WIND.
Reading edition
Stormy wind fulfilling His word.—Psalm cxlviii. 8.
The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north, it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.—Ecclesiastes, i. 6.
He that createth the wind, the Lord, the God of Hosts is His name.—Amos, iv. 13.
The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the spirit.—John, iii. 8.
Winds, whence and whither do ye blow? —Ye must be born again to know. J. Montgomery.
God of the chainless winds that wildly wreck, The moaning forest, and the ancient oak Rend like a sapling spray,—and sweep the sand O’er the lost caravan,—that trod with pride Of tinkling bells, and camel’s arching neck, The burning desert,—a dense host at morn, At eve, a bubble, on the trackless waste. God of the winds!—canst Thou not rule the heart, And gather back its passions, when Thou wilt, Bidding them, “Peace—be still!” Mrs. Sigourney.
We come! we come! and ye feel our might, And we’re hastening on in our boundless flight, And over the mountains, and over the deep Our broad invisible pinions sweep, Like the spirit of liberty, wild and free! And ye look on our works, and own ’tis we, Ye call us the winds; but can ye tell Whither we go, or where we dwell? Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power, And fell the forest, or fan the flower, When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent, When the tower’s o’erthrown, and the oak is rent, As we waft the bark o’er the slumbering wave, Or hurry its crew to a watery grave: And ye say it is we! but can ye trace The wandering winds to their secret place? And whether our breath be loud and high, Or come in a soft and balmy sigh, Our threatenings fill the soul with fear, Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear, With music aerial, still ’tis we. And ye list, and ye look; but what do ye see? Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace, Or waken one note, when our numbers cease? Our dwelling is in the Almighty’s hand; We come and we go at His command: Though joy or sorrow may mark our track, His will is our guide, and we look not back: And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away Or win us in gentlest air to play, Then lift up your hearts to Him who binds, Or frees as he will, the obedient winds. Miss Gould.
Ye viewless minstrels of the sky! I marvel not on times gone by That ye were deified: For even on this later day, To me oft has your power or play, Unearthly thoughts supplied. Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things! Who mock all our imaginings, Like spirits in a dream; What epithet can words supply, Unto the bard, who takes so high Unmanageable theme? But one:—to me, when fancy stirs My thoughts, ye seem heaven’s messengers, Who leave no path untrod; And when, as now, at midnight hour, I hear your voice in all its power, It seems the voice of God. Bernard Barton.
The wind breathes low, the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree; So gently flows the parting breath When good men cease to be. W. P. O. Peabody.