Before her marriage, she published a great many fugitive poems, the first at the age of 15, which were well received; and later furnished stories for the magazines of the day.
Not terribly well known, she was admired by her contemporaries, including Edgar Alan Poe, and though her poetry may not have stood the test of time I think it was good enough to show a two examples below.
By Thomas Buchanan Read 1849
By: Anne M.F. Annan
The sunlight through the window's vines
Came in upon the dead
A fair, young child and touched with gold
The ringlets of its head.
A smile so bright was round its lips,
And on its dimpled cheek,
So life-like through the lashes long
Shone out an azure streak,
That in a childish playfulness
Its eyes were closed, it seemed,
To peep upon the glorious thing
Whence the effulgence streamed.
It lay where it had sunk to rest,
Upon a snow-white bed,
On which the bright and balmy air
Its coolness oft had shed ;
And, full in sight, all pictured o'er
With chequered greens of June,
Majestic hills arose, and streams
Sang their sweet, changeless tune ;
And bees, from out the garden hive,
And birds were winging by ;
With its calm cheerfulness, it was
A lovely place to die.
No studied words of sympathy
Were coldly whispered round ;
The silence of the humble throng
Told more than measured sound.
A step anon the couch would seek,
A tear the shroud would wet,
And mothers clasped their babes with thanks
That God had spared them yet ;
And children touched the cold, white brow,
And then in awe stood by,
Their new-learnt lesson thinking o'er,
Of angels in the sky.
An aged man, with meek, low voice,
And simple words and few,
Arose, and from the Book of God
Its soothing solace drew :
He said that types to teach our doom
Were still our eyes before ;
He pointed to the morning-flower,
O'ershadowing the door,
And said its bloom, so bright and brief,
A child's existence shared ;
Then who could look on it, nor be
For early death prepared ?
And sobs gushed forth, as, from the home
Whence had for ever gone
The echoes of a loved young voice,
The solemn train passed on.
Hailed by that holy comforter,
The fresh, soft morning air,
They wound along the woodland path
Where birds and blossoms were :
The fragrance and the melody
So breathed of love and peace,
That soon the hearts most anguished felt
Their throbs impatient cease.
And then within the churchyard gate
The lowly bier they stood,
Thick strown with pallid locust flowers,
The tribute of the wood ;
And hands that oft had fondled it,
While flowed its winning mirth,
Let gently down the coffined form
Into the silent earth.
So carefully the sod they laid,
That, ere they ceased, had come
The bees to the unwithered thyme
And filled it with their hum.
'T would be a chilling thought to one
Whose love is Nature's bloom,
Whose oracles are every leaf,
That in a dark, cold room
He must be laid to die, where ne'er
The stir of forest trees,
Nor murmurs of unfettered streams
Send their deep homilies ;
That when the Almighty's summoner
His heart was stilled to hear,
The ribald shouts of reckless crowds
Should rise upon his ear.
'T would be a chilling thought, that when
He sank to silent clay,
The ones he loved, must chain their sighs
Among the crowded way ;
And though with anthems, thrilling sad,
And sombre palls and plumes,
And knells to strike into the soul,
They bore him 'midst the tombs,
That careless tongues their tears should count,
And strangers cold and rude
Cast down the turf, and sneering bid
The worm to take its food.
Oh, that his hour of doom might come
Far from the city's din,
Where things of beauty, ever round
His heart's sweet guides had been !
Where Friendship, at its last sad rites,
Unchecked might rest and weep,
And Memory, o'er his ashes, oft,
Unseen a vigil keep ;
Where solitude and silence might
E'en worldlings unenslave,
To pause, and reverently glean
A moral from his grave !
By: Anne M.F. Annan
An infant's soul the sweetest thing of earth,
To which endowments beautiful are given,
As might befit a more than mortal birth,
What shall it be, when, 'midst its winning mirth,
And love, and trustfulness, 't is borne to heaven 'I
Will it grow into might above the skies ?
A spirit of high wisdom, glory, power,
A cherub guard of the Eternal Tower,
With knowledge filled of its vast mysteries ?
Or will perpetual childhood be its dower?
To sport for ever, a bright, joyous thing,
Amid the wonders of the shining thrones,
Yielding its praise in glad, but feeble tones,
A tender dove beneath the Almighty's wing
