In vain it is to plant, in vain to sow,
In vain to harrow well the levell'd plain,
If thou wilt not command the seed to grow,
And shed thy blessing on the bury'd grain.
For not a single corn will rush to birth
Of all that I've entrusted to the earth,
If thou dost not enjoin the blade to spring
And the young shoot to full perfection bring.
I therefore beg thy blessing on my lands,
O Lord! and on the labour of my hands,
That I thereby, may as a Christian, live,
And my support, and maintenance receive!
Open the windows of the skies, and pour
Thy blessings on them in a genial show'r;
My corn with earth's prolific fatness feed,
And give increase to all my cover'd seed!
Let not the skies, like brass in fusion, glow,
Nor the earth, with heat, as hard as iron grow,
Let not our pastures and our meads of hay,
For our supine neglect of Thee, decay!
But give us in good time and measure meet,
A temp'rate season, and sufficient heat,
Give us the former and the latter rains,
Give peace and plenty to the British swains.
The locust and the cankerworm restrain,
The dew that blights and tarnishes the grain,
The drought, the nipping winds, the lightning's glare,
Which to the growing corn pernicious are.
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