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 the shadows deep, 
And dream they see their child 
Starv'd in desart 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's 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 followed 
Where the vision led, 
And saw their sleeping child 
Among the tygers wild. 

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