254
XXVIII.
THE FRENCH,
AND
THE SPANISH GUERILLAS.
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.
