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Poems

Canning, Josiah D. (1816-1892)

EPISTLE TO A BROTHER IN VIRGINIA.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

THE WISCONSIN MOON.

LIFE—ITS DISCONTENTS.

A VISION.

THE RETURN.

AUTUMN.

ON READING BEATTIE'S “MINSTREL.”

EPISTLE TO T. S********.

[O, ye who make so much ado]

[Whene'er we ope the Holy Book]

THE FIRST PSALM.

ELEGY,

INVOCATION OF THE MUSES.

LINES

SOLITUDE.

HAPPINESS—AN ACROSTIC.

LOGAN.

[My patriot fathers, where are ye]

A FRAGMENT.

LINES TO A BULLET.

RETROSPECTION.

APOSTROPHE TO NEW-ENGLAND.

[Ye woodlands mourn, ye fields, ye streams, ]

BY UMPACHENA'S RUSHING STREAM.

LETTER

EPIGRAM,

DEATH SONG.

[Oft in the silent watches of the night]

[Life's like a stream whose waters run ]

THE REVIEW.

A TALE OF OTHER DAYS.

EPISTLE

TO A PET LAMB,

TO THE “SALT” OF ****

[Fear not to put your trust in God ]

MASSACHUSETTS.

TO THOSE WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

ON THE FALL OF A MIGHTY OAK.

AURORA BOREALIS.

[Connecticut, the stream that flows ]

EPITAPH

IN VIEWING A RUINED HABITATION.

A DIRGE

TO HYPOCHONDRIA.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG LADY.

ON A CERTAIN INVETERATE PRATER.

SECOND EPISTLE TO JNO. FRISSELL, M. D.

ON A CERTAIN LAWYER.

The character of a certain mischief-making person given in short.

DESPONDENCY

A CHARITABLE EPITAPH.

EPISTLE TO SWAN,

FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM.

LETTER TO THE EDITORS OF THE OLD COUNTY PAPER.

DAY DREAMS—NO FICTION.

SECOND EPISTLE TO MINSTREL SWAN.

TO TOBACCO.

LINES WRITTEN IN A BIBLE.

MONODY,

TO A BLACKBIRD,

VERSES TO AN ABORIGINAL RELIC,

AMOR PATRIAE—A FRAGMENT.

MORNING PRAYER

LINES

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[Whene'er we ope the Holy Book]

Wealth maketh many friends; but the poor is separated from his neighbor.—

Proverbs XIX, 4.

Whene'er we ope the Holy Book,
How true the words we read!
Upon these words I chanced to look,
And find them truth, indeed.

“Wealth maketh many friends;” 't is so—
Our daily converse shows it;
Wealth has the gift of weal or wo;
Where is the man but knows it?

I will not say 't is aye the case,
But very oft we see
This wealth is but a handsome face
O'er sad deformity.

How oft the vilest of mankind
Mount Fortune's glittering throne!

How oft the man who lacks the mind
To “say his soul 's his own”!

How oft the wealthy fop we note,
With proudly curling lip,
With whom, but strip him of his coat,
No ass would fellowship!

“Wealth maketh friends”!—the Lord forfend
I should gainsay his truth,
But other term than that of friend
Will do as well, forsooth.

Call we those friends who have the name
But not the friendly heart?
Who only play the winning game—
A meanly selfish part?

From all such “friends” deliver me!
I'll never court their smiles;
Kind Heaven has granted me to see
Their hollow-hearted wiles.

The poor man liveth by himself;
This truth is past dispute;
He looks on Fortune's shining pelf;
As on “forbidden fruit.”

But oft the ragged coat may hide
The soul of sterling worth;
As precious gems awhile abide
The foul embrace of earth.

And on the score of earthly friends,
But few to him are given;
But haply oft the poor man minds
A trusty friend in heaven.