Year: 1873

the London Spectator pronounced to be
the finest poem ever written IN America:
The early part of the war,on stormy
Saturday night, in the dead of winter,
there died at the Commercial Hospital,
in the City of Cincinnati, young wo-
man, over whose head only two-and-
twenty summers had passed. She had
once been possessed Of an enviable share
of beauty, and had been, as she herself
said, "fiattered and sought for the
charms of her face" but alas she had
fallen from woman's high estate. Highly
educated, and with accomplished man
ners, she might have shown in the best
society. But the evil hour that proved
her ruin was the door from which went
out the innocence of childhood,a and hav-
Ing spent young life in disgrace and
shame, the poor friendless one died the
melancholy death of broken-hearted
out-cast. Among her personal effects
was found in manuscript, "The Beautl-
tul Snow" which was Immediately car
ried to Enos B. Reed, gentleman of
culture and literary taste, who was at
the time the editor of the National
Union. In the columns of that paper
or the morning of the day following the
girls death, the poem appeared in print
for the first time. When the paper
containing the poem came out the body
of the victim had not received burial.
The attention of Thomas Buchanan
Reed, one of the first American poets,
was so taken with their stirring pathos,
that he Immediately followed the corpse
to its final resting place. Such are the
plain facts concerning her whose
Beautiful Snow" will long be remem-
bered as one of the brightest gems IN
American literature
Oh the snow, 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 no wrong
FLYING TO kiss fair lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in froicsome freak;
Beautiful snow from the heaven above,
Pure as an angel, gentle as love
Oh the snow, the beautiful snow
How the fakes gather aud laugh as they 60;
Whirllng about IN their msddening fun,
1t plays in it's gee with every one


Chasing,


Laughing,


Hurrying by,
II lights Cd the face and it sparkles the eye,
And the dogs " ith bark and bound,
Snap al the crystals that eddy around;
The town is alive, and its heart in glow,
To welcome the coming Of beautiful snow.
How wild the crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song
How the gay sledges like meteors fash by,
Bright for moment, then lost to the eye


Ringing,


Swinging,


Dancing they so,
Over the crest Of the beautiful snow
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
AS TO make one regret 10 see it lie
To be trampled and tracked by the Thousands OF


feet,


Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.
Once l was pure as the snow-but fell;
Fell like the w-hakes, from heaven TO hell
Fell TO be trampled as filth in the street;
Fell to be scoffed, TO be spit Oh and beat;


Pleading,


Cursing,


Dreading 10 die
Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for morsel Of bread
Hating the living and fearing the dead,
Mercilul God Have fallen so low
And yet WIS once like the beautiful snow.
Once was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like its crystal,a heart like lis glow;
Ouce l was loved for my innocent grace,
Fla,lered and sough, for the charms OF my face.


Father,


Mother,


Sister, all,
God and myself I've lost by my full :
The yerie,t wretch that goes shi'ering by,
Will make vide swoop lest wander too nigh;
For all that 10 on or about me, know,
There is nothing as pure as the beautiful snow.
How strange it should be that the beautiful


snow


Should fall on a sinner with nowhere TO go
How strange it would oe when the night comes


again brain
Ifthe snow aud the lee strike my desperate


Painting,


Freezing,


Dying-alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan
To b. heard in tho streets OF tie crazy town,
Gone mad in the JOY of the snow coming down,
To lie aud to die in nay terrible woe,
With a bed and shroud Of the beautiful snow
Helpless and foul as the tramPied snow,
Sinner, despair not, Christ sioOpeth low
To rescue the soul that is lost In liz sin,
And raise it to life and enjoyment again.


Groaning,


Bleeding,


Dying for thee,
The crucihed hung on the sccursed tree,
His accents Of mercy fell soft on thine ear.
Is there no mercy for me; Will He heed my


prayer


o God in The stream that Tor sinners old dow