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.