The Little Girl Found
All the
night in woe
Lyca’s
parents go
Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
Tired and
woe-begone
Hoarse with
making moan,
Arm in arm
seven days
They trac’d the desart ways
Seven
nights they sleep
Among
shadows deep,
And dream
they see their child
Starv’d
in desart wild.
Pale, thro’
pathless wasy
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 is 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
followed
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 lions’ growl.