The Armada Gun[1]

An ancient cannon, finely cast.     Of bronze, all smooth and green with age,     A by-gone actor on the stage,     Yet fit to take, as in the past     A role in war, and be the last     Dread argument of kings!     The daisies grew around, and brought     The homage of young spring to praise     This stately relic of old days,     When France with Spain for mastery fought;     And Philip over England sought     To spread the Papal wings.     Initialed with King Francis' name,     With Gallic lilies sculptured o'er,     Above the vent the metal bore     A Salamander crowned, in flame;     The massive breech could even claim     A sheath of lotos bloom.     This goodly weapon, forged where Seine     By Fontainebleau and Paris flows,     And many a painted Palace shows     These emblems of the Valois' reign,     For centuries unseen has lain     Within the sea's dark tomb.     How came it there? A Spanish keel     One of the Great Armada gay,     Was blasted in Our Lady's Bay;     One of the Fleet the floods conceal,     Though o'er the waves was wont to peal     The thunder of their pride.     But how came France's lilies there     Beneath the flag of red and gold?     And o'er the ancient gun we told     The story which the legends bear,     How in defeat it bore its share     And stemmed the Victory's tide.     We thought the winds of hollow sound     Spoke from its mouth in solemn tone,     Of great events its life had known,     That thronged, as with the nearly drowned,     To recollection, ere it found     Beneath the sea a grave.     "'In flame I live, I quench its glow;'     This motto at the foundry fire     Was given me by his desire,     The king, whose crest and lilies show     How love and valour could bestow     Their favour on the brave.     "My form was fashioned in each part     By him who wrought in gems and gold,     Whose glory, trumpet-tongued, is told     In fearful wars, in peaceful Art,     Cellini of the ardent heart,     And Benvenuto named!     "The silver-voiced and laughing crowd     Of ladies praised his fair design     And asked if on the German Rhine,     Or English coasts of fog and cloud,     Would soon be heard my challenge loud     For rights our country claimed?     "To conquer fair Milan I threw     My shot against the Swiss array     On Marignano's dreadful day:     On sledges hardy soldiers drew     My weight through snows, where eagles knew     Alone the Alpine way.     "And warring for the emperor's crown,     I saw around me fall and die     The noblest of our chivalry:     When peerless Bayard's high renown     Quenched not his blood, that streaming down     Fell on me where I lay.     "Pavia felt my iron hail,     When traitor Bourbon won the fight,     Yet glad was I no foreign knight     Alone had made our siege to fail,     When wrote our king the dismal tale,     'Save honour all is lost!'     "The impious victor hurled my fire     Against the walls of holy Rome,     But there the devil took him home!     For at the storm my artist sire,     Cellini, felled him, for the ire     Of God his path had crossed.     "To nobler masters still a slave,     I felt the fame of Doria mine;     Saw Venice o'er her channels shine;     Pursued the Moslem on the wave,     And shattered them, when victory gave     Her palm to Malta's isle.     "When Naples sent her ships to swell     The swarming armaments that bore     'Gainst England from each southern shore     In fleets whose numbers none could tell;     I saw how Drake upon us fell,     How fortune ceased to smile.     "For tempests gathered o'er our track,     The little English hornets stung,     My heavy shot against them flung     Passed o'er their barks, so swift to tack,     And every ball they gave us back     Upon our galleons told.     "Soon drifting o'er the Northern main     Grey shores unknown were quickly past;     Our consorts on the rocks were cast,     It was our fate alone to gain     The peaceful haven where Maclaine     Set fire unto our hold.     I sank: a hundred years past by,     And diving bells with searchers keen     For treasure in the wreck were seen.     They took the gold, but let me lie     To sleep another century,     Then raised and brought me here.     *             *             *             *             *     "Valois is dead, and Bourbon's Line     No longer fills my country's throne.     But death dear France shall never own!     Once more of late her joy was mine,     Once more for her my flames could shine,     My thunder echo clear.     "For when the tide of battle rolled     Against the far Crimean shore,     And France and Britain downward bore     The Russian in his chosen hold,     My last salute of victory told     For France, as oft of yore!"