'Twas in those dreadful times there dwelt
In Lyons, the defiled with blood,
A loyal family that felt
The earliest fury of the flood.
Wife, children, friends, it swept away
From wretched Valrive, one by one,
Himself severely doomed to stay
Till everything he loved was gone.
A man proscribed, whom not to shun
Was danger, almost fate, to brave,
So all forsook him, all save one--
One faithful, humble, powerless slave.
His dog, old Nina. She had been,
When they were boys, his children's mate,
His gallant Claude, his mild Eugene,
Both gone before him to their fate.
They spurned her off--but evermore,
Surmounting e'en her timid nature,
Love brought her to the prison door,
And there she crouched, fond, faithful creature!
Watching so long, so piteously,
That e'en the jailor--man of guilt,
Of rugged heart--was moved to cry,
"Poor wretch, there enter if thou wilt."
And who than Nina more content
When she had gained that dreary cell
Where lay in helpless dreariment
The master loved so long and well?
And when into his arms she leapt
In her old fond, familiar way,
And close into his bosom crept,
And licked his face--a feeble ray
Of something--not yet comfort--stole
Upon his heart's stern misery,
And his lips moved, "Poor loving fool!
Then all have not abandoned me.
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