Beautiful Snow

BEAUTIFUL SNOW

by Major Sigourney

The Young Englishwoman (August 1875)

Major Sigourney, nephew of the celebrated poetess of that name, was the author of "Beautiful Snow," but for a long time this fact was unknown. The writer had sad reasons for concealing his identity. He had in early life married a Miss Filmore, a lady of great personal attractions, and with her made a voyage to Europe. During their absence rumours unfavourable to her character reached the Sigourney family . The reports seem to have been well founded, for shortly after her return to New York she showed that the curse of the nineteenth century - the demon drink - had added another name to the list of his victims. She abandoned her husband, became an outcast, and was next heard of as an inmate of the penitentiary on Blackwell's Island. Her husband's love was still sufficiently strong to induce him to make another effort to save her, and through his influence she was released, only again to desert her home. In the winter of 1853 the papers spoke of a young and beautiful woman having been found dead under the snow, in a disreputable street in New York. Something seemed to tell Sigourney that the body was that of his wife. Upon making enquiries, he found his surmises were but too true, and, after claiming the remains, he had them interred in the picturesque "silent city" which overlooks the busy harbour of New York. The story of that erring wife was told in the touching language of "Beautiful Snow." What wonder that he shunned the publicity that its authorship would have conferred. The latest effort of his genius was a poem addressed to his only child, and is a touching companion to the first. A few years ago, Major Sigourney was found dead in the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that he had shot himself.

BEAUTIFUL SNOW

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below;
Over the housetops, over the street,
Over the head 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 frolicksome freak;
Beautiful snow, from the heaven's 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 their maddening fun -
It plays, in its glee, with every one:
Chasing, laughing, hurrying by,
It lights on the face and sparkles the 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 welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How widely the crowd goes swaying along
Hailing each other with humour and song:
How the gay sledges, 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 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 its crystal and heart like its glow;
Once I was loved for my innocent grace -
Flattered 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 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 should be, when night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting, freezing, dying alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too 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 not; 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? -
O God! in the stream that for sinners doth flow,
Wash me - and I shall be whiter than snow.

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