[THE Omaha
Republican gives tlie following history
o£ this production, which the London
Spectator has pronounced the finest poem
ever written in America:-"In the early
part of tho war, one dark Saturday night
in the dead of winter, there died in the
Commercial Hospital, in Cincinnati, a
young woman over irhose head only tivo-
and-twenty summers had passed. She had
been once possessed of an enviable share
of beauty, and had been, as she herself
says, ' flattered and sought for the
charms o£ her face,' but, alas ! upon
her fair brow had long been written that
terrible word . Once the pride of
respectable parentage, her first wrong
step was the small beginning of the same
old story over and over again, which has
been the only history of thousands.
Highly educated and accomplished in
manners, she might have shone in the
best society. But the evil hour that
proved her ruin came, and having spent a
yonug life in disgrace and shame, the
poor friendlc33 one died the melancholy
death of a broken-hearted outcast. Among
her personal effects was found, in MS.,
' The beautiful Snow," which wa3
immediately carried to Enos B. Reed, a
gentleman of culture and literary
talent, and the then editor of the
National Union.] Oh ! tho suow, the
beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the
earth below, Over the house tops, over
the street, Over the heads of the people
you meet, Dancing, flirting, skimming
along ; Beautiful snow ! it can do
nothing wrong; Flying to kiss a fair
lady's cheek, Clinging to lips in a
frolicsome freak ; : " Beautiful snow
from the heavens above, Pure as an
angel, gentle as love 1 Oh ! the snow,
the beautiful snow, . How the Hakes
gather and laugh as they go Whirling
about in their maddening fun, It plays
its glee with everyoneChasing, laughing,
hurrying by, It lights on the face and
sparkles tho eye, And the dogs, with a
bark and a bound, ' Snap at the crystals
that eddy aroundTho town is alive and
its heart in a glow To welcomo tho
coming of beautiful BUOW. How wildly tho
crowd goes swaying along, Hailing eacli
other with honor aud song ! How the gay
sledge3 like meteors flash by, . Bright
for a moment, then lost to the eye ;
Ringing, swinging, dashing they go, Over
the crust of the beautiful snow Snow so
pure when it falls from the sky As to
make one regret to see it lie, _ To be
trampled and tracked by the thousands
01" feet, . .. ... Till it blends with
the .filth iu the horrible street. Once
I was pure as the snow; but'I fell, j >;
Fell like the snow flake3, from heaven
to hell ; , . . Fell to b8 trampled like
filth iu the street, Fell to be scoffed,
to be spit on and beat. Pleading,
cursing, dreading to die, Selling my
soul to whoever would buy ; Dealing in
shame for a morsel of bread, Hating tho
living aud fearing the dead. Merciful
God ! have I fallen so low 1 And yet I
was once like tho beautiful snow. Onco 1
was fair as the beautiful snow, With an
eye like its crystal, a heart like its
glow ; V : ' Once I was loved for my
innocent grace Flattered and sought for
the charms of my - face;.: . .. ? .. i,
Father, mother, sister and all; God and
myself, I have lo3t by my fall; The
veriest wretch that goes shiveriug by
Will make a wide swoop, lest I wander
too nigh ; For all that is on or above
me I know There's nothing so pure as the
beautiful snow. How strange it should bs
that this beautiful snow Should fall on
a sinner with nowhere to go ; How
strange should it be, when night comes
again, If the suow and the ice struck my
desperate brain ! Fainting, freezing,
dying alone. Too wicked for prayer, too
weak for a moan To be hoard iu the
street of the crazy town, Gone mad in
the joy of the snow coming down; To be
and to die in my terrible woe, With a
bed and a shroud in the beautiful snow.
Helpless and foul as the trampled snow,
Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low
To rescue the soul that is lost in its
sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment
again. Groaning, bleeding, dying for
thee, The crucified hung on the accursed
tree, His accents of mercy fell soft on
thine earI3 there mercy for me ? Will ho
heed my prayer ? Oh, God ! iu the stream
that for sinners did How, Wash me, and I
shall be whiter than snow.