Julia A. Moore: Sweet Singer of Michigan

Moore, Mrs. Julia A. The Sweet Singer of Michigan. Edited with an introduction by Walter Blair. Chicago, Pascal Covici, Publishers, Inc. 1928

Generally esteemed as the worst poet in American letters, Julia Moore is a shining light in the dark, musty warfield of bad poetry. So special was Mrs. Moore's gift that Mark Twain himself would spend hours poring over her intricate tales of death and human misery. This poem, written in the late 1800's, was reprinted in a 1928 volume that paid tribute to the stellar atrociousness of her work. Like Byron, whom she describes below using her her unique style, she has "left on earth [her] fame."

While biographical notes are being written, the following poem will illuminate the gift that was taken from us when she passed on.

Sketch of Lord Byron's Life

"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
  A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
  Was poorly received.
Perhaps if was "Lord Byron's'" fault
  And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
  Ah, strange was his lot.

The character of "Lord Byron"
  Was of low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
  And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
  Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
  By his own misdeeds.

Generous and tender hearted,
  Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
  A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah he was a handsome fellow
  With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
  He could use at his will.

He was a sad child of nature,
  Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
  For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
  Throughout his native land.
This the "poet of the passions," 
  Live, unappreciated, man.

Yet at the age of 24,
  "Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest pinacle
  Of literary fame.
Ah he had such violent passions
  They went beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice
  Sometimes would him extol.
 
Sometimes again "lord byron" 
  Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
  So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
  This great unhappy man,
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
  He might die, sword in hand.
 
Ha had joined the Grecian Army;
  This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
  And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
  Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
  Of the nineteenth century.

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