Poems (Jackson)/Habeas Corpus

by Helen Hunt Jackson

For works with similar titles, see Habeas Corpus.

HABEAS CORPUS.

Y 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 nought 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.