’Tis early eve—the sun’s last trembling glance,
Still hovers o’er and gilds the western wild,
And slowly leaves the haunts of solitude.
Venus, bright mistress of the musing hour,
Above the horizon lifts her beck’ning torch;
Stars, in their order, follow one by one
The graceful movement of their brilliant queen,
Obedient to the hand that fix’d them all,
And said to each—Be this thy place.
Refreshing airs revive man’s sinking strength,
And hallowed thoughts come rushing to the heart!
Now from her eastern clime the golden Moon,
Set in a frame of azure, lifts her shield,
And all creation wakes to life renewed!
Not long she holds supreme her joyous course;
Her foes in sullen vapors fitful rise,
And envious, hovering over her splendid path,
Now thin—now dense, impede her kindly ray.
In hasty, partial gleams, of light and shade,
She holds her purposed way.—Now darker clouds
Collect, combine, advance—she falls—’twould seem
To rise no more—sudden they break—they pass,
Once more she shines—bright sovereign of the skies!
Thus ’tis with life—it is not dubious hope
In early youth—’tis joy—joy unalloy’d;
Joy blooms within, all objects take the tint,
And glowing colors paint the vista’s length.
Not long, life dances on the plastic scene,
Care’s haggard form invades each flow’ry path;
Disease, with pallid hue, leads on her train,
And Sorrow sheds her tears in wasting showers!
But Pain and Grief pass on, and harrowing Care
Awhile put on some pleasing, treacherous shape;
Then hope revives, health blooms! love smiles—
And wealth and honors crown the distant day.
How long? Envenom’d ills collect all ’round,
And while short-sighted man his fragile schemes
Pursues—not grasps—blow after blow fall swift,
Fall reckless—and he sinks beneath their weight!
To rise no more? Like yon triumphant Moon,
That “walks in brightness” now, beyond the clouds,
Through patient suffering, man shall surely rise
To dwell above that orb, in light ineffable,
Where pain—where sin—where sorrows, never come!
[Mrs. Sallie Williams Hardcastle.]
Mrs. Hardcastle’s maiden name was Sallie Williams Minter. She was born in Bedford county, Virginia, June 19, 1841.
Reared in the shadow of the Peaks of Otter, whose lofty summits tower in magnificent grandeur far above the wooded heights and billowy green hills of the surrounding country, it is little wonder that the subject of this sketch should have been early imbued with the spirit of poesy, and led to the cultivation of tastes and the selection of themes which the grand and picturesque in nature are apt to suggest. But in addition to these favorable surroundings, a literary and thoughtful turn of mind was inherited from her father and grandfather—the latter having been eminent in his day as the author of a religious work, replete with keen arguments and logical conclusions.
The former also was a writer of ability, and having a thorough knowledge of the politics of his State, frequently discussed them in the local journals with a ready and trenchant pen.
Mrs. Hardcastle was educated at Bedford Female College, but is indebted to her father for her best and earliest tuition. At the age of fourteen her first verses, written on the death of a little friend of her own age, were published in the Virginia Sentinel. She was an occasional contributor to the Literacy Companion, Magnolia Weekly, and other Southern periodicals.
Mrs. Hardcastle was married in 1863 to Dr. Jerome H. Hardcastle, then a surgeon in the hospital at Liberty, Va. After the war they came to Maryland, and subsequently, in 1876, to Cecilton, in this county, where they have since resided. They are the parents of five daughters and one son.
Like many other persons, Mrs. Hardcastle neglected to carefully preserve her poetical writings. And was so unfortunate as to lose most of the few in her possession at the time of the evacuation of Richmond, in consequence of which the following poems are all it has been practicable to obtain, which is a matter of regret, inasmuch as they are by no means the best of her writings.
[On Receipt of a Bouquet.]
I thank thee, my friend, for thy delicate gift,
These fair and beautiful flowers,
They come to me now, like a boon from above,
To gladden my pensive hours.