“Give thanks, O brothers!” said the voice,
    “That He who sent the rains
Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew
    That drips from patriot veins:
I’ve seen the grass on Eastern graves
    In brighter verdure rise;
But, oh! the rain that gave it life
    Sprang first from human eyes.

“I come to wash away no stain
    Upon your wasted lea;
I raise no banners, save the ones
    The forest waves to me:
Upon the mountain side, where Spring
    Her farthest picket sets,
My reveillé awakes a host
    Of grassy bayonets.

“I visit every humble roof;
    I mingle with the low:
Only upon the highest peaks
    My blessings fall in snow;
Until, in tricklings of the stream
    And drainings of the lea,
My unspent bounty comes at last
    To mingle with the sea.”

And thus all night, above the wind,
    I heard the welcome rain,—
A fusillade upon the roof,
    A tattoo on the pane:
The keyhole piped; the chimney-top
    A warlike trumpet blew;
But, mingling with these sounds of strife,
    This hymn of peace stole through.