A Ballad of the French Fleet

Last time I wrote about how God confounded the Duc d'Anville's expedition to reconquer Acadia and burn Boston.  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote a poem about this fleet, which ascribes the glory of the victory to God.

A Ballad of the French Fleet

A fleet with flags arrayed

Sailed from the port of Brest

And the Admiral's ship displayed

The signal: "Steer southwest."

For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown
To ravage with fire and steel
Our helpless Boston town.

There were rumors in the street,
In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,
And the danger hovering near.
And while from mouth to mouth
Spread the tidings of dismay,
I stood in the Old South,
Saying humbly: "Let us pray!"

"O  Lord! we would not advise;
But if in thy Providence
A tempest should arise
To drive the French Fleet hence,
And scatter it far and wide,
Or sink it in the sea,
We should be satisfied,
And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,
For my soul was all on flame,
And even as I prayed
The answering tempest came;
It came with a mighty power,
Shaking the windows and walls,
And tolling the bell in the tower,
As it tolls in funerals.

The lightning suddenly
Unsheathed its flaming sword,
And I cried: "Stand still, and see
The salvation of the Lord!"
The heavens were black with cloud,

The sea was white with hail,

And ever more fierce and loud

Blew the October gale.

The fleet it overtook,

And the broad sails in the van

Like the tents of Cushan shook,

Or the curtains of Midian.

Don on the reeling decks

Crashed the o'erwhelming seas;

Ah, never were there wrecks

So pitiful as these!

Like a potter's vessel broke

The great ships of the line;
They were carried away as a smoke,

Or sank like lead in the rine.

O Lord! before thy path

They vanished and ceased to be,

When thou didst walk in wrath
With thine horses through the sea!

Democracy Unveiled, Or, Tyranny Stripped of the Garb of Patriotism

'Twas thence concluded, by Rousseau,
That all refinement did but go
To alter nature's simple plan,
And scoundrelize the creature man.--

From whence he madly theoriz'd
That man were best unciviliz'd
Like those philosophers, who prate
Of Innocence in savage state.

E'en took in in his crazy noddle,
A savage was perfection's model;
And nature without cultivation,
The ne plus ultra of creation.

Anticipated, happy dealing,
When mankind, rul'd by social feelings,
Would be perfected, sans a flaw,
Without the Tyranny of Law.

From such sagacious theorizing,
Was formed a plan of his devising,
By which, society destroy'd
Perfection might be unalloy'd....

With other things, which mark the fiend,
That means are sanction'd by the end;
And if some good end we would further,
No matter if the means are murther!

That in this philosophic era,
A God is found a mere chimera,
By priests created, but for wildering
Fools, ignoramuses and children.

The would of mind may be explor'd
By lights, which matter can afford,
And Power Omnipotent must bend,
To what a worm can comprehend;

That by some accidental clatter,
Of pristine, crude, chaotic matter,
(But how, an Atheist only knows)
This beauteous universe arose.

That there is nothing like reality
In future life and immortality;
When death our thread of life shall sever,
We go to rest, and sleep forever.

No, this poem is not written about the 21st Century.  It comes from a book called "Democracy Unveiled", written in 1805 against the American Democrats and the French Revolutionaries.  But the similarities to what we experience today are uncanny.

Regiment de Fitz-James at Rossbach

The battle of Rossbach (November 5, 1757) was one of the worst French military disasters in the Seven Years' War.  A Prussian cavalry force under General Seydlitz shattered the advance guard of the French-Austrian-Imperial army.  General Hildenburghausen with two regiments of Austrian curaissers stood against Seydlitz.  They were joined by the Irish Regiment Fitz-James.  These brave men were unable to stand against Seydlitz's cavalry force, and the day was lost.

The heroism of Regiment Fitz-James, and two commanders of it, is told in the 1779 issue of Hibernian Magazine:

"What in Rosbach's bloody plain befel,
Ambitious Fred'rick's savage troops can tell

Where one stout legion of Hibernian blood

The fire of all the Prussian arms withstood;

Led by the Betagh twins, bright twins in fame,
Their goodness, valour, and their skill the same--
* * *
And when, with half his men, one brother fell,
The next, (a tale incredible to tell!)
With the small remnant of his slaughter'd band,

Their way cut thro' the Prussians, sword in hand.

Charm'd with such feats, the King withheld his fire,
And let these heroes unassail'd retire;
Had search made for their leader o'er the field,

That he might to his corpse all honours yield;

To pieces hew'd, his corpse was sought in vain,

Amidst the bleeding heaps of mangled slain."

(quoted from pg. 583, History of the Irish Brigades in the Service of France, by J. C. O'Callaghan)

Poem--The Loyalist of the Vendee

In the deadly chaos of the French Revolution, one dauntless group stood for God, King, Church, and Country: the Catholic and Royal Army. Drawn mostly from the regions of Vendee and Poitou, the Vendeans fought the revolutionaries for eighteen months until they were finally crushed. The Honorable George Sydney Smith wrote an excellent poem (especially the dauntless resolution present in XII.) about the youngest and best of the Vendean generals, Henri de la Rochejacquelein.

The Loyalist of the Vendee

I.

Now, as there is a God in Heaven, and Jesu is his son,

And to Our Lady grace is given, and to the Holy One;

Now, as in sooth, the Church is truth; and if it be her will,

That false shall fail, and right prevail, and good outlast the ill

II.

Then by this Heart, and by this Cross, and by our own Vendee;

By every feeling man can feel, or prayer that man can pray,

By hope in Him, round whom we kneel, I charge you all to swear

One last oath with Rochejacquelein, to dare as he will dare.

III.

And if my words vaunt overmuch, and if I seem to say

That I shall be the boldest, or the foremost in the fray,

Full many a name of older fame, there are around, I know,

Talmont, Foret, Lescure, D'Elbee, and brave Cathelineau.

IV.

And many a gallant dalesman, and many a mountaineer,

To whom their Church, and King, and France, and Gentlemen are dear;

Not strong like theirs my strength shall be, my zeal shall be more

For they have only heard of that Paris I have seen.

V.

Where Fraud, and Crime, and Marat reign, and the Triple Colours wave

O'er the Churches of Our Lady, and the Blessed Genevieve;

Where Agnus, Pix, and Crucifix, are made the wanton's spoil

And the bells which called to vespers, now call to blood and broil.

VI.

The Priest, those gentle Priests and good, your fathers loved to hear,

Sole type below, 'midst work and woe, of the God whom we revere.

There's not a street, trod under feet, they have not dyed with gore;

There's not a stone that does not own one martyrdom, or more.

VII.

The King, I saw the Accursed Cap on his anointed head;

And scoff, and scorn, and gibe, and jest, and mocking words were said;

But he took the nearest hand, and he laid it on his breast,

And he bade it count the pulses, and bade it thence learn rest.

VIII.

The Queen, her proud lip curled with scorn, through all those fierce alarms,

Till Santerre came beside her with the Dauphin in his arms;

Then, her mien grew still and stately, though she shook in every limb;

Her fear was for her infant, her calmness was for him.

IX.

And then and there I swore Santerre should rue that bitter wrong;

And then and there I swore Santerre should learn my name ere long;

And that, this year, should Paris hear, of the loyal hearts and true,

In the Vendee, and the Bourbonnais, and the woodlands of Poitou.

X.

Now, swore I right, or swore I wrong, it is for you to show,

For here is the white standard, and yonder is the foe:

And by your aid, that oath I made, oh, keep it as your own,

May yet restore, (like Joan's of yore,) the Lilies and the Throne.

XI.

Your pardon, Sirs, the rebel stirs, his vanguard is at hand,

Let others will, let me fulfill, what orders you command;

What if my years are but nineteen, oh, think what I have seen

O, think of that insulted King, and of that Hero Queen.

XII.

Then follow me, where'er it be, I make within the foe,

And if I flinch, or fail one inch, there straightway strike me low;

And if I fall, swear one and all, ye will avenge my loss.

Now, Charge! for de la Rochejacquelein, for the Heart, and for the Cross!