In the early
part of the American war, one dark Saturday morning, in the dead of 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”, but, alas! Upon her fair brow had long been written that
pitiable word – unfortunate. Once
the pride of respectable parentage, her first wrong step was the small beginning
of the “same old story over again”, which had been the life-history of
thousands. Highly educated and
accomplished in manner, she might have shone in the best 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.
Amongst her
personal effects was found, in manuscript, the “Beautiful Snow”, which was
immediately carried to Enos B. Reed, a gentleman of culture and literary tastes,
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 for the first time.
When the paper containing the poem came out on Sunday morning, the body
of the victim had not yet received burial.
The attention of Thomas Buchanan Read, 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.
Such are the
plain facts concerning her whose “Beautiful Snow” will be long regarded as
one of the brightest gems in American literature:-
Oh! the snow,
the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky
and earth below,
Over the
housetops, over the street,
Over the heads
of people you meet;
Dancing – Flirting – Skimming along!
Beautiful snow!
It can do no wrong;
Flying to kiss
a fair lady’s cheek,
Clinging to
lips in frolicksome freak;
Beautiful snow
from Heaven above,
Pure as an
angel, gentle as love!
Oh, the snow,
the beautiful snow,
How the flakes
gather and laugh as they go,
Whirling about
in maddening fun;
Purest of all
things under the Sun,
Chasing – Laughing – Hurrying by,
It lights up
the face and it sparkles the eye;
And the dogs
with a bark and a bound
Snap at the
crystals as they eddy around;
The town is
alive and its heart is aglow,
To welcome the
coming of beautiful snow!
How wild the
crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each
other with humour and song;
How the gay
sleighs like meteors flash by,
Bright for a
moment, then lost to the eye;
Ringing – Swinging – Dashing they go.
Over the crest
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 thousands of feet,
Till it blends
with the filth in the horrible street.
Once I was pure
as the snow, but 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
shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating 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 a 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 – Sisters all,
God and myself
I have lost by my fall;
The veriest
wretch that goes shivering by,
Will make a
wide sweep lest I wander too 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
would be when the night comes again,
If the snow and
ice struck my desperate brain,
Fainting – Freezing – Dying alone,
Too wicked for
prayers, too weak for a moan
To be heard in
the streets of the crazy town;
Gone mad in the
joy of snow coming 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! Christ stoopeth low
To rescue the
soul that is lost in sin,
And raise it to
life and enjoyment again,
Groaning – Bleeding – Dying for thee,
The Crucified
hung on the cursed tree!
His accents of
mercy fall soft on thine ear,
“Is there
mercy for me? Will He heed my weak
prayer?”
O God! In the
stream that for sinners did flow
Wash me, and I
shall be brighter than snow.