James Russell Lowell Quotes

American poet, critic, editor, and diplomat (1819-1891)

James Russell Lowell (22 February 1819 – 12 August 1891) was an American Romantic poet, critic, editor, and diplomat. He is associated with the Fireside Poets, a group of New England writers who were among the first American poets who rivaled the popularity of British poets.

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Pen Names: Hugh Perceval • Hugh Peters

Alternative Names: James R. Lowell • James Lowell

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But John P.
Robinson, he
Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee.

We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man;
He’s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—
He’s ben true to one party, an’ thet is himself.

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur.

’Tain’t by turnin’ out to hack folks
You’re agoin’ to git your right,
Nor by lookin’ down on black folks
Coz you’re put upon by white;
Slavery ain’t o’ nary color,
’Tain’t the hide thet makes it wus,
All it keers fer in a feller
’S jest to make him fill its pus.

Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame;
Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.

Ef you take a sword an’ dror it,
An’ go stick a feller thru,
Guv’mint ain’t to answer for it,
God’ll send the bill to you.

You've gut to git up airly
Ef you want to take in God.

Ez fer war, I call it murder—
There you hev it plain an' flat;
I don't want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer that.

For though he builds glorious temples, 'tis odd
He leaves never a doorway to get in a god.

There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge,
Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge.

And I honor the man who is willing to sink
Half his present repute for the freedom to think,
And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak,
Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower.

In creating, the only hard thing's to begin;
A grass-blade's no easier to make than an oak,
If you've once found the way you've achieved the grand stroke.

There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,
Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on;
Whose prose is grand verse while his verse the Lord knows
Is some of it pr— No, 't is not even prose!

A reading-machine, always wound up and going,
He mastered whatever was not worth the knowing.