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