The Little Girl Lost

In futurity I prophetic see That the earth from sleep (Grave the sentence deep) Shall arise, and seek for her Maker meek; And the desert wild Become a garden mild. In the southern clime, Where the summer's prime Never fades away, Lovely Lyca lay. 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?…