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 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 tygers wild.
To this day they dwell
In a lonely dell
Nor fear the wolvish howl,
Nor the lions growl.
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