The RAIN gasped for

O Father of the Rain, Look down Upon us from on high; If thy Land be not Rain'd upon, What Lives on it will Dy.

Lord of the Clouds; In thee we hope; Thine all the Bottels are; Except Thou open them, a Drop won't fall upon us here.

If thou make Heav'n as Brass, and burn From thence the groaning Field, Thy Earth will soon to Iron turn, And no Production yield.

O Let thy Seasonable Rain Drop Fatness on our Soyl; And grant to most unworthy Man The Harvest of his Toil.

But, O my SAVIOUR, in a Showre Of Righteousness descend: Gifts on me, with thy SPIRIT poure; And Life that cannot End.

Yea, come upon a World forlorn, And with a Quickening Dew, Make thou Mankind, of Water born, Tho' Dead, their Life Renew.

In the mean time, thy Ministers, As Clouds, how Fat and Bright! May they upon Salvations Heirs Distil Things Good and Right.