Mrs. Sallie Williams Hardcastle.
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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.
All the brilliant bloom, of the summer days, These lovely flowers restore; And my childhood’s home, with its fields and flowers, Comes back to me once more.
How fragile and fair!—some pale, some blushing, All breathing rarest perfume— But brighter and fairer they seem, my friend, Because from thee they come.
I know that this beauty is frail and brief— That their fragrance and bloom must depart, But like the mem’ry of thee, these flowers will live Forever enshrined in my heart.
October.
Oh, days of the lovely October, How dear thou art to me; Words are weak, when my soul would speak, In language taught by thee.
Not alone do thy glorious sunsets, Nor thy trees of a thousand dyes, But all touch my heart with thy sweet spell, Oh, earth, and air, and skies.
In the gardens that shone with beauty, The flowers have faded, I know, And here, by my favorite pathway, The roses no longer may blow.
But the leaves are burning with splendor, And I’ll weave them in garlands bright, As I did in the sweet days of childhood, When my heart was aglow with delight.
I’ve ruby and sapphire, blended with gold, And here’s an emerald green, A parting gift, for my coronet, From summer’s dying queen.
Oh, loveliest month of the year, Too soon will thy glories depart, But not the sweet faith thou’st wakened, Within this worshiping heart.
For though, like all beauty of earth, Thou’rt trammeled by earthly decay, Yet my soul is lifted by thine, To glories that fade not away.
Old Letters.
To Mrs. Annie P——.
“Burn my old letters”—ah! for you These words are easy to say, For you, who know not the light they brought To many a darksome day.
And, then, old letters to me are links To those days forever gone; For we cling to the past as age would cling To youth, in its rosy dawn.
But the wintry air is chill without, And the fire is faint and low, So I’ll gather them up—the page of to-day With the date of long ago.
Gather them up and cast them in Like trash, to the greedy flame; And I marvel not that the world hath said, “Friendship is only a name!”
For the human heart’s a changeful thing, And sometime we would borrow The light, that other days have given, To cheer us on the morrow.
And so, as I sit in the merry light Of the blaze that upward flashes, I think, like these, our dearest hopes May come to dust and ashes.
June Roses.
What marvelous new-born glory Is flushing the garden and lawn! Hath the queen of all blossoming beauty Come forth with the early dawn?
Like the first faint flush of morn, To the watchers, aweary with night,— Like treasures long hidden away, Ye burst on my joyous sight.
Not e’en the “first rose of Summer,” Could yesterday be seen— Only a tint like the sea-shell, Deep in a prison of green.
Did the lover-like kiss of the south wind, While wand’ring o’er forest and lake, Bid thee start in thy slumbering beauty, And crimson with blushes awake?
’Tis long since the fragrant lilac Flourished and drooped at thy side, While many a frail young flow’ret since Hath quietly blossomed and died.
And for days the pale, proud lily In regal beauty hath shown, Catching the sun’s warm glances Ere the young roses had blown.
But perfumed breezes are whispering: “To-day the roses have come,” And the cottage will rival the palace, Decked in thy radiant bloom.
Music.
The spirit is often enraptured With sweet tokens of love divine, But seldom in language so plain As spoken through music, to mine.
Then my soul flings wide her portals, And visions of Paradise throng, While I bow, in silent devotion, To the Author of genius and song.
The pleasures of earth are but few, And scarce for our sorrows repay, But we catch, in sweet moments like this, A glimpse of the perfect day.
When I reach the Celestial City And gaze from her golden tower, Methinks my freed spirit would turn Far back, to this rapturous hour.
And as angels are harping their songs— Sweet songs of a heavenly birth— I’ll listen to hear the same touch That played us this prelude on earth.
Lines
On the Death of a Friend.
We loved thee—yes, we loved thee, But the angels loved thee too; And so thou now art sleeping ’Neath the sky so bright and blue.
Sleeping now thy last long slumber, In the low and quiet tomb, Where life’s ills can ne’er disturb thee— Where sorrow ne’er can come.
What tho’ our hearts are bleeding, And our lonely spirits mourn, That thou with Spring’s sweet flow’rets Wilt never more return,
We would not call thee back, dear friend, To life’s dull path again; Where thorns amid the flowers, Would often give thee pain;
But sweetly rest thee, dear one, In thy long and dreamless sleep, Nor heed the sighs above thee, And the blinding tears we weep.