The pious and excellent Mrs. JEAN WOOD, who died in this city some years since, was the relict of General James Wood, a distinguished officer of the revolution, and afterwards Governor of Virginia. The qualities for which she was remarkable, were familiarly known to a very large circle of friends, by whom, at least such as survive her, her memory is still held dear. She was indeed in the justest sense, a mother in Israel,—a lady of shining christian benevolence, whose kindly feelings towards her race did not consist in mere sentiment only,—but were evinced in a life of active, useful, and unostentatious charities and labors of love. Her piety moreover, though profound and ardent, was free from austerity; and there was a grace and cheerfulness in her manner and conversation, which won upon all of every age and condition who approached her. Well known as she was however, and universally respected for her virtues, there were but few comparatively who were apprised of her varied endowments or who knew that her practical good sense and experienced judgment were united to the lighter attractions and more ornamental graces of the intellectual character. Literature was to her the solace which refreshed the intervals in her works of goodness; it furnished that balmy repose to the spirit,—which it often needs amidst the conflicts and agitations of human life, even in its most favored condition. The proud, the selfish and avaricious, or the gay and luxurious, may each indulge in his own enjoyment or follow his own delusive phantom,—but next to the consciousness of doing good, there is no earthly happiness so pure and unalloyed as that which springs from the silent communion with our own spirits, or with the marvellous and multiform external objects which surround us. "There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know." There is an exalted sense of enjoyment in contemplating all that is beautiful and good in the moral and physical world, and this indeed constitutes the empire of poetry in its more general and unrestricted sense. We do not claim for Mrs. Wood very extraordinary powers in this enchanting department of literary effort,—for how few of the thousands who have ever essayed to climb the hill of Parnassus have reached its highest pinnacle; and on the contrary how many have been content to tune their unambitious lays in humble seclusion—without courting or even desiring renown. Mrs. Wood wrote neither for fame nor the public eye, and it is this circumstance alone which will impart an additional interest to the natural and unstudied effusions of her muse. Her numerous friends and relatives will at least experience a melancholy pleasure, in tracing in these memorolabilia of their deceased friend, some of those qualities of mind and heart, which rendered her in life an object of respect and love,—and in death,—of veneration and regret.
The first poem we have selected, entitled "Retrospection," appears to have been written in 1809—when a severe illness threatened the life of her husband. In the frame of mind natural under such circumstances, she recalls the principal sorrows of her life, and among them there was none more poignant than the loss of an only child, a daughter of eighteen years old. The closing lines will indicate the source to which she was accustomed to look in the season of human affliction.
RETROSPECTION.
| Why should mysterious Heaven bestow A warm and feeling heart— Yet doom it naught but pain to know, And rankle in its smart? That it might agonize and bleed At every suffering pore, The soft affections why decreed To centre in its core? The tender ties my heart has proved That heart has held most dear, And those most dearly, fondly loved, Have cost the bitterest tear! A tender parent's weeping nurse My early youth I pass'd; And Heaven did but those tears disperse To bid them flow more fast: For rich in worth, a youth appear'd— I gave my virgin heart; But Hymen scarce our vows endeared Ere we were doomed to part: He, through war's ravaged fields to roam Eight sad revolving years— I, droop'd, a widow'd wife at home, In unavailing tears: But ah! the pang was yet to feel, (The worst the heart can know,) The pang no earthly power can heal, The climax of all woe! To me a cherub fair was given, I placed it next my heart; It seemed the choicest gift of Heaven— My bosom's dearest part: While yet I mark'd each opening charm That graced its baby brow, Disease approach'd, in direful form, To lay each promise low. And oh! how worse than death to see The ruins of a mind, Which, in its dawning, seem'd to be For better hopes design'd; To watch with anxious hopes and fears The daily deep'ning gloom, Till eighteen sad and suffering years Had laid her in the tomb. Though keen the parting pang I felt, And did my child deplore; Yet soon in gratitude I knelt— Her sufferings were no more. My mind's composure once regain'd, A competence still ours; My loved companion, too, remain'd To cheer my lonely hours: Fondly I hoped life's evening shade Might yet in peace descend, And grief no more my heart invade Till closing life should end. But now alas! the transient calm Flits fast and far away— The hope that o'er my fancy swam, And soothed my wasting day; For dire disease again appears To break the mild serene; Again commands my streaming tears, And clouds our closing scene! Why, then, my God! thus closely twine Around this bursting heart, Those fond affections which are mine, Such misery to impart! Dare I, presumptuous, seek to know What mocks our mortal sight; Enough for me, thou will'st it so— It, therefore, must be right. |
The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure moral sentiment.
THE CAPTIVE BIRD.
| Say, little caged flutterer, say, Why mournful waves thy drooping wing? Why silent sit, the live-long day? Nor Vespers chaunt, nor Matins sing. When first a captive thou wert made And in thy wiry dwelling swung, Suspended in the leafy shade Or sunny door, you gaily sung. My careful hand supplied thee store Of ripest berries from the hill; Thy cup replenished, strewed thy floor With glittering gravel from the rill. Beneath the same luxuriant vine, The same kind hand supplies thy fare; The sun's first cheering rays are thine, Yet thou art sad and silent there. Ah! little captive, couldst thou see What passes in this wayward breast, Thou'dst ask, perhaps, the same of me, And why vain wishes break my rest. Thou'dst ask me, why this quiet shade Which late a paradise I deem'd, Though still in verdant sweets array'd, A melancholy prison seemed? And bid me mind, each passing day That wholesome viands crown'd my board, That flowers and fruits and sunshine gay For me, too, vernal sweets afford. Nay, more,—that liberty is mine And lends a ray to every joy— While sad captivity is thine, Mingling with all its sad alloy. Thou "still small voice" that will be heard, Whose whispers thrill the inmost soul! Reproving friend—beloved and feared— Conscience, this is thy mild control! Oft hast thou urged this conscious truth, When gloomy tears have fill'd mine eye; Or discontent, with brow unsmooth, Was fain to force th' unwilling sigh. 'Tis thy reproving voice I hear, When from the poor and lowly cot Content and cheerfulness appear, Though mark'd by penury their lot. Then shall I bear a pining heart— While friendship, health, and peace combine Life's dearest comforts to impart— Ah! shall a thankless heart be mine! No sure—content's too cold a name For what my bosom ought to feel; Thus favored, gratitude's sweet claim With thanks unceasing bids me kneel: Bids me, thus lowly bending, vow Before the awful throne of Heaven— Children of want, to share with you The good its gracious power has given. |