The Little Girl Found

All the night in woe 
Lyca’s parents go 
Over valleys deep, 
While the deserts weep. 

Tired and woe-begone, 
Hoarse with making moan, 
Arm in arm, seven days 
They traced the desert ways. 

Seven nights they sleep 
Among shadows deep, 
And dream they see their child 
Starved in desert wild. 

Pale through pathless ways 
The fancied image strays, 
Famished, weeping, weak, 
With hollow piteous shriek. 

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

In his arms he bore Her, 
armed with sorrow sore; 
Till before their way 
A couching lion lay. 

Turning back was vain: 
Soon his heavy mane 
Bore them to the ground, 
Then he stalked around, 

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

They look upon his eyes, 
Filled with deep surprise; 
And wondering behold 
A spirit armed in gold. 

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

‘Follow me,’ he said; 
‘Weep not for the maid; 
In my palace deep, 
Lyca lies asleep.’ 

Then they followèd 
Where the vision led, 
And saw their sleeping child 
Among tigers wild. 

To this day they dwell 
In a lonely dell, 
Nor fear the wolvish howl 
Nor the lion’s growl.