BEAUTIFUL SNOW," un repiy. to a

correspondent in-a borne paper, the

following story of this poem—which is

regarded as one of tlie brightest gems

in American literature—is given;—In

the., early part of the war, one dark

Saturday morning in' the dead ol winter,

there died at the Commercial- Hospital,

Cincinnati, a young woman, over whose

head only two-and-twenty summers had

passed. > She had once been possessed of

an enviable share of beauty—had been, as

she .herself said, "flattered and sought

for the charms of her face;" hut, alas,

upon her fair brow had long been written

the terrible word—fallen! Once the

-pride hi respectable parentage, ber

first wrong step was the small beginning

of the "same old story over again,"

which has been the. only, life history

of thousands. Highly educated and

accomplished in manrcrs, she might have

shone in the best of society. But the

evil hour that proved her ruin was but

the door from childhood; and having

spent a young life in disgrace and shame

the poor friendless one died the

melancholy death of a' broken-hearted

outcast. Among her personal effects was

found in manuscript the "Beautiful

Snow," which was immediately carried to

a gentleman ot culture and literary

taste, who was at that time Editor of

the "National Union." In the columns of

that paper on the morning following the

girl's death the poem' appeared in

.print for the first time. Allien the

paper containing the poem came-out on

Sunday morning the body of the victim

had not yet received burial. The

attention of one of the first American

poets was soon directed to the newly

published lines, who was so taken with

their stirring pathos that he

immediately followed the corpse to its

final resting-place.! "BEAUTIFUL SNOW."

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!

filling the sky and the earth below;

Over tlie housetops, 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 frolicsome

freak; Beautiful snow, from the heavens

above—pure as an angel, gentle as love!

Oh! the snow, tlie beautiful snow, liow

the flakes gather and.laugh as'tliey go,

Whirling about in their maddening fun—it

plays, in its glee, with every one;

Chasing, laughing, hurrying by, it

lights on the face and sparkles tlie

eye; And the dogs, with a bark and a

bound, snap at the crystals that eddy

around— The town is alive and its heart

in a glow, to wel come the coming of

beautiful snow. How blithely the crowd

goes swaying along, hail ing each other

with humour and song. How i.ne gay

siedges, 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 of

feet, till it blends with the filth iu

the horrible street. Once I was pure as

the snow, but I fell—fell, like the

snowflakes. from heaven to hell; Fell,

to be trampled as filth in the

street—fell, to be scoffed, to be spit

on, and heat; Pleading, cursing,

dreading to die; selling my soul to

whoever would buy; Dealing in shame for

a morsel of bread; hating the living and

fearing the dead. .Merciful God, have I

fallen so low; and yet— 1 was once like

the beautiful snow. Once I was fair as

the beautiful snow, with an eye like ils

crystal and heart like its glow. Once I

was loved for my innocent grace—flat

tered 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 swoop lest 1 wander

loo nigh. For all that is on or above

me, I know there is nothing so 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 bS, when night

comes again, if the snow and the ice

struck my desperate brain. Fainting,

freezing, dying alone; too wicked for

prayer, loo weak for a moan To be heard

in the streets of the crazy town; gone

mad in the joy of the snow coming down—

To lie, 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 Jiol; 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

fall soft on -thine ear—Is there mercy

for me?—Will he heed my prayer? 0 God!

in the stream that for sinners doth

flow, wash me, and 1 shall be whiter

than snow