The Little Girl Found

ALL the night in woe,Lyca's parents go;Over vallies deepWhile the desarts weep.

Tired and woe begone,Hoarse with making moanArm in arm seven daysThey trac'd the desart ways.

Seven nights they sleep,Among shadows deep,And dream they see their childStarv'd in desart wild

Pale thro pathless waysThe fancied image straysFamish'd weeping weakWith hollow piteous shriek

Rising from unrest,The trembling woman prest,With feet of weary woe:She could no further go.

In his arms he boreHer arm'd with sorrow sore;Till before their way,A couching lion lay.

Turning back was vain,Soon his heavy maneBore them to the ground;Then he stalk'd around,

Smelling to his prey,But their fears allay,When he licks their hands:And silent by them stands.

They look upon his eyesFill'd with deep surprise;And wondering behold,A Spirit arm'd in gold.

On his head a crown,On his shoulders down,Flow'd his golden hair,Gone was all their care.

Follow me he said,Weep not for the maid;In my palace deepLyca lies asleep.

Then they followedWhere the vision led;And saw their sleeping child,Among tygers wild.

To this day they dwellIn a lonely dellNor fear the wolvish howl,Nor the lions growl.