A FALLEN WOMAN'S STORY. 1 The Omaha

Republican gives the'-following hisiory

of this, production which; .the London

Spectator hns pronounced the finest poem

ever written in America. In the early

part of the war one dark Saturday night,

in the dead of winter, there died in the

Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati, a young

woman, over whose head only two and

twenty summers had passed. She hud been

once possessed ol an enviable share of

beauty, and hud been, us she herself

says, " flattered and sought lor the

charms of the face," hut, 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 oi the same

old story over again, which has been the

only hisiory of thousands. Highly

educated and accomplished in manners,

she might have shone in the best

society. Hut the evil hour that proved

her ruin came, and having spent a young

life in disgrace, and shaine, the poor

friendless one died the melancholy death

of a broken hearted outcast. Among her

personal effects was found in MS. " The

Heauiiful Snow," which was immediately

carried to Enos B. Reed, a gentleman of

culture and literary talent, and the

then editor of the National Union In the

columns of that paper, on the morning of

the day following the girl's death, the

poem appeared in ' print lor the lirat

time. When the paper containing the poem

came out on Sunday morning, the body of

the victim had not received burial. The

attention of Thomas Buchanan Reed, one

of the first American poets, was soon

directed to the newly published lines,

and he was so taken with their stirring

pathos, that he immediately followed the

corpse to its final resting place. TUB

DEAUTJi-UI, SNOlT, Oli! tho snow, tho

beautiful snow, billing tlio sky and

Biirih below; Oyer tho housetops, oyer

tho street, Ovor tho heads of iho

[tropleyou moot, IJaneing, flirting,

skimming along; Beautiful snow! it can

do uothing|<vrong; Inlying to kiss a

fair lady's ohsok, Clinging to lips in a

I'roliciotre freak j Beautiful snow

t'roin tlio([Ioavens abovei Pure as an

ungol, gentle^s loyo ! Oli! the snow,

tho beautifuljsnow, How the flukos

gather and laugh us thoyjgo, Whirling

about ill their inaddeuiug fun, It plays

in its gloe with everyoneChasing,

laughing, hurrying by, It lights on tho

face and Hparkles the eyo. Ami tho dogs,

with a bark aud a bound, Snap at the

crystals that eddy around -The town is

alive and its heart in a glow To welcome

the coining ot tho beautiful snow. How

wildly th« crowd goosjawaying along,

Hailing e.ich other with humor ant song!

How tho gay sledges lileo meteors flash

by, Bright for a moment then lost to tho

eyo; Hinging, swinging, dishing thoy go,

Over the crust, of tho beautiful suow

-Snow so pure when it falls from the

sky, As to make one regrot to see it

lie, To bo trampled and tracked by the

thousands of feot, Till it blonds with

tho tilth of tho street. Onco I was pure

as the show, but I fell, Fell like tho

snow flakes trom heaven lo holl; Fell to

bo Lramplod as tilth in tho street; Full

to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat.

Pleading, cursing; dreading to die,

Soiling my soul to whoover would buy;

Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,

tinting the living and fearing the dead.

Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ?

And yet I was onco like the beautiful

snow ! Once I was fair as tho beautiful

snow, With an eyo like its crystal, a

heart Jiko its glow; Ouco I was loved

for my iunocont grace Flattered and

Bought for the charms of my facej

Father, mother, sUter, and allj God and

myselt, I have lost by my fall; The

veriest wretch that goes shivering by

Will make a wide swoop, lest I wander

too nigh; For all that ia on or above me

I know There's nothing so pure as tlm

beautiful snow. How strange it should bo

that this beautiful snow Should fall on

n sinner with nowhere to go; How strange

it Bhould be, when night oomoa again If

ihe snow and the ico struck my.desperato

brain 1 Fainting, freezing, dyiug alone,

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a

moan I'd bo hoard in the street of the

crazy town, Gone mad in ihe joy of the

suow coming down; To bu and to die in my

terrible woe, Willi a bed and a shroud

of the beautiful suow. Helpless and foul

as tho trampled snow, Mnner, despair not

I Chriat stooneth low To rescue the soul

that is lost iu its sin, And raise it to

!if« and enjoyment again. Groaning,

bleeding, dying for thee, The crucified

hung on the accursed tree, Hid accents

of mercy fell soft on thine ear ls there

mercy for me ? Will he heed my prayer f

Oh God ! iu the stream that for sinners

did flow, Wash mo, and I shall be whiter

than snow