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!