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 traced the desert ways.
       Seven nights they sleep
       Among shadows deep,
       And dream they see their child
       Starved in desert wild.
       Pale through pathless ways
       The fancied image strays,
       Famished, weeping, weak,
       With hollow piteous shriek.
       Rising from unrest,
       The trembling woman pressed
       With feet of weary woe;
       She could no further go.
       In his arms he bore
       Her, armed 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 stalked around,
       Smelling to his prey;
       But their fears allay
       When he licks their hands,
       And silent by them stands.
       They look upon his eyes,
       Filled with deep surprise;
       And wondering behold
       A spirit armed in gold.
       On his head a crown,
       On his shoulders down
       Flowed 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 lion's growl.