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.