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