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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.
While thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs,
Go — you may call it madness, folly;
Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure