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520
On The Late Tornado, At Wallingford, Conn.
With aimless fury hurries on its path,For so it seems unto man's narrow mind,
The dread tornado, messenger of wrath!
Like to some maddened giant strong and blind.
Yet Mercy guides its course, confines its sway,
From the beginning to the appointed end;
For Nature's forces all One law obey,
And none can its allotted bounds transcend.
The stormy winds, O God, thy word fulfil,
As doth the gentle breeze, that whispers peace;
All are obedient to thy holy will;
Thou dost command, and fiercest tempests cease;
And men, with grateful hearts, again rejoice;
Awed, chastened, humbled, by thy Sovereign Voice.
Poem No. 832; c. 30 August 1878
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