In futurity I prophetic see,
That the earth from sleep, (Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek: And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime, Where the summers prime,
Never fades away; Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told, She had wanderd long
Hearing wild birds song.
Sweet sleep come to me Underneath this tree;
Do father, mother weep, — “Where can Lyca sleep”.
Lost in desart wild
Is your little child. How can Lyca sleep,
If her mother weep.
If her heart does ake, Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep, Lyca shall not weep.
Frowning frowning night,
O’er this desart bright, Let thy moon arise,
While I close my eyes.
Sleeping Lyca lay; While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep, View’d the maid asleep
The kingly lion stood
And the virgin view’d, Then he gambold round
O’er the hallowd ground:
Leopards, tygers play, Round her as she lay;
While the lion old, Bow’d his mane of gold,
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck, From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness Loos’d her slender dress,
And naked they convey’d To caves the sleeping maid.
The Little Girl Found
All the night in woe,
Lyca’s parents go: Over vallies deep,
While the desarts weep.
Tired and woe-begone, Hoarse with making moan:
Arm in arm seven days, They trac’d the desart ways.
Seven nights they sleep,
Among shadows deep: And dream they see their child
Starv’d in desart wild.
Pale thro’ pathless ways The fancied image strays,
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.
A Little Girl Lost
Children of the future Age, Reading this indignant page;
Know that in a former time, Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime. In the Age of Gold,
Free from winters cold: Youth and maiden bright,
To the holy light, Naked in the sunny beams delight.
Once a youthful pair
Fill’d with softest care: Met in garden bright,
Where the holy light, Had just removd the curtains of the night.
There in rising day,
On the grass they play: Parents were afar:
Strangers came not near: And the maiden soon forgot her fear.
Tired with kisses sweet
They agree to meet, When the silent sleep
Waves o’er heavens deep; And the weary tired wanderers weep.
To her father white
Came the maiden bright: But his loving look,
Like the holy book, All her tender limbs with terror shook.
Ona! pale and weak!
To thy father speak: O the trembling fear!
O the dismal care! That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair
A Little Boy Lost
Nought loves another as itself Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to Thought A greater than itself to know:
And Father, how can I love you,
Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.
The Priest sat by and heard the child, In trembling zeal he siez’d his hair:
He led him by his little coat: And all admir’d the Priestly care.
And standing on the altar high,
Lo what a fiend is here! said he: One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy Mystery.
The weeping child could not be heard, The weeping parents wept in vain:
They strip’d him to his little shirt, And bound him in an iron chain.
And burn’d him in a holy place,
Where many had been burn’d before: The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albions shore