MÉTRICA (Principais metros)

Como já vimos, verso é uma linha de texto que, após atingir uma determinada medida, volta ao ponto de partida de contagem na linha seguinte para iniciar uma outra sequência de palavras, também portadora de medida. Na poesia de língua portuguesa, essa medida é dada pelo número de sílabas poéticas do verso.

Os versos praticados em nossa língua chamam-se metros. Eles variam segundo o número de sílabas que contêm. A verificação da métrica se faz pela escansão, ou seja, pela decomposição dos versos em sílabas poéticas.

EXERCÍCIO:

No poema que segue, do poeta romântico Gonçalves Dias, temos exemplos de quase todos os metros utilizados em nossa língua. Façamos então a escansão desses versos a fim de descobrir e classificar essa métrica. Mãos à obra!

               

A TEMPESTADE (Gonçalves Dias)

Quem porfiar contigo... ousara
Da glória o poderio;
Tu que fazes gemer pendido o cedro
Turbar-se o claro rio?

                                                                                              A. HERCULANO

                                                                  Um raio
                                                                  Fulgura
                                                                  No espaço
                                                                  Esparso,
                                                                  De luz;
                                                                  E trêmulo
                                                                  E puro
                                                                  Se aviva,
                                                                  S’esquiva,
                                                                  Rutila,
                                                                  Seduz!

                                                        Vem a aurora
                                                        Pressurosa,
                                                        Cor-de-rosa,
                                                        Que se cora
                                                        De carmim;
                                                        A seus raios
                                                        As estrelas,
                                                        Que eram belas,
                                                        Têm desmaios,
                                                        Já por fim.

                                                 O sol desponta
                                                 Lá no horizonte,
                                                 Doirando a fonte,
                                                 E o prado e o monte
                                                 E o céu e o mar;
                                                 E um manto belo
                                                 De vivas cores
                                                 Adorna as flores,
                                                 Que entre verdores
                                                 Se vê brilhar.

                                                 Um ponto aparece,
                                                 Que o dia entristece,
                                                 O céu, onde cresce,
                                                 De negro a tingir;
                                                 Oh! vede a procela
                                                 Infrene, mas bela,
                                                 No ar s’encapela
                                                 Já pronta a rugir!

                                     Não solta a voz canora
                                     No bosque o vate alado,
                                     Que um canto d’inspirado
                                     Tem sempre a cada aurora;
                                     E mudo quanto habita
                                     Da terra n’amplidão.
                                     A coma então luzente
                                     Se agita do arvoredo,
                                     E o vate um canto a medo
                                     Desfere lentamente,
                                     Sentindo opresso o peito
                                     De tanta inspiração.

                                                            Fogem do vento que ruge
                                                            As nuvens aurinevadas,
                                                            Como ovelhas assustadas
                                                            Dum fero lobo cerval;
                                                            Estilham-se como as velas
                                                            Que no alto mar apanha,
                                                            Ardendo na usada sanha,
                                                            Subitâneo vendaval.

                                                 Bem como serpentes que o frio
                                                 Em nós emaranha, – salgadas
                                                 As ondas s’estranham, pesadas
                                                 Batendo no frouxo areal.
                                                 Disseras que viras vagando
                                                 Nas furnas do céu entreabertas
                                                 Que mudas fuzilam, – incertas
                                                 Fantasmas do gênio do mal!

                                         E no túrgido ocaso se avista
                                         Entre a cinza que o céu apolvilha,
                                         Um clarão momentâneo que brilha,
                                         Sem das nuvens o seio rasgar;
                                         Logo um raio cintila e mais outro,
                                         Ainda outro veloz, fascinante,
                                         Qual centelha que em rápido instante
                                         Se converte d’incêndios em mar.

                             Um som longínquo cavernoso e ouco
                             Rouqueja, e n’amplidão do espaço morre;
                             Eis outro inda mais perto, inda mais rouco,
                             Que alpestres cimos mais veloz percorre,
                             Troveja, estoura, atroa; e dentro em pouco
                             Do norte ao sul, – dum ponto a outro corre:
                             Devorador incêndio alastra os ares,
                             Enquanto a noite pesa sobre os mares.
                             Nos últimos cimos dos montes erguidos
                             Já silva, já ruge do vento o pegão;
                             Estorcem-se os leques dos verdes palmares,
                             Volteiam, rebramam, doudejam nos ares,
                             Até que lascados baqueiam no chão.

                                      Remexe-se a copa dos troncos altivos,
                                      Transtorna-se, tolda, baqueia também;
                                      E o vento, que as rochas abala no cerro,
                                      Os troncos enlaça nas asas de ferro,
                                      E atira-os raivoso dos montes além.

                                           Da nuvem densa, que no espaço ondeia,
                                           Rasga-se o negro bojo carregado,
                                           E enquanto a luz do raio o sol roxeia,
                                           Onde parece à terra estar colado,
                                           Da chuva, que os sentidos nos enleia,
                                           O forte peso em turbilhão mudado,
                                           Das ruínas completa o grande estrago,
                                           Parecendo mudar a terra em lago.

                                                   Inda ronca o trovão retumbante,
                                                   Inda o raio fuzila no espaço,
                                                   E o corisco num rápido instante
                                                   Brilha, fulge, rutila, e fugiu.
                                                   Mas se à terra desceu, mirra o tronco,
                                                   Cega o triste que iroso ameaça,
                                                   E o penedo, que as nuvens devassa,          
                                                   Como tronco sem viço partiu.
                                                  
                                                   Deixando a palhoça singela,
                                                   Humilde labor da pobreza,
                                                   Da nossa vaidosa grandeza,
                                                   Nivela os fastígios sem dó;
                                                   E os templos e as grimpas soberbas,
                                                   Palácio ou mesquita preclara,
                                                   Que a foice do tempo poupara,
                                                   Em breves momentos é pó.

                                                         Cresce a chuva, os rios crescem,
                                                         Pobres regatos s’empolam,
                                                         E nas turvas ondas rolam
                                                         Grossos troncos a boiar!
                                                         O córrego, qu’inda há pouco
                                                         No torrado leito ardia,
                                                         É já torrente bravia,
                                                         Que da praia arreda o mar.

                                                                    Mas ai do desditoso,
                                                                    Que viu crescer a enchente
                                                                    E desce descuidoso
                                                                    Ao vale, quando sente
                                                                    Crescer dum lado e d’outro
                                                                    O mar da aluvião!
                                                                    Os troncos arrancados
                                                                    Sem rumo vão boiantes;
                                                                    E os tetos arrasados,
                                                                    Inteiros, flutuantes,
                                                                    Dão antes crua morte,
                                                                    Que asilo e proteção!

                                                                               Porém no ocidente
                                                                               S’ergue de repente
                                                                               O arco luzente,
                                                                               De Deus o farol;
                                                                               Sucedem-se as cores,
                                                                               Qu’imitam as flores,
                                                                               Que sembram primores
                                                                               Dum novo arrebol.

                                                                                       Nas águas pousa;
                                                                                       E a base viva
                                                                                       De luz esquiva,
                                                                                       E a curva altiva
                                                                                       Sublima ao céu;
                                                                                       Inda outro arqueia,
                                                                                       Mais desbotado,
                                                                                       Quase apagado,
                                                                                       Como embotado
                                                                                       De tênue véu.

                                                                                                  Tal a chuva
                                                                                                  Transparece,
                                                                                                  Quando desce
                                                                                                  E ainda vê-se
                                                                                                  O sol luzir;
                                                                                                  Como a virgem,
                                                                                                  Que numa hora
                                                                                                  Ri-se e cora,
                                                                                                  Depois chora
                                                                                                  E torna a rir.

                                                                                                             A folha
                                                                                                             Luzente
                                                                                                             Do orvalho
                                                                                                             Nitente
                                                                                                             A gota
                                                                                                             Retrai:
                                                                                                             Vacila,
                                                                                                             Palpita;
                                                                                                             Mais grossa,
                                                                                                             Hesita,
                                                                                                             E treme
                                                                                                             E cai.