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 trac'd the desert ways.

    Seven nights they sleep

    Among shadows deep，

    And dream they see their child

    Starv'd in desert wild.

    Pale， thro' pathless ways

    The fancied image strays

    Famish'd， weeping， weak，

    With hollow piteous shriek.

    Rising from unrest，

    The trembling woman prest

    With feet of weary woe：

    She could no further go.

    In his arms he bore

    Her， arm'd 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 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 eyes

    Fill'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 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 wolfish howl

    Nor the lions' growl.