Leaving these captive scenes behind, he crost Cavado’s silver current, and the banks Of Lima, through whose groves in after years, Mournful yet sweet, Diogo’s amorous lute Prolong’d its tuneful echoes. But when now Beyond Arnoya’s tributary tide, He came where Minho roll’d its ampler stream By Auria’s ancient walls, fresh horrors met His startled view; for prostrate in the dust Those walls were laid, and towers and temples stood Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame Had left them black and bare; and through the streets, All with the recent wreck of war bestrewn, Helmet and turban, scymitar and sword, Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch’d and crack’d Like the dry slime of some receding flood; And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far The wolf and raven, and to impious food Tempted the houseless dog. A thrilling pang, A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul, Came over Roderick. Soon they pass’d away, And admiration in their stead arose, Stern joy, and inextinguishable hope, With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now Indissolubly link’d. O valiant race, O people excellently brave, he cried, True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last; Though overpower’d, triumphant, and in death Unconquer’d! Holy be your memory! Bless’d and glorious now and evermore Be your heroic names!... Led by the sound, As thus he cried aloud, a woman came Toward him from the ruins. For the love Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while Thy charitable help!... Her words, her voice, Her look, more horror to his heart convey’d Than all the havoc round: for though she spake With the calm utterance of despair, in tones Deep-breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice Pour’d forth its hymns in ecstasy to Heaven. Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain’d With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled. Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty, Had every charm of form and feature given; But now upon her rigid countenance Severest anguish set a fixedness Ghastlier than death. She led him through the streets A little way along, where four low walls, Heapt rudely from the ruins round, enclosed A narrow space: and there upon the ground Four bodies, decently composed, were laid, Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore; A venerable ancient, by his side A comely matron, for whose middle age, (If ruthless slaughter had not intervened,) Nature it seem’d, and gentle Time, might well Have many a calm declining year in store; The third an armëd warrior, on his breast An infant, over whom his arms were cross’d. There, ... with firm eye and steady countenance, Unfaltering, she addrest him, ... there they lie, Child, Husband, Parents, ... Adosinda’s all! I could not break the earth with these poor hands Nor other tomb provide, ...