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 heart➁!
And thus from year to year his walk they thwart，
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.