William Wordsworth

(1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)

The French And The Spanish Guerillas - Poem by William Wordsworth

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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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 5, 2010



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