Classic Poem

We come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As 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 hare-bell 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.

Tho' 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 airs to play,
Then, lift up your hearts to him who binds,
Or frees, as he will, the obedient Winds!

We come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As 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 hare-bell 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.

Tho' 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 airs to play,
Then, lift up your hearts to him who binds,
Or frees, as he will, the obedient Winds!