It was a land of rills,
Of mountains, kloofs, and hills;
High peaks were westward; eastward the great main—
A rich good land, and free
Men lived in liberty,
Worked and had quiet sleep, and loved the rain.
Thus was it for a time
In this fair sunny clime—
Flocks prospered; prospered, too, the bearded grain,
There only was good cheer,
And farmers felt no fear
When Nature’s lavish bounties fell in rain.
But there came a change,
Clouds were few and strange—
The stored-up waters soon began to wane;
Broken and weak all day,
The streamlets ceased to play,
The sun glared on with no sweet veil of rain.
And lo! the land lay dry—
No moisture in the sky;
The streams dry—sterile the once fertile plain;
And round the empty tank
The ocean feebly sank—
Alas, why cometh not the wished-for rain!
The gentle animals whose fleeces give
The means whereby the people hope to live,
Lie down and die. It seems that ne’er again
Life-giving showers shall fall.
In churches now they call,
“O God, in mercy, send us down the rain!”
All Nature cries aloud—
Oh, come, life-giving cloud!
The flowers, the grass, all herbage green is slain,
The corpse-like earth is black,
Skeletons form a track
O’er regions mourning for the want of rain.
Now has the joyful sight
Filled us with pure delight—
Of fatness dropping from the clouds again;
From mountains to the sea,
One Hymn of Jubilee
Should thank the Master who has sent the rain.
Alex. Wilmot.
