James Russell Lowell

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

God makes sech nights, all white an' still, Fur'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Ez to my princerples, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort.

Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge; All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

It ain't by princerples nor men My preudunt course is steadied— I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I don't believe in princerple, But oh I du in interest.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em.

A marciful Providunce fashioned us holler O' purpose thet we might our principles swaller.

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.

’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,

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.

Nature fits all her children with something to do, He who would write and can't write, can surely review.

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 …

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.