Ch. 5:
Thistle
Skunk Cabbage
And now for the poetry portion of the post...
Edinburgh After Flodden
by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
I.
News of battle!-news of battle!
Hark! 'tis ringing down the street:
And the archways and the pavement
Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
News of battle? Who hath brought it?
News of triumph? Who should bring
Tidings from our noble army,
Greetings from our gallant King?
All last night we watched the beacons
Blazing on the hills afar,
Each one bearing, as it kindled,
Message of the opened war.
All night long the northern streamers
Shot across the trembling sky:
Fearful lights, that never beckon
Save when kings or heroes die.
(Rest of poem found
here)
On the Battle of Hohenlinden
by Thomas Campbell
On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden shew'd another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet-sound array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steeds to battle driven,
And vollying, like the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
And redder still those fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout, mid' their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens—on, ye brave!
Who rush to glory and the grave;
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Oh! few shall part where many meet,
The snow shall be your winding sheet,
And every turf beneath your feet
Shall mark the soldiers' cemetry.
Bingen on the Rhine
The Lady of the Lake
by Sir Walter Scott
The Seasons
by James Thomson
(I'm guessing there are three more
seasons)
The Fall of Poland
also by Thomas Campbell
| O SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, |
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| And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, |
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| When leagued oppression poured to Northern wars |
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| Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, |
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| Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, | |
| Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet-horn; |
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| Tumultuous horror brooded o’er her van, |
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| Presaging wrath to Poland,—and to man! |
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| Warsaw’s last champion from her height surveyed, |
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| Wide o’er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,— | |
| “O Heaven!” he cried, “my bleeding country save! |
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| Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? |
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| Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, |
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| Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! |
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| By that dread name, we wave the sword on high! | |
| And swear for her to live!—with her to die!” |
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| He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed |
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| His trusty warriors, few but undismayed; |
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| Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, |
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| Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; | |
| Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,— |
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| Revenge or death, the watchword and reply; |
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| Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, |
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| And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! |
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| In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! | |
| From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew: |
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| O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, |
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| Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; |
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| Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, |
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| Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! | |
| Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, |
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| Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career: |
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| Hope for a season bade the world farewell, |
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And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell!
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A lot of these poems are really long so I just put down the links to them instead.
Scrub Firs
Red Sandstone Cliffs
