Laving the city in its onward way,
Is that alone which, in their evil hours,
May lend the prisoned Numantines some stay,
Before their grand machines or massive towers
Be founded in its stream, I fain would pray
The bounteous river, radiant with renown,
To aid and succour my beleaguered town.
Thou gentle Douro,[5] whose meand'ring stream
Doth lave my breast, and give it life untold,
As thou wouldst see thy rolling waters gleam,