 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
BRONTË
To Hubert Crackanthorpe.
Upon the moorland winds blown forth,
Your mighty music storms our heart:
Immortal sisters of the North!
Daughters of nature: Queens of art.
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.
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.
Whose soul conversed with vehement nights,
Till love, with lightnings on his brow,
Met anguish, upon Wuthering Heights.
105
Thou, Stoic! Though the heart in thee
Never knew fear, yet always pain:
Not Stoic, thou! whose eyes could see
Passion's immeasurable gain:
Never knew fear, yet always pain:
Not Stoic, thou! whose eyes could see
Passion's immeasurable gain:
Not standing from the war apart,
Not cancelling the lust of life;
But loving with triumphant heart
The impassioned glory of the strife.
Not cancelling the lust of life;
But loving with triumphant heart
The impassioned glory of the strife.
Oh, welcome death! But first, to know
The trials and the agonies:
Oh, perfect rest! But ere life go,
To leave eternal memories.
The trials and the agonies:
Oh, perfect rest! But ere life go,
To leave eternal memories.
Then down the lone moors let each wind
Cry round the silent house of sleep:
And there let breaths of heather find
Entrance, and there the fresh rains weep.
Cry round the silent house of sleep:
And there let breaths of heather find
Entrance, 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.
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 eyes
Thy conquering sister greatly died:
By grace of art, that never dies,
She lives: thou also dost abide.
Thy 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.
Creatures of thine, our perfect friends:
Filled with imperishable breath,
Give thee back life, that never ends.
106
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!
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.
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 filled
Hellas, with shrines of gleaming stone:
Your wasted hands had strength to build
Gray sanctuaries, hard-hewn, wind-blown.
Hellas, with shrines of gleaming stone:
Your wasted hands had strength to build
Gray 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.
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.
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!
The stars, the fires of God, steal forth:
Dews fall upon your heather bloom,
O royal sisters of the North!
1890.
| Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson | |