THE LITTLE GIRL FOUNDAll the night in woeLyca’s parents goOver valleys deep,While the deserts weep.Tired and woe-begone,Hoarse with making moan,Arm in arm, seven daysThey traced the desert ways.Seven nights they sleepAmong shadows deep,And dream they see their childStarved in desert wild.Pale through pathless waysThe fancied image strays,Famished, weeping, weak,With hollow piteous shriek.Rising from unrest,The trembling woman pressedWith feet of weary woe;She could no further go.In his arms he boreHer, armed with sorrow sore;Till before their wayA couching lion lay.Turning back was vain:Soon his heavy maneBore them to the ground,Then he stalked around,Smelling to his prey;But their fears allayWhen he licks their hands,And silent by them stands.They look upon his eyes,Filled with deep surprise;And wondering beholdA spirit armed in gold.On his head a crown,On his shoulders downFlowed 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 followèdWhere the vision led,And saw their sleeping childAmong tigers wild.To this day they dwellIn a lonely dell,Nor fear the wolvish howlNor the lion’s growl.Illustration:Illustration:
All the night in woeLyca’s parents goOver valleys deep,While the deserts weep.
Tired and woe-begone,Hoarse with making moan,Arm in arm, seven daysThey traced the desert ways.
Seven nights they sleepAmong shadows deep,And dream they see their childStarved in desert wild.
Pale through pathless waysThe fancied image strays,Famished, weeping, weak,With hollow piteous shriek.
Rising from unrest,The trembling woman pressedWith feet of weary woe;She could no further go.
In his arms he boreHer, armed with sorrow sore;Till before their wayA couching lion lay.
Turning back was vain:Soon his heavy maneBore them to the ground,Then he stalked around,
Smelling to his prey;But their fears allayWhen he licks their hands,And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes,Filled with deep surprise;And wondering beholdA spirit armed in gold.
On his head a crown,On his shoulders downFlowed 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 followèdWhere the vision led,And saw their sleeping childAmong tigers wild.
To this day they dwellIn a lonely dell,Nor fear the wolvish howlNor the lion’s growl.
Illustration:
Illustration: