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.