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.