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Poem by William Wordsworth
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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