THE MOUNT MAGDALA MAGDALEN ASYLUM.

Patea Mail, Volume XIII, Issue 60, 31 August 1887, Page 3

THE MOUNT MAGDALA MAGDALEN ASYLUM.

“THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.” . „ a aiaqdalen’s i*oe.\l The Omaha Republican gives the following history of this production, which the London Spectator has pronounced the finest poem ever written in America. In the early part of the war, one dark Saturday night, in the dead of winter, there died in the Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati a young woman, over whose head only two and twenty summers had passed. She had been once possessed of an enviable share of beauty, and had been, as she herself wrote, “flattered and sought for the charms of her face,” but alas! upon her fair brow had long been written that terrible word parentage, her first wrong step was the small beginning of the same old story over again, which has been the only history of thousands. Highly educated and accomplished in manners, she might have shone 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 broken-hearted outcast. Among her personal effects was found in M.S. “The Beautiful Snow,” which was immediately carried to Enos, a gentleman of culture and literary talent, and the then editor of the National Union. In the columns of that paper, on the day

fo lowing the girl’s death, the poem appeared in print for the first time When the paper containing the poem came out on Sunday morning, the victim had not received burial. The attention of Thomas Buchannan 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 final resting place. Oh ! the snowj the beautiful snow, Filling the sky’»M' earth below; Over the housetops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet, Daficing, ‘flirlinu, ' 1 SkiUiming along. Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrongj . , Flying to kiss a lady s. cheek, . Clinging to lips a* Beautiful snow from the |ieavens above, Pure us an angel, gentle as love ? Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow, How the flakes' gather and laugh as they go, ~ . Whirling about in then* maddening fun, It plays in its glee’ with every one— Chasing,, laughing, Hurrymgb It liglVtsT on the face and 'sparkles the eye, * ' . t. 'k ■< j And ‘the (logs, with a har.c and abound, Snap at the crystals that eddy «*oundThc towiijs alive and its hearts m ft glow . ,■ To welcomo the coming of the beautiful snow.’

HoW wildly" the crowd goes^swaying along, , Hailing each other with humor and son'*! How the gay sledgeslike mr.twrs flash Brightfor a moment,' then idst to the eye; . . , Ringing, swinging, Dasmhg they go, Ovei the crust of tfcrbeautiful snow--SnoW sb pure when it falls from the As to make one regret to see it lie, t To be trampled: and tracked by thousands of fOet, . , Till it blends w ’ith the filth of the street

Once T wa.4 pure as the snow—but I fell; ■ • Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven to hell *, , • . Fell to he trampled as filth m the street; Fell to ho scoffed, to bo spit on and beat; Pleading cursing,. Dreading to die, Selling my soul to who ever won Id 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 its crystal, a heart like its glow ; . Once X was loved for my innocent grace Flattered and sought for the ch• rms of my face: Father, mother, Sister and all, God, and myself, I hj -ve lost by my fall; The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will make a wide swoop, lest I wander nigh. For all that is on or above me, I know There r s nothing so pure'aS tho‘ beautiful snow. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ; How sfranco it should be when mgrht comes again, If the' shoW and the ice struck my desperate brain! Fainting, freezing, Too wicked for. prayer, too weak for a moan To be hearditt the street of the crazy town. Gone mad. ip,the joy'of the snow coraTo 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 stoepeth low ’ ...... To rescue the soul that is lost in its «in, And raise'.it to life and enjoyment again.. GrOaning, bleeding, Dying for thee The crucified hung on the accursed tret>, His accents of mercy fell soft on thine ' .... .... ; "± Is|tnero mercy for me ? Will he heed my prayer ? Oh "Coo''! in the streafii [ that fbr siuWash me, and I shall bo whiter than nuhr. [ Father* presents his compliments 5 to all readers of the above, and asks them to send him One Guinea each for his Asylum.]