Her thousand miles of hill and plain, With mines of lead and fields of grain, Are richer, broader and more grand Than many a petty prince's land. In curves along her northern side The broad Wisconsin's tribute tide O'er shifting sands or rocky floor Sweeps grandly fifteen leagues or more. Adown it sped Marquette's canoe Two hundred years ago and two. Along this vale the bluffs rise tall And seem gigantic fortress wall, With many a rocky bastion set And many a turf-grown parapet, While deep ravine or narrow dell Is port or gateway guarded well, From Muscoda and Boscobel And Millville in her "pocket" deep, Down to the Mississippi's sweep.
Along Grant County's western side Rolls down a vast and world-famed tide. Its cliffs are Nature's castles bold That ages since were gray and old. The ruined castles of the Rhine, Though sung in many a sounding line And given by many a page to fame, Compared with these are poor and tame. The poet of another age, When all forgot is Byron's page, May gem his line with Cassville's name And give its cliffs an age of fame, Or sketch with inspiration's pen Glen Haven's deep, romantic glen, And Wyalusing's hills and dells Make famed o'er Scotia's glens and fells. Emerging from these rocky hills, Blake's Prairie's fertile region fills The traveler's gladdened eyes. Beyond the limits of his gaze Stretch fields where grow the wheat and maize; Like islands in the billowy sea Rise groves of oak and cotton tree, With breasts bared 'gainst the wild winds' sweep And sheltered in this friendly keep Full many a farm-house lies. Go when the leafy month of June Has brought the heaven and earth in tune; Go where yon prairie joins the woods, Wouldst thou see Nature's loveliest moods And feast thy soul on scenery. 'T is there the waves of emerald grain Which cover all the billowy plain Are met and stayed by forest shore Which lifts its darker mass before In cliffs of vivid greenery.
Around this lovely prairie's hem Are pearls set 'round a diadem— A village fair is each white gem. Among them Bloomington is seen, Of all West Grant the jaunty queen, Enthroned within a low, green vale, Just where the highland prairies fail. Upon the prairie's northern bound Patch Grove, a quiet burg, is found. Although it seems a rustic ville, Its homes a cultured people fill.
From Beetown in her narrow glen Southeastward miles a score and ten, Stretches a region rude and wild With rocks on hills confusedly piled, Concealing in deep rifts the ore Which hither drew in days of yore The foot of venturous pioneer Where roamed the Indian and the deer. Then was Potosi's day of pride, Her flood on fortune's changing tide.
Far in the southeast corner there Is Hazel Green; its landscape fair Of our regard claims but a share, For Percival here sleeps. O noble soul! O gifted one! As modest as a cloistered maid, Thou lovedst the glare of noonday sun Less than the dingle's quiet shade, Where soft the wild vine creeps. Too precious for a brazen age Whom grosser things of earth engage Was thine high-souled and glorious line, Thy genius delicate, divine.
Go northward. See against the sky The spires of Platteville rising high; And see those walls of limestone gray Loom up against the waning day. It is the Normal—'t is the pride Of Platteville—yea, Grant County wide.
Northward from Platteville stretching far A tier of wealthy towns there are. All I have said of Blake's before May of the region be told o'er Which lies 'tween Lima's southern bound And Montfort's prairie vale, and 'round To the high lands of Fennimore.
Upon the culminating swell Of hill and prairie, sited well To be such land's proud coronal, Stands old Grant County's capital. Its brave brick blocks and fair white homes, Its taper spires and swelling domes, Those marbles white which mutely tell Who for their country fought and fell, Are always fair—but come When May shall fill your lingering sight With apple blossoms pink and white, And leaf-buds green, and this delight Is swelled with rich perfume.
