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Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den,
In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild men,
Inhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut,
Time out of mind their birthright: father and son, these,–but,–
Such a son, such a father! Most wildness by degrees
Softens away: yet, last of their line, the wildest and worst were
these.

Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder and rob;
But give them a word, they returned a blow,–old Halbert as young
Hob:
Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed,
Hated or feared the more–who knows?–the genuine wild-beast breed.

Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the country-side;
But how fared each with other? E’en beasts couch, hide by hide.
In a growling, grudged agreement: so father son lay curled
The closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the
world.

Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow,
Came father and son to words–such words! more cruel because the blow
To crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curse
Competed with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,–nay, worse:
For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at last
The son at the throat of the father, seized him, and held him fast.

“Out of this house you go!”–there followed a hideous oath–
“This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold us both!
If there’s snow outside, there’s coolness: out with you, bide a spell
In the drift, and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell!”

Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oak
Untouched at the core by a thousand years: much less had its seventy
broke
One whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder-blade
Of the mountainous man, whereon his child’s rash hand like a feather
weighed.

Nevertheless at once did the mammoth shut his eyes,
Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened,–arms and
thighs
All of a piece–struck mute, much as a sentry stands,
Patient to take the enemy’s fire: his captain so commands.

Whereat the son’s wrath flew to fury at such sheer scorn
Of his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born:
And “Neither will this turn serve!” yelled he. “Out with you! Trundle,
log!
If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!”

Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,–down to floor
Pulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,–
Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, until
A certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-door
sill.

Then the father opened his eyes,–each spark of their rage extinct,–
Temples, late black, dead-blanched, right-hand with left-hand
linked,–
He faced his son submissive; when slow the accents came,
They were strangely mild though his son’s rash hand on his neck lay
all the same.

“Halbert, on such a night of a Christmas long ago,
For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag–so–
My father down thus far: but, softening here, I heard
A voice in my heart, and stopped: you wait for an outer word.

“For your own sake, not mine, soften you too! Untrod
Leave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God!
I dared not pass its lifting: I did well. I nor blame
Nor praise you. I stopped here: Halbert, do you the same!”

Straightway the son relaxed his hold of the father’s throat.
They mounted, side by side, to the room again: no note
Took either of each, no sign made each to either: last
As first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed.

At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the selfsame place,
With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face:
But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned.

When he went to the burial, some one’s staff he borrowed,–tottered
and leaned.
But his lips were loose, not locked,–kept muttering, mumbling. “There!
At his cursing and swearing!” the youngsters cried; but the elders
thought, “In prayer.”

A boy threw stones; he picked them up and stored them in his vest;
So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest.
“Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?” O Lear,
That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear!