THE SONG -OF THE RAIN.
Lo ! the long, slender spears, how they quiver and flash, Where the clouds sencItheir cavalry down
Rank and file by the million the rain-lances dash
Over mountain and river and town : Thick the battle-drops fall—but they drip not in blood ; The trophy of war is the green fresh bud : Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain !
The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare, . The wells they yawn empty and dry ; But a rushing of waters is heard in the air, And a rainbow leaps out in the sky. Hark ! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves,
How they wash the wide pavement, and sweep from the eaves I
Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain !
See, the weaver throws wide his one swinging pane, The kind drops dance in on the floor; And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain On the step by her half-open door : At the tunean the skylight, far over his head, Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed. Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain !
And away, far from men, where high mountains tower, The little green mosses rejoice, And the bud-beaded heather nods to the shower, And the hill-torrents lift up their voice : And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in light : Ob, the rain, the plentiful min !
And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain, A single thrush pipes full and sweet, How days of clear shining will come after rain, Waving meadows, and thick-growing wheat : So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears, Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears : Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain ! June 1855.
DWEHNO.
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