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.