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.