Rain, rain! the mea­dow lands are all athirst;
The leaves grow crisp up­on the for­est trees;
The flow­ers that spring’s abun­dant mois­ture nursed
Yield no more frag­rance to the pass­ing breeze—
They have all bowed their heads like things ac­cursed
And when shall fresh­er ones suc­ceed to these?

Along the bed of the once rush­ing brook
We seek in vain to trace its spark­ling tide;
And far away in some old sha­dy nook,
Where late its crys­tal drops it loved to hide.
The clus­ter­ing branches bend, and vain­ly look
For the lost jew­els, once the wood­land pride!

Clouds rise and float across the az­ure main,
The thun­der sends its greet­ing o’er the hills,
But the soft fall­ing and re­fresh­ing rain
No more the parch­ing earth with glad­ness fills;
And the sere up­land, with the bar­ren plain
Unheeded sup­pli­cate the van­ished rills.

God of the storm and the re­viv­ing show­er,
Look Thou in mer­cy on our sor­est need!
Let not the har­vest fail, since Thine the pow­er
To fill the reap­er’s hand with price­less meed:
We look to Thee in this o’er­sha­dowed hour,
For bless­ings which alone from Thee pro­ceed!