The Little Girl Found - By William Blake

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.