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 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.