Cumberland

The old, old King of Cumberland
Awoke with bristling beard—
Crouched listening in the darkness
To a sound that he had heard.

He leaned upon his foursquare bed,
His thumb beneath his chin;
Hearkening after that which had stirred
The dream that he was in.

The old, old King of Cumberland
Muttered, “Twas not the sea,
Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks,
That wakened me.

“Thunder from midmost night it was not;
For yonder at the bars
Burn to their summer setting her
Clear constellated stars.”

The old, old King of Cumberland
Mused yet, “Rats ever did
Rove from their holes, and clink my spurs,
And gnaw my coverlid.

“Oft hath a little passing breeze
Along this valance stirred;
But in this stagnant calm ’twas not
The wind I heard.

“Some keener, stranger, quieter, closer
Voice it was me woke....”
And silence, like a billow, drowned
The word he spoke.

His chamber walls were cloaked with dark;
Shadow did thickly brood,
And in the vague, all-listening night
A presence stood....

Sudden a gigantic hand he thrust
Into his bosom cold,
Where now no surging restless beat
Its long tale told:

Swept on him then, as there he sate,
Terror icy chill;
’Twas silence that had him awoke—
His heart stood still.