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.
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
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