THIS WORLD OF OURS.

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BY S. D. ANDERSON.

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This world of ours is beautiful—right beautiful, I ween,

Are all its mountains tipt with gold, its valleys tinged with green,

Its thousand laughing streams that sport, half sunshine and half shade,

Like love’s first herald seen upon the rosy cheeked maid.

The springing flowers are beautiful that open to the day,

And spread their perfume far and wide along the sunny way;

The vine-clad rocks and shady dells that bask in beauty’s sheen;

This world of ours is beautiful—wherever it is seen.

This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden days

When knights would battle valiantly for ladies’ smiles and praise;

When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword,

These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word.

Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow,

Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low,

As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days?

This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang,

And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang;

When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of one

Who joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun;

How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight,

And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night;

And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here?

This world of ours was beautiful when Rome was great and free,

And proudly shone her mountain-bird, the type of Liberty;

When Freedom found a resting-place within those trophied walls,

And circled with her eagle wing its temples and its halls;

When on the yellow Tiber’s wave the shouts of victory came,

And pride and glory mingled with the conqueror’s lauded name;

Then came the proud triumphal march, the heroes crowned with bays;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those her palmy days?

This world of ours was beautiful when Venice ruled the tide,

And thousand voices rose to greet the old man’s ocean bride;

The waters gladly danced around the castles old and proud,

And from the latticed balconies, upon the passing crowd,

Gleamed forth the light of beauty’s eye—Venetia’s daughters fair,

With hearts as pure as were the gems that glistened in their hair;

As bold in danger, true in love, as brave men’s brides should be;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Venice ruled the sea?

This world of ours was beautiful when ’neath Italia’s skies

Her passion sons, like meteor stars, flashed on their wondering eyes.

Born in that sunny clime of love, where beauty tints the air,

And earth and ocean, sun and shade, are more divinely fair;

No marvel that their minds upgrew full freighted with each tone,

And Love and Beauty sheltered them within their magic zone,

Till all they saw and all they felt found in each work a birth;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Genius walked the earth!

This world of ours was beautiful when by fair Arno’s stream

Sweet Florence lay bedecked with gifts, like beauty in her dream;

So soft her skies, so mild her suns, such perfume in each breeze,

Such songs of gladness from her plains, such flowers upon the trees;

And then her dowered children stood like jewels in her crown,

Or sun-clad monuments on which Time’s rays come proudly down,

To gild with beauty e’en decay—but what decay hast thou?

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Florence decked her brow?

This world of ours was beautiful in England’s palmy times,

When merrily from church and tower pealed out the sportive chimes,

When deep within the greenwood haunts dwelt honest men and free,

With hearts as gay and minds as light as birds upon the tree;

Right honestly the day was passed; at night, upon the green,

All joining in the merry dance the young and old were seen,

And many a jocund song was sung, and many a tale was told;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good days of old?

This world of ours was beautiful when valiant men and true

Spread their white sails, and sought a home beyond the waters blue⁠—

They found it ’neath the forest old, ’mid wild and savage men,

Beside the ocean’s rocky shore, within the mountain glen;

And there was heard the childish laugh, and there the mother’s tone,

Brought joy and gladness in their sound to many an altar-stone;

Men toiled and strove, and strove and toiled, through all the weary hours,

Oh! was not the world beautiful, this western world of ours?

This world of ours was beautiful, when Freedom first awoke,

Its cradle song the trumpet call, its toy the sabre stroke,

Full armed, like Pallas, then she stood amid the deadly fight,

And man by man stood boldly up, and clenched their hands of might,

The tempest came, no cheek turned pale, no heart unnerved with fear,

They grasped their swords more tightly then—’twas victory or a bier;

Long was the struggle, hard the fight, but liberty was won;

Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath fair Freedom’s sun?

This world of ours was beautiful in times long, long ago,

When those good men of earnest souls dwelt with us here below;

Large was their faith in human kind; their mission seemed to be

To teach man all his duties here—Love, Faith and Energy,

To link each man to brother man, with links of firmest steel;

Then touch the spark of sympathy, and all the shock will feel;

Stamp the nobility of truth upon each deathless soul;

Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath such pure control?

This world of ours was beautiful, and still is so to me;

Since boyish days I’ve clung to it, with wildness and with glee;

Have laughed when others talked of wo beneath so fair a sky,

When time, like flights of singing birds, with melody went by,

Have roved amid its fairy bowers, and drank of every stream

Of joy and gladness, till I lived within a blissful dream,

And life, deep ladened with its fruits, slept like a weary child;

This world of ours is beautiful as ’twas when Eden smiled?

This world of ours is beautiful despite what cynics say;

There must be storms in winter time as well as flowers in May;

But what of that?—there’s joy in both the sunshine and the shade,

The light upon the mountain-top, the shadow in the glade.

Be free of Soul, and firm of Heart, read all life’s lessons right,

Nor look for roses in the snow, nor sunbeams in the night.

Up! up! to action, armed with Love, Faith and Energy;

And then this world is beautiful, as beautiful can be.