American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

ANN S. STEPHENS.

Biographical Sketch.

ALTHOUGH the name and fame of Mrs. Stephens belong particularly to the prose-writers of America, yet so beautiful in their simplicity and earnestness are some of her poetical strains, that we cannot refrain from giving them a welcome to our pages, while we express our admiration of their unpretending merit.

Mrs. Stephens is a native of Derby, Connecticut; and a daughter of John Winterbotham, Esq., who was formerly connected with the late Gen. David Humphreys, in the woollen manufactory at Humphrey's Ville, Conn., but now resides in Ohio. In 1831, she was married to Edward Stephens, Esq., and soon after removed to Portland, Maine. In 1835, she undertook the editorship of The Portland Magazine, (which Mr. Stephens had established,) and conducted it with much success for two years, when ill-health compelled her to give it up. She also edited The Portland Sketch Book, composed of contributions from the various authors of that city. Mrs. Stephens came to New York in 1837, in which city she has resided ever since. For four years she conducted The Ladies' Companion; in 1842, she became editorially connected with Graham's Magazine; in the following year she established The Ladies' World; and has been constant and energetic in her literary labours until the present time. She is now the editor of The Ladies' National Magazine.

Her own contributions, numerous and skilful as they are, to the various periodicals of the day, prove her to be as industrious a composer as she is a laborious editor. Her stories always contain many excellent moral lessons, and much original thought; whatever she writes is written with a bold pen, and with that unmixed sincerity of purpose, that never fails to attract attention and secure respect.

THE OLD APPLE-TREE.

I AM thinking of the homestead With its low and sloping roof; And the maple boughs that shadow'd it With a green and leafy woof;

I am thinking of the lilac trees That shook their purple plumes, And, when the sash was open, Shed fragrance through our rooms.

I am thinking of the rivulet, With its cool and silvery flow, Of the old gray rock that shadow'd it, And the peppermint below. I am not sad or sorrowful, But memories will come; So leave me to my solitude, And let me think of home.

There was not around my birthplace A thicket or a flower But childish game, or friendly face, Has given it a power To haunt me in my after life, And be with me again, A sweet and pleasant memory, Of mingled joy and pain.

But the old and knotted apple-tree, That stood beneath the hill, My heart can never turn to it, But with a pleasant thrill. Oh, what a dreamy life I led Beneath its old green shade, Where the daisies and the buttercups A pleasant carpet made!

'T was a rough old tree in spring-time, When, with a blustering sound, The wind came hoarsely sweeping Along the frosty ground.

But when there rose a rivalry 'Tween clouds and pleasant weather, Till the sunshine and the rain-drops Came laughing down together;

That patriarch old apple-tree Enjoy'd the lovely strife; The sap sprang lightly through its veins, And circled into life; A cloud of pale and tender buds Burst o'er each rugged bough, And amid their starting verdure The robins made their vow.

That tree was very beautiful When all the leaves were green, And rosy buds lay opening Amid their tender sheen; When the bright translucent dewdrops Shed blossoms as they fell, And melted in their fragrance, Like music in a shell.

It was greenest in the summer-time, When cheerful sunlight wove, Amid its thrifty leafiness, A warm and glowing love; When swelling fruit blush'd ruddily To summer's balmy breath, And the laden boughs droop'd heavily To the green sward underneath.

'T was brightest in a rainy day, When all the purple west Was piled with fleecy storm-clouds, That never seem'd at rest;

When a cool and lulling melody Fell from the dripping eaves, And soft warm drops came pattering Upon the restless leaves.

But, oh, the scene was glorious When clouds were lightly riven, And there, above my valley home, Came out the bow of heaven; And, in its fitful brilliancy Hung quivering on high, Like a jewell'd arch of paradise Reflected through the sky.

I am thinking of the footpath My constant visits made, Between the dear old homestead And that leafy apple shade; Where the flow of distant waters Came with a tinkling sound, Like the revels of a fairy band, Beneath the fragrant ground.

I haunted it at even-tide, And dreamily would lie And watch the crimson twilight Come stealing o'er the sky. 'T was sweet to see its dying gold Wake up the dusky leaves, To hear the swallows twittering Beneath the distant eaves.

I have listen'd to the music, A low sweet minstrelsy, Breathed by a lonely night-bird That haunted that old tree,

Till my heart has swell'd with feelings For which it had no name, A yearning love for poesy, A thirsting after fame.

I have gazed up through the foliage With dim and tearful eyes, And with a holy reverence Dwelt on the changing skies, Till the burning stars were peopled With forms of spirit-birth, And I've almost heard their harp-strings Reverberate on earth.

SONG.

LET me perish in the early spring, When thickets all are green; When rosy buds are blossoming Amid their tender sheen; When the raindrops and the sunshine Lie sleeping in the leaves; And swallows haunt the thrifty vine, That drapes the cottage eaves.

Let me perish in the early spring, The childhood of the year; I would not have a gloomy thing Pass o'er my humble bier; For when a broken heart gives way, In such a world as ours, 'T is well to let the humble clay Pass gently with the flowers.