10 Best Famous Gower Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Gower poems. This is a select list of the best famous Gower poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Gower poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of gower poems.

• All Famous Gower Poems

Written by William Dunbar | Lament for the Makers I THAT in heill was and gladness Am trublit now with great sickness And feblit with infirmitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Our plesance here is all vain glory, This fals world is but transitory, The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. The state of man does change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand mirry, now like to die:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. No state in Erd here standis sicker; As with the wynd wavis the wicker So wannis this world's vanitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Unto the Death gois all Estatis, Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis, Baith rich and poor of all degree:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the knichtis in to the field Enarmit under helm and scheild; Victor he is at all mellie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. That strong unmerciful tyrand Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand, The babe full of benignitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the campion in the stour, The captain closit in the tour, The lady in bour full of bewtie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He spairis no lord for his piscence, Na clerk for his intelligence; His awful straik may no man flee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Art-magicianis and astrologgis, Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis, Them helpis no conclusionis slee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. In medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis, Themself from Death may not supplee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. I see that makaris amang the lave Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave; Sparit is nocht their facultie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has done petuously devour The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour, The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun, Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun, He has tane out of this cuntrie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. That scorpion fell has done infeck Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek, Fra ballat-making and tragedie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Holland and Barbour he has berevit; Alas! that he not with us levit Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane, That made the anteris of Gawaine; Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill Slain with his schour of mortal hail, Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has reft Merseir his endite, That did in luve so lively write, So short, so quick, of sentence hie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has tane Rowll of Aberdene, And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine; Two better fallowis did no man see:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. In Dunfermline he has tane Broun With Maister Robert Henrysoun; Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. And he has now tane, last of a, Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw, Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Good Maister Walter Kennedy In point of Death lies verily; Great ruth it were that so suld be:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Sen he has all my brether tane, He will naught let me live alane; Of force I man his next prey be:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Since for the Death remeid is none, Best is that we for Death dispone, After our death that live may we:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Written by Victor Hugo | The Lovers' Colloquy ("Mon duc, rien qu'un moment.") {HERNANI, Act V.} One little moment to indulge the sight With the rich beauty of the summer's night. The harp is hushed, and, see, the torch is dim,— Night and ourselves together. To the brim The cup of our felicity is filled. Each sound is mute, each harsh sensation stilled. Dost thou not think that, e'en while nature sleeps, Some power its amorous vigils o'er us keeps? No cloud in heaven; while all around repose, Come taste with me the fragrance of the rose, Which loads the night-air with its musky breath, While everything is still as nature's death. E'en as you spoke—and gentle words were those Spoken by you,—the silver moon uprose; How that mysterious union of her ray, With your impassioned accents, made its way Straight to my heart! I could have wished to die In that pale moonlight, and while thou wert by. HERNANI. Thy words are music, and thy strain of love Is borrowed from the choir of heaven above. DONNA SOL. Night is too silent, darkness too profound Oh, for a star to shine, a voice to sound— To raise some sudden note of music now Suited to night. HERN. Capricious girl! your vow Was poured for silence, and to be released From the thronged tumult of the marriage feast. DONNA SOL. Yes; but one bird to carol in the field,— A nightingale, in mossy shade concealed,— A distant flute,—for music's stream can roll To soothe the heart, and harmonize the soul,— O! 'twould be bliss to listen. {Distant sound of a horn, the signal that HERNANI must go to DON RUY, who, having saved his life, had him bound in a vow to yield it up.} LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE).

Written by Victor Hugo | The Lover's Sacrifice ("Fuyons ensemble.") {HERNANI, Act II.} DONNA SOL. Together let us fly! HERNANI. Together? No! the hour is past for flight. Dearest, when first thy beauty smote my sight, I offered, for the love that bade me live, Wretch that I was, what misery had to give: My wood, my stream, my mountain. Bolder grown, By thy compassion to an outlaw shown, The outlaw's meal beneath the forest shade, The outlaw's couch far in the greenwood glade, I offered. Though to both that couch be free, I keep the scaffold block reserved for me. DONNA SOL. And yet you promised? HERNANI (falls on his knee.) Angel! in this hour, Pursued by vengeance and oppressed by power— Even in this hour when death prepares to close In shame and pain a destiny of woes— Yes, I, who from the world proscribed and cast, Have nursed one dark remembrance of the past, E'en from my birth in sorrow's garment clad, Have cause to smile and reason to be glad; For you have loved the outlaw and have shed Your whispered blessings on his forfeit head. DONNA SOL. Let me go with you. HERNANI. No! I will not rend From its fair stem the flower as I descend. Go—I have smelt its perfume. Go—resume All that this grasp has brushed away of bloom. Wed the old man,—believe that ne'er we met; I seek my shade—be happy, and forget! LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE).

Written by Victor Hugo | The Roll Of The De Silva Race ("Celui-ci, des Silvas, c'est l'aîné.") {HERNANI, Act III.} In that reverend face Behold the father of De Silva's race, Silvius; in Rome he filled the consul's place Three times (your patience for such honored names). This second was Grand Master of St. James And Calatrava; his strong limbs sustained Armor which ours would sink beneath. He gained Thirty pitched battles, and took, as legends tell, Three hundred standards from the Infidel; And from the Moorish King Motril, in war, Won Antiquera, Suez, and Nijar; And then died poor. Next to him Juan stands, His son; his plighted hand was worth the hands Of kings. Next Gaspar, of Mendoza's line— Few noble stems but chose to join with mine: Sandoval sometimes fears, and sometimes woos Our smiles; Manriquez envies; Lara sues; And Alancastre hates. Our rank we know: Kings are but just above us, dukes below. Vasquez, who kept for sixty years his vow— Greater than he I pass. This reverend brow, This was my sire's—the greatest, though the last: The Moors his friend had taken and made fast— Alvar Giron. What did my father then? He cut in stone an image of Alvar, Cunningly carved, and dragged it to the war; He vowed a vow to yield no inch of ground Until that image of itself turned round; He reached Alvar—he saved him—and his line Was old De Silva's, and his name was mine— Ruy Gomez. King CARLOS. Drag me from his lurking-place The traitor! {DON RUY leads the KING to the portrait behind which HERNANI is hiding.} Sire, your highness does me grace. This, the last portrait, bears my form and name, And you would write this motto on the frame! "This last, sprung from the noblest and the best, Betrayed his plighted troth, and sold his guest!" LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE)

Written by Victor Hugo | The Degenerate Gallants ("Mes jeunes cavaliers.") {HERNANI, Act I., March, 1830.} What business brings you here, young cavaliers? Men like the Cid, the knights of bygone years, Rode out the battle of the weak to wage, Protecting beauty and revering age. Their armor sat on them, strong men as true, Much lighter than your velvet rests on you. Not in a lady's room by stealth they knelt; In church, by day, they spoke the love they felt. They kept their houses' honor bright from rust, They told no secret, and betrayed no trust; And if a wife they wanted, bold and gay, With lance, or axe, or falchion, and by day, Bravely they won and wore her. As for those Who slip through streets when honest men repose, With eyes turned to the ground, and in night's shade The rights of trusting husbands to invade; I say the Cid would force such knaves as these To beg the city's pardon on their knees; And with the flat of his all-conquering blade Their rank usurped and 'scutcheon would degrade. Thus would the men of former times, I say, Treat the degenerate minions of to-day. LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE.)