Whilst I the flock am counting,"--
He said, and took his tedious way,
The hilly green sward mounting.

O'er crag and cliff the father toil'd,
Unconscious pass'd the hours:
He for a time forgot the child
He'd left among the flowers.
The boiling clouds come down and veil
Valley, and wood, and plain;
Then fears the father's heart assail,
He will descend again.

Morn melted into noon, and night
Dark on the shepherd shone,
Terror in vain impels his flight,
His child!--his child is gone!
He calls upon his darling's name,
His dog in vain he calls;
He hears naught but the eagle's scream,
Or roar of waterfalls.

He rushes home--he is not there--
With agony and woe;
He hunts him in the cold night air,
O'er hill and vale below.
Morn rose--the faithful dog appears,
He whines for food so mild,
The father hied him through his tears,
And said, "Tray, where's my child?"