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5.

The gunner pointed the gun to the mark.
With an eager spark
The ardent match, death's nimble adept,
To the touch-hole leapt,
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And. . . . went out in the dark.
Not a groan, not a flame, from the great gun came,
Not a belch of smoke: unejected slept
In his burthen'd gullet the sullen bullet:
The captains were cursing, the gunners were grumbling,
And, drop upon droplet, as down it came tumbling,
Merrily, mockingly laugh'd the light Shower:
“O fools! lo, I sprinkle a silvery twinkle
Of beads from my bosom, and where is your power?
Black dust of death, art thou melted quite
Into a harmless unsavoury sop?
What of your lightnings? where is their light?
Quencht in a quagmire, slain by a slop!
Your valorous thunders, voices of might?
Struck dumb by a dancing drop!”
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