Cornwall Borough resident Bruce Chadbourne offers another of his “Who Knew?” installments of Lebanon Valley history.
One assumes that most local history buffs have heard by now the tragic love story involving Anne Caroline Coleman and the nation’s “bachelor president” James Buchanan. The story has been published in numerous places.
Read More: Our town: A love story lost in time
But before you tune out, thinking, “…heard this one before…,” please pause to enjoy something “new” and original.
Found recently among the “Coleman Collection” papers held at Elizabeth Furnace is a poem written by Anne’s brother on the occasion of her death in 1819.
The manuscript, entitled “Lines,” begins with the preface “Written at the request of my daughter Anne, on the death of her aunt Ann [sic] Caroline Coleman, who died suddenly, whilst on a visit to her sister in Philadelphia in December 1819.” Anne had “fled” in despair to her sister Margaret’s home in Philadelphia. Anne (1796-1819) was one of the youngest of fourteen children. Margaret was 22 years older, married to Judge Joseph Hemphill.
Without further ado…
“Lines”
Hark, ‘tis the sound of deep distress!
A fathers sigh, a mothers groan!
Attending angels! Hear, and bless;
Oh, sanctify a parents moan.
Hark! ‘tis a brothers, sisters cry!
In mournful cadence fill my ears:
Attending angels, quickly fly,
Oh, calm their sorrow, dry their tears.
‘Tis no for wealth, for treasure lost,
‘Tis not for fleeting, honours gone
For pride, depress’d, ambition, cross’d,
These moans are heard, those tears have flown;
Ah, no: far nobler feelings swell,
The sorrows of a parents heart:
Fair Anna’s death, her fun’ral knell!
Inspire this anguish, these sad griefs impart.
Gone from the world, her gentle soul,
Sudden and silent, wing’d its way,
No hand could save, no skill control!
God spake! And mortals must obey.
Enrapture’d shade! Speed on, speed on,
Beaming with love, and grace divine,
Approach the everlasting throne!
Where seraphs dwell, where glories shine!
The eye of faith, can see thee thru
The mind of faith, conceive thy joy.
Beatich vision! Let me share
One moment, in this sweet employ!
I knew thee maid, when infant grace
Adorn’d thy cheek with rosy smiles,
Mark’d the young beauties of thy face,
Wach’d all thy little artless wiles.
When more matur’d, thy op’ning mind,
Yielded to science and to truth.
Soft piety, with taste refin’d
Mark’d all the footsteps of thy youth.
Retiring, modest, kind and meek,
Yet fill’d with all a virgins pride,
‘Twas thine to turn th’indignant cheek
Where scorn should point, or virtue chide.
The pride of soul, the pride sex,
Taught thee to know thine innate worth;
Folly might pain thee, vice perplex,
But candor own’d thee from thy birth.
Yet was thine heart, too soft, too good,
To brave at last, the mortal storm.
Did falsehood scare thee! Freeze thy blood!
Dissolve thy frame, thy life disarm!
But thou art gone, thy gentle soul,
Sudden and silent, wing’d its way.
No hand could save! No skill control!
God spake, and mortals must obey.
Closing notes
As remarked in the series “Anne of Cornwall,” the name “Ann(e) Caroline appears frequently across the generations of the Coleman family tree, a source of confusion to the casual reader.
While the brother did not sign the manuscript or otherwise identify himself, the fact that his daughter “Ann” requested the verse helps to narrow down which of the nine brothers was the poet.
It could have been Edward (b. 1792) but more likely it was Thomas Bird Coleman, her brother closest in age, whose young daughter Ann was older by 1 year at the time of her aunt’s death. This Ann would grow up to marry Bradford Alden and is known to us as one of the “R. W. Coleman Heirs.” She is perhaps best known for building the Alden Villa as a wedding gift for her son Percy.
Whichever brother, he enjoyed writing poetry; another set of poems, tributes to young men who were likely classmates or social friends, was found with the same handwriting.
Story Credits
Thanks to Craig Coleman of Elizabeth Furnace for permission to publish this poem.
We attempted to transcribe the hand-written poem faithful to the original punctuation.
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