The Omaha Republican gives the:

following, histolv of this production,

which the London 1 Spectator has

prononnced the finesit poem. ever 3

written in America. In thie earl: part,

of the, war one dark Saturday nighllt;

in the dead- of winter, there died in

the Contnmercial Hosplital, Cincinnati,

: young woman, nover "iihose head only

two and twenty eummers had passed.: She

had been once possessed of an enviable

share of: i beauty, and had, been, as

she herself 'says, "fd;ttered and sought

for the charmins of the face," but,

alas! upon her':fair: brow -had long bh

en written that terrible ivord---.?.

Once the pride of respectable

pareritage, her first wroig step was the

small begining of the same: old story

over again, which has. been athe only

history of thousands. Highly ,educated

and atieomlilishled in manners, she

niig!t have shofie in the best society.

But the evil hour: that proved her ruin

came, and having spent a young life in

disgrace and shame, the poor friendless

one died the melancholy death of a

brokenhearted outcast. Among. her

personal effects was founid in M. S. "

The Beautiful 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 colums of that

paper, on the morning of the day

following the gir!'s death, the poem

appeared in print for the first 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 Anal resting place, THE

BEAUTIFUL SNOW. Oh ! the snow, the

beautiful snow, Filling the sky and

earth below ; Over the housetops, over

the street, Over the heads of the people

you meet, Daucing, 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 angle,

gentle as love ! Oh ! the snow, the

beautiful snow; How the flakes gather

and laugh as they go, Whirling about in

their maddening fun, It plays in its

glee with everyoneChasing, laughintr,

hurrying by, It lights on the face and

sparkles tlfe eye, And the dogs, with a

bark and a bound,. Snap at the crystals

that eddy aroundThe town is alive and

its heart in a glow To welcome the

coming of the beautiful snow. How wildly

the crowd goes swaying along, Hailing

each other with humor and song ! How the

gay sledges like meteors flash by,

Bright for a moment, then lost to the

eye; .Ringing, swinging, dashing they

go, Over the crust of the beautiful

snowSnow 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 of feet. Till it blends with

the'filth of the street: Once I was

.pure as the snow. bat I fell, - Fell

like the snow flakes from heaven to

hell; Fell to be trampled as filth in

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 shdme for

a morsel of bread, lating the living,

and fearing the. dead. Merciful God !

have I fallen so low ? . And yet I was

once like the beautiful snow ? Once I

was fair as the beautiful snow, With an

eye like its crystal, a heart like its

glow; Once I was loved for my innocent

grace-Flattered and sought for the

charms of-my face : Father, mother,

sister, and all, God, and myself, I have

lost by my fall; The veriest wretch that

goes shivering by Will make a wide sw-

op, lest I wander too nigh, For all that

is on or above me. I know There's

nothing co pure as the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this

beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner

with nowhere to go; How strange it

should be when night comesagain, If the

snow and theice struck my desperate

brain! Fai ting, freezing, dying alone,

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a

moan To be heard in the street of thle

crizy town,.. Gone mad in the joy of the

snow coining down.; To be and to die in

my terrible woe, With a bed and a'

shroud of the beautiful snow. Helpless

and foul as the trampled snow, Sinner,

despair not ! Chrirt stooieth low To

rescue the soul that is lost in its

sin," And raise it to life- aid

enjoymient again. Groaning, bleeding,

dying for thee, The crucified hung oni

the accursed tree, His accents of mierv

fell soft on thine earIs there menry for

me ?-Will he headmy prayer? Oh God I in

tie strearn that for sinners did flow,

Wash iie, and I shall be whiter than

snow.