The Armada Gun [1]
By John Campbell
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!"