Seven summers old
 Lovely Lyca told. 
 She had wandered long,
 Hearing wild birds’ song.

 “Sweet sleep, come to me
 Underneath this tree;
 Do father, mother, weep? 
 Where can Lyca sleep?

 “Lost in desert wild
 Is your little child. 
 How can Lyca sleep
 If her mother weep?

 “If her heart does ache,
 Then let Lyca wake;
 If my mother sleep,
 Lyca shall not weep.

 “Frowning, frowning night,
 O’er this desert bright
 Let thy moon arise,
 While I close my eyes.”

 Sleeping Lyca lay
 While the beasts of prey,
 Come from caverns deep,
 Viewed the maid asleep.

 The kingly lion stood,
 And the virgin viewed: 
 Then he gambolled round
 O’er the hallowed ground.

 Leopards, tigers, play
 Round her as she lay;
 While the lion old
 Bowed his mane of gold,

 And her breast did lick
 And upon her neck,
 From his eyes of flame,
 Ruby tears there came;

 While the lioness
 Loosed her slender dress,
 And naked they conveyed
 To caves the sleeping maid.

 The little girl found

 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.

 The chimney sweeper

 A little black thing in the snow,
 Crying “weep! weep!” in notes of woe! 
 “Where are thy father and mother?  Say!”—­
 “They are both gone up to the church to pray.