The at­

tention of Thomas Buchanan Resid,

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 rest­

ing place.

Such are the plain facts c oncerning

her whose " "Beautiful Snow" will long

be regarded as one of the highest

gems in American literature.

Oil! the snow, the beautiful snow.

Killing the sky and the eanh below,

Over i lie housetops, over the street.

Over the heads of the people you meet;

Dancing llirling skimming along,

lSeaut it'll 1 snow! it can do no wrong:

Flying to kiss a lady's fair cheek.

Clinging to lips in frolicksome freak:

beautiful snow from heaven above,

l'ure as an angel, gentle sis love.

Oil! the snow, the beautiful snow.

How the Hakes gather and laugh as they

g

hilling about in maddening fun;

Chasing laughing hurrying by.

It lights on the face, and it sparkles the

eye.

Ami iiie tlogs, with a bark and a hound.

Snap at the crystals as they eddy around.

The town is alive, and its heart is aglow

To welcome t tie coming of beautiful

snow.

How the wild crowd goes surgingalong,

Hailing each other with humor anil song:

How the gay sleighs. like meteors Hash by,

Hright for the nioinent, then lost to the

eye.

Hinging sw inging dashing tln-v

Over the crust of the beautiful snow;

Snow so pure w hen it falls from the sky,

'To bo trampled and tracked by thou­

sands of feet

Till it blends willi the lilt 1 1 in the horri­

ble street.

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow.

With an eye like a crystal, a heart like

its glow :

Once I w as loved for my innocent grace

Flattered ami sought for the charms (,f

my face:

Fattier mother sisters all.

God and myself I have lost by my fall:

The weariest wretch that goo-; shivering

by,

Will make a wide sweep 'est I wander

too nigh.

For all that is on or above me I know­

There is nothing so pure as the beauti­

ful snow.

How .strange it should be that this beau­

tiful snow

Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to

go­

How strange it should be when night

comes again

If the snow and the ice struck my des-

perate brain,

Fainting freezing dying alone.

Too w icked for prayer, too weak for a

moan

To be hoard in the st reels of the crazy

town

Gone mad in the joy of snow coining

down :

To be and to die in my terrible woe,

With a bed and a shroud of the beauti­

ful snow.

Helpless ami foul as the trampled snow,

Sinner, despair not. Christ stoopcth low

To rescue t lie soul that is lost in sin.

And raise it to life and enjoyment again.

Groaning bleeding dving for thee.

The crucified hung on the cursed tree!

His accents of mercy fell soft on thine

oar.

Is there mercy for me? Wilt he hear my

weak prayer?

(). Ood! in the stream thsit for sinners

did llow,

Wash me,and I shall be whiter than snow