THE ARMADA GUN

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!”