Classic Poem

'Twas in a neighbouring land what time
The Reign of Terror triumphed there,
And every horrid shape of crime
Stalked out from murder's bloody lair.

'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 humble, faithful, 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 ever more
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 jailer — 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."

The hour by grudging kindness spared
Expired too soon — the friends must part —
And Nina from the prison gazed,
With lingering pace and heavy heart.

Shelter, and rest, and food she found
With one who, for the master's sake,
Though grim suspicion stalked around,
Dared his old servant home to take.

Beneath that friendly roof, each night
She stayed, but still returning day —
Ay, the first beam of dawning light —
Beheld her on her anxious way

Towards the prison, there to await
The hour, when through that dismal door
The keeper, half compassionate,
Should bid her enter as before.

And well she seemed to comprehend
The time appointed for her stay,
The little hour that with her friend
She tarried there, was all her day.

At last the captive's summons came:
They led him forth his doom to hear;
No tremor shook his thrice-nerved frame,
Whose heart was dead to hope and fear.

So with calm step he moved along,
And calmly faced the murderous crew,
But close and closer for the throng,
Poor Nina to her master drew.

*****

And she has found a resting-place
Between his knees — her old safe home —
And she looks round in every face,
As if to read his written doom.

'Twas but a step in those dread days
From trial to the guillotine;
A moment: and Valrive surveys
With steadfast eye the fell machine.

He mounts the platform — takes his stand
Before the fatal block, and kneels
In preparation — but his hand
A soft warm touch that moment feels.

His eyes glance downward, and a tear —
The last tear they shall ever shed —
Falls, as he utters, " Thou still here!"
Upon his faithful servant's head.

Yes, she is there; that hellish shout,
That deadly stroke, she hears them plain,
And from the headless trunk starts out
Even over her the bloody rain.

*****

Old faithful Nina! There lies she,
Her cold head on the cold earth pressed,
As it was wont so lovingly
To lie upon her master's breast.

And there she stayed the livelong day,
Mute, motionless, her sad watch keeping,
A stranger who had passed that way
Would have believed her dead or sleeping.

But if a step approached the grave,
Her eye looked up with jealous care,
Imploringly, as if to crave
That no rude foot should trample there.

That night she came not as of late
To her old charitable home;
The next day's sun arose and set,
Night fell — and still she failed to come.

Then the third day her pitying host
Went kindly forth to seek his guest,
And found her at her mournful post,
Stretched quietly as if at rest.

Yet she was not asleep nor dead,
And when her master's friend she saw,
The poor old creature raised her head,
And moaned, and moved one feeble paw;

But stirred not thence — and all in vain
He called, caressed her, would have led —
Tried threats — then coaxing words again —
Brought food — she turned away her head.

So with kind violence at last
He bore her home with gentle care;
In her old shelter tied her fast.
Placed food beside and left her there.

But ere the hour of rest, again
He visited the captive's shed,
And there the cord lay, gnawed in twain —
The food untasted — she was fled.

And, vexed, he cried, " Perverse old creature!
Well, let her go, I've done my best."
But there was something in his nature,
A feeling would not let him rest.

So with the early light once more
Towards the burial-ground went he;
And there he found her as before,
But not as then stretched quietly;

For she had worked the long night through,
In the strong impulse of despair,
Down, down into the grave — and now,
Panting and weak, still laboured there.

But death's cold stiffening frost benumbs
Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye —
And hark! her feeble moan becomes
A shriek of human agony;

As if before her task was over
She feared to die in her despair
But see! those last faint strokes uncover
A straggling lock of thin grey hair.

One struggle, one convulsive start,
And there the face beloved lies —
Now be at peace, thou faithful heart! —
She licks the livid lips, and dies.