Its wintry torrents; and the happier site
Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin’d towers
Bore record of the fierce Alani’s wrath.
Mondego too he cross’d, not yet renown’d
In poets’ amorous lay; and left behind
The walls at whose foundation pious hands
Of Priest and Monk and Bishop meekly toil’d, ...
So had the insulting Arian given command.
Those stately palaces and rich domains
Were now the Moor’s, and many a weary age