Julia Moore

What is written from the heart must have the same coloring as the character of the writer. True natural feeling flows freely from the innermost nature and carries with it some of the inherent force of truth. Where . . . a strong intellect plans and a noble and generous heart works, there we may look for a great literary work.

[Julia A. Moore, from her first collected edition, Sweet Singer of Michigan, ed. Walter Blair (Chicago: Pascal Covici,1928]

Little Henry

Oh! come listen to my story
  Of a little infant child--
His spirit is in glory--
  It has left us for a while.
Death has robbed us of our Henry,
  He is with our Savior now,
Where there is no pain or sorrow
  Comes to cloud his little brow.

     Chorus:

     God has took their little treasure,
       And his name I'll tell you now,
     He has gone from earth forever,
       Their little Charles Henry House.

His cheeks were red as roses,
  And his eyes were black as coals,
His little lips were red as rubies,
  And his little hair it curled.
Oh, they called him little Charley,
  He was full of joyful mirth--
Now his little form is lying
  'Neath the cold and silent earth.

IT was the eleventh of December,
  On a cold and windy day,
Just at the close of evening,
  When the sunlight fades away;
Little Henry he was dying,
  In his little crib he lay,
With soft winds round him sighing
  From the morn till close of day.

Parents, brothers, sisters weeping,
  For their cup of sorrow's full,
And his little playthings keeping,
  That he thought so beautiful----
Tears from parents' eyes were starting
  For their little loving one.
Oh! how painful was the parting
  From their little infant son.

Oh! how often have they kissed him,
  And caressed his little brow--
To his little voice have listened,
  But his place is vacant now.
They called him little Charley,
  And his loving name they called,
But they could not keep their darling
  From the loving Savior's call.

But they must now cease their mourning,
  His little soul is at rest,
Where there can no storms of trouble
  Roll across his peaceful breast.
Now his little form is sleeping
  In the cold and silent tomb,
And his friends are left a weeping,
  In his dear and loving home.

It was the eleventh of December,
  Eighteen seventy was the year,
Kind friends will all remember--
  Silently let fall a tear.
But we must not trouble borrow,
  For the God of heaven is just;
No one knows a parent's sorrow,
  Till a child some friend have lost.

                     --Julia A. Moore

Little Andrew

Andrew was a little infant,
  And his life was two years old;
He was his parents' eldest boy,
  And he was drowned, I was told.
His parents never more can see him
  In this world of grief and pain,
And Oh! they will not forget him
  While on earth they do remain.

On one bright and pleasant morning
  His uncle thought it would be nice
To take his dear little nephew
  Down to play upon a raft,
Where he was to work upon it,
  An this little child would company be--
The raft the water rushed around it,
  Yet he the danger did not see.

This little child knew no danger--
  Its little soul was free from sin--
He was looking in the water,
  When, alas, this child fell in.
Beneath the raft the water took him,
  For the current was so strong,
And before they could rescue him
  He was drowned and was gone.

Oh! how sad were his kind parents
  When they saw their drowned child,
As they brought him from the water,
  It almost made their hearts grow wild.
Oh! how mournful was the parting
  From that little infant son.
Friends, I pray you, all take warning,
  Be careful of your little ones.

                   --Julia A. Moore

Lament on the Death of Willie

Willie had a purple monkey climbing on a yellow stick,
And when he sucked the paint all off it made him deathly sick;
And in his latest hours he clasped that monkey in his hand,
And bade good-bye to earth and went into a better land.

Oh! no more he'll shoot his sister with his little wooden gun;
And no more he'll twist the pussy's tail and make her yowl, for fun.
The pussy's tail now stands out straight; the gun is laid aside;
The monkey doesn't jump around since little Willie died. 

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