Brontë
Upon the moorland winds blown forth,Your mighty music storms our heart:Immortal sisters of the North!Daughters of nature: Queens of art.
Becomingly you bore that name,Your Celtic name, that sounds of Greece:Children of thunder and of flame;Passion, that clears the air for peace.
Stoic, thy chosen title: thou,Whose soul conversed with vehement nights,Till love, with lightnings on his brow,Met anguish, upon Wuthering Heights.
Thou, Stoic! Though the heart in theeNever knew fear, yet always pain:Not Stoic, thou! whose eyes could seePassion's immeasurable gain:
Not standing from the war apart,Not cancelling the lust of life;But loving with triumphant heartThe impassioned glory of the strife.
Oh, welcome death! But first, to knowThe trials and the agonies:Oh, perfect rest! But ere life go,To leave eternal memories.
Then down the lone moors let each windCry round the silent house of sleep:And there let breaths of heather findEntrance, and there the fresh rains weep.
Rest! rest! The storm hath surged away:The calm, the hush, the dews descend.Rest now, ah, rest thee! night and day:The circling moorlands guard their friend.
Thou too, before whose steadfast eyesThy conquering sister greatly died:By grace of art, that never dies.She lives: thou also dost abide.
For men and women, safe from death,Creatures of thine, our perfect friends:Filled with imperishable breath,Give thee back life, that never ends.
Oh! hearts may break, and hearts forget,Life grow a gloomy tale to tell:Still through the streets of bright Villette,Still flashes Paul Emanuel!
Still, when your Shirley laughs and sings,Suns break the clouds to welcome her:Still winds, with music on their wings,Drive the wild soul of Rochester.
Children of fire! The Muses filledHellas, with shrines of gleaming stone:Your wasted hands had strength to buildGray sanctuaries, hard-hewn, wind-blown.
Over their heights, all blaunched in storm,What purple fields of tempest hang!In splendour stands their mountain form,That from the sombre quarry sprang.
Now the high gates lift up their head:Now stormier music, than the blast,Swells over the immortal dead:Silent and sleeping, free at last.
But from the tempest, and the gloom,The stars, the fires of God, steal forth:Dews fall upon your heather bloom,O royal sisters of the North!
Words in this poem
- moorland n.
- Land consisting of a moor or moors. [AS. morland.]
- becomingly adv.
- In a becoming manner.
- lust v. i.
- To list; to like. [AS. lystan. See Lust, n., and cf. List to choose.]
- impassioned p. p.
- Actuated or characterized by passion or zeal; showing warmth of feeling; ardent; animated; excited; as, an impassioned orator or discourse.
- strife n.
- The act of striving; earnest endeavor. [OF. estrif. See Strive.]
- lone n.
- A lane. See Loanin.
- splendour n.
- Great brightness; brilliant luster; brilliancy; as, the splendor ot the sun. B. Jonson. [L. fr. splendere to shine: cf. F. splendeur.]
- sombre n.
- Gloom; obscurity; duskiness; somberness.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Brontë is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #66520; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Lionel Johnson, Brontë, in Poems (1895), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #66520, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/johnson-lionel-poems/bront.html, id L12529.
Form and metre
Brontë is 64 lines in 16 stanzas of 4 lines each. The rhyme scheme is ABAB, complete in 14 of its 16 stanzas. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 88%).
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABAB forthA · heartB · northA · artB
- 2 ABAB nameA · greeceB · flameA · peaceB
- 3 ABAB thouA · nightsB · browA · heightsB
- 4 ABAB theeA · painB · seeA · gainB
- 5 ABAB apartA · lifeB · heartA · strifeB
- 6 A-A- knowA · agonies · goA · memories
- 7 ABAB windA · sleepB · findA · weepB
- 8 ABAB awayA · descendB · dayA · friendB
- 9 ABAB eyesA · diedB · diesA · abideB
- 10 ABAB deathA · friendsB · breathA · endsB
- 11 ABAB forgetA · tellB · villetteA · emanuelB
- 12 A-A- singsA · her · wingsA · rochester
- 13 ABAB filledA · stoneB · buildA · blownB
- 14 ABAB stormA · hangB · formA · sprangB
- 15 ABAB headA · blastB · deadA · lastB
- 16 ABAB gloomA · forthB · bloomA · northB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Upon the moorland winds blown forth, | 8 | ···/···· |
| Your mighty music storms our heart: | 8 | ·/˘/˘·/· |
| Immortal sisters of the North! | 8 | ˘/˘/˘··· |
| Daughters of nature: Queens of art. | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| Becomingly you bore that name, | 8 | ˘/˘˘···· |
| Your Celtic name, that sounds of Greece: | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Children of thunder and of flame; | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| Passion, that clears the air for peace. | 8 | /˘······ |
| Stoic, thy chosen title: thou, | 8 | /˘·/˘/˘· |
| Whose soul conversed with vehement nights, | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| Till love, with lightnings on his brow, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Met anguish, upon Wuthering Heights. | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Thou, Stoic! Though the heart in thee | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Never knew fear, yet always pain: | 8 | /˘···/·· |
| Not Stoic, thou! whose eyes could see | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Passion's immeasurable gain: | 8 | /˘˘/˘·˘· |
| Not standing from the war apart, | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| Not cancelling the lust of life; | 8 | ·/˘˘···· |
| But loving with triumphant heart | 8 | ·/˘·˘/˘· |
| The impassioned glory of the strife. | 9 | ·˘/˘/˘··· |
| Oh, welcome death! But first, to know | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| The trials and the agonies: | 8 | ·/˘··/˘˘ |
| Oh, perfect rest! But ere life go, | 8 | ·˘/····· |
| To leave eternal memories. | 8 | ··˘/˘/˘˘ |
| Then down the lone moors let each wind | 8 | ········ |
| Cry round the silent house of sleep: | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And there let breaths of heather find | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Entrance, and there the fresh rains weep. | 8 | /˘······ |
| Rest! rest! The storm hath surged away: | 8 | ······˘/ |
| The calm, the hush, the dews descend. | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Rest now, ah, rest thee! night and day: | 8 | ········ |
| The circling moorlands guard their friend. | 8 | ·/˘/···· |
| Thou too, before whose steadfast eyes | 8 | ·····/·· |
| Thy conquering sister greatly died: | 8 | ·/˘/˘/˘· |
| By grace of art, that never dies. | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| She lives: thou also dost abide. | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| For men and women, safe from death, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Creatures of thine, our perfect friends: | 8 | /˘··/˘/· |
| Filled with imperishable breath, | 8 | ··˘/˘˘˘· |
| Give thee back life, that never ends. | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Oh! hearts may break, and hearts forget, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Life grow a gloomy tale to tell: | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Still through the streets of bright Villette, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Still flashes Paul Emanuel! | 8 | ·/˘·˘/˘˘ |
| Still, when your Shirley laughs and sings, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Suns break the clouds to welcome her: | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Still winds, with music on their wings, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Drive the wild soul of Rochester. | 8 | ·····/·˘ |
| Children of fire! The Muses filled | 8 | /˘·/·/˘· |
| Hellas, with shrines of gleaming stone: | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Your wasted hands had strength to build | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Gray sanctuaries, hard-hewn, wind-blown. | 9 | ·/˘·˘···· |
| Over their heights, all blaunched in storm, | 8 | ········ |
| What purple fields of tempest hang! | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| In splendour stands their mountain form, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| That from the sombre quarry sprang. | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Now the high gates lift up their head: | 8 | ········ |
| Now stormier music, than the blast, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Swells over the immortal dead: | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| Silent and sleeping, free at last. | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| But from the tempest, and the gloom, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The stars, the fires of God, steal forth: | 8 | ···/···· |
| Dews fall upon your heather bloom, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| O royal sisters of the North! | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.