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 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 wolvish howl Nor the lion’s growl.