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.

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