WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.

HABEAS CORPUS.[9]

My body, eh?  Friend Death, how now? 
  Why all this tedious pomp of writ? 
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow
  For half a century, bit by bit.

In faith thou knowest more to-day
  Than I do, where it can be found! 
This shrivelled lump of suffering clay,
  To which I now am chained and bound,

Has not of kith or kin a trace
  To the good body once I bore;
Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: 
  Didst ever see that face before?

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;
  Thy only fault thy lagging gait,
Mistaken pity in thy heart
  For timorous ones that bid thee wait.

Do quickly all thou hast to do,
  Nor I nor mine will hindrance make;
I shall be free when thou art through;
  I grudge thee naught that thou must take!

Stay!  I have lied:  I grudge thee one,
  Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,—­
Two members which have faithful done
  My will and bidding in the past.

I grudge thee this right hand of mine;
  I grudge thee this quick-beating heart;
They never gave me coward sign,
  Nor played me once a traitor’s part.

I see now why in olden days
  Men in barbaric love or hate
Nailed enemies’ hands at wild crossways,
  Shrined leaders’ hearts in costly state: 

The symbol, sign, and instrument
  Of each soul’s purpose, passion, strife,
Of fires in which are poured and spent
  Their all of love, their all of life.

O feeble, mighty human hand! 
  O fragile, dauntless human heart! 
The universe holds nothing planned
  With such sublime, transcendent art!

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine
  Poor little hand, so feeble now;
Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
  Its veins so pallid and so slow—­

  (Unfinished here)

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art: 
  I shall be free when thou art through. 
Take all there is—­take hand and heart: 
  There must be somewhere work to do.

  HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

  [9] Her last poem:  7 August, 1885.

FAREWELL, LIFE.

     WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845.

Farewell, life! my senses swim. 
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night,—­
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill;
Strong the earthly odor grows,—­
I smell the mold above the rose!

Welcome, life! the spirit strives! 
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—­
O’er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold,—­
smell the rose above the mold!