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.
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. |
In the lines which we next select, it will be perceived that to minds of delicate fibre and poetic temperament,—the most familiar objects in nature will often suggest mournful images and recollections. A flower will awaken affecting reminiscences of some long lost and beloved object.
THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.
| Sweet floret! beauty of a day, And transient as thou'rt sweet; Scarce opening to the morning ray Ere shrinking from its heat: Noon faded sees each early charm, Thy blue eye closed in death; And evening's breeze, thy wasted form Wafts lightly o'er the heath. While thus, sweet child of summer skies, I see thee bloom and die; What tender recollections rise To prompt the pensive sigh: For once in this lone bosom grew As fair, as sweet a flower, That smiled and budded forth like you In morn's propitious hour; But ah! while joy and hope were new And promised bliss secure; Like you, it drooping faded too— And sunk to bloom no more. Oft as I through the twilight gloom A wandering mourner stray; Pale shadowy tenant of the tomb, She seems to cross my way: For every object, every scene Does my lost love recall, From cheerful morning's rising beam To mournful evening's fall. |