ONE OF THE "SOUTHERN TIER OF COUNTIES."

A realm of forest, hill and lake I sing, Nestling in wild and unknown loveliness Beneath the "Empire State's" protecting wing; But be not too inquisitive and press Its name—my motto must be, reader! "Stat Nominis umbra"—I'll not tell that's flat. But this much I will say; it bears the name Of a brave warrior, who, in times of old, Burst through the forests like a flood of flame, And on the savage foe deep vengeance told. And well that warrior kept unstained the wreath Reaped by his sword in fields of blood and death. And to be more explicit—on the west The Chihohocki [1] laves its mountain sides; East the grim Shawangunk uprears its crest, And monarch-like this forest-land divides From that whose name superfluous 't were to utter If mention's made of golden "Goshen butter." Within this realm Dame Nature's mantle wide Has scarcely yet been rent by human toil; Here tower the hill-tops in their forest pride, There smile the sylvan valleys, though the soil Is such, in truth, no wonder people chose To leave Dame Nature to her wild repose. Yet pleasant are the sights and sounds when Summer Wakens the forest depths to light and life; The woodpecker, a red-plumed, noisy drummer, Times to the thrasher's clearly flourished fife; The partridge strikes its bass upon its log, And with his deep bassoon chimes in the frog. The stream reflects the leaf, the trunk, the root, The sunlight drops its gold upon the moss, Whose delicate fringes sink beneath the foot Of the quick squirrel as it glides across; And, glancing like a vision to the eye, Through the tall trees the deer shoots, dream-like, by. Fancy your wearied foot has clambered now The Delaware's steep hill, and then glance back. The splendid sight will put you in a glow! There winds the river in its snake-like track, Whilst rural beauty laughs upon your view— Meadows of green, and fields of golden hue, And then White Lake, expanding far away! Oh, its pure waters gleam before me now! It sheds upon my world-worn heart a ray Bright as the crystal beauty of its brow. Loveliest of lakes! this pulse must cease to beat Ere I forget thee, beautiful and sweet! M., too, (the village,) is a lovely place, Clustered midst grain-fields rich and orchards green, With the grand woods around—in blended grace Nature and Art at every point are seen. Brimmed is it with good fellows, and those pearls Of man's prosaic being—witching girls. Yet there are places in this rising county Where Nature seems determined not to grow; Where travelers merit an especial bounty For perseverance, where the starving crow Would pass, disdaining to arrest his flight; (But these things in strict confidence I write.) The earth is sprinkled with a scanty growth Of ragged, scrubby pine, and here and there A lofty hemlock, looking as if loath To show its surly head—while grim and bare The ghosts of former trees their mossy locks Shake, but all else is one great bed of rocks. Yet there is beauty even there when green And sunbright—there the ground-pine twines its fringe, And the low whortleberries give the scene (So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge, And mossy paths are branching all about, But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out! Hour after hour, the stranger passing through This member of the "southern tier" will see Naught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true, But then life's naught without variety, Though if he seeks with care to find that charm, He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm, And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!" Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow, Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap, Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go, How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother, You're scarce down one before you go up t'other. The people, too, who live—I mean, who stay In their green Alpine homes, (I like a touch Of the sublime,) presents a queer array Of three most interesting species—Dutch, Yankee and mongrel—and this triple mixture Form when they meet a very curious picture. They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching, "Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din, They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching," And seek next day to "take their neighbor in," And the word "deacon," in this charming region, Covers, like charity, of sins a legion. And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish," That live where rolls the Delaware its flood, Ready to fight or drink as others wish, Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude, Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumber When "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber." Their toil is pastime when the river leaps On, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath, With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweeps The forest fragments on its roaring path, What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh, And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh." Then from deep eddy and from winding creek His mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers, And, as his giant oar he pushes quick, With song and jest his wearying labor cheers, Whilst confident in skill he fearless drifts By swamping islands and o'er staving rifts. From rafts we glance to saw-mills—oft you meet Their pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook, And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheet Flinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look, (When tired of gazing at the endless woods,) Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.