THE Sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain's brow: With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck thro' the snow. From rock to rock, with giant-bound, The goats wind slow their wonted way, And while the torrent thunders loud, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 1786. WHILE thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs, With many a face that smiles on me no more; TO Go-you may call it madness, folly; Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure |