, where, in contempt of Rome Degenerate long, the North’s heroic race Raised first a rival throne; now from its state Of proud regality debased and fallen. Still bounteous nature o’er the lovely vale, Where like a Queen rose Bracara august, Pour’d forth her gifts profuse; perennial springs Flow’d for her habitants, and genial suns, With kindly showers to bless the happy clime, Combined in vain their gentle influences: For patient servitude was there, who bow’d His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief That eats into the soul. The walls and stones Seem’d to reproach their dwellers; stately piles Yet undecay’d, the mighty monuments Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces, And Gothic halls, where haughty Barons late Gladden’d their faithful vassals with the feast And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler’s now.