“Then another angel, who proceeded with me, spoke to me; and showed me the first and last secrets in heaven above, and in the depths of the earth: in the extremities of heaven, and in the foundations of it, and in the receptacle of the winds. _He showed me_ how their Spirits were divided; how they were balanced; and how both the springs and the winds were numbered according to the force of the Spirit. _He showed me_ the power of the moon’s light, that its power is a just one; as well as the divisions of the stars, according to their respective names; _that_ every division is divided; that the lightning flashes; that _their Host_ immediately obey; and that a cessation takes place during thunder, in the continuance of its sound. Nor are the thunder and the lightning separated; neither do both of them move with one Spirit; yet are they not separated. For when the lightning lightens, the thunder sounds, and the Spirit, at a proper period, pauses, making an equal division between them; for the receptacle of their times is what sand is. Each of them at a proper season is restrained with a bridle, and turned by the power of the Spirit; which thus propels them according to the spacious extent of the earth.” Yet beautiful as is the above, it is not much more so than an almost inspired little poem, which appeared some time ago, in one of the public prints, as emanating from the pen of an American lady, named Goold, personifying this element, viz.:-- “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 threat’nings fill the soul with fear, As our gentle whisperings woo the ear With music aërial, 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 th’ 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_!”