BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.
From dewy day-dawn to its dewy close,
Between the lark's song and the whippo-wil's,
With life as fresh and musical as fills
Their varied round, in quiet joyance goes
The faithful gardener, spying out the foes
Of queenly Beauty, whom, for all the ills
They wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills.
That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.
He bears cool water to the drooping flowers,
And gently crops o'erflushed exuberance;
Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers,
And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;
Let others find what prize befits their powers,
His deeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.
ONE OF THE "SOUTHERN TIER OF COUNTIES."
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
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.