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Inscribed in graphite, upper center: "13"

Lettered inside image: "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 wolfish howl, | Nor the lions growl."; Lettered on verso, inside image: "The Voice of the | Ancient Bard. | Youth of delight come hither, | And see the opening morn, | Image of truth new-born. | Doubt is fled & clouds of reason. | Dark disputes & artful teazing, | Folly is an endless maze, | Tangled roots perplex her ways, | How many have fallen there! | They stumble all night over bones of the dead: | And feel they know not what but care; | And wish to lead others when they should be led."