The French And the Spanish Guerillas

A poem by William Wordsworth

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height,
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
So these, and, heard of once again, are chased
With combinations of long-practised art
And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled,
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
Where now? Their sword is at the Foeman's heart;
And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.

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