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 HILE you, my Friend, from louring wintery plains Now pale with snows, now black with drizzling rains, From leafless woodlands, and dishonour'd bowers Mantled by gloomy mists, or lash'd by showers Of hollow moan, while not a struggling beam Steals from the Sun to play on Isis' stream; While from these scenes by England's winter spread Swift to the cheerful hearth your steps are led, Pleas'd from the threatening tempest to retire And join the circle round the social fire; In