On St. Baron’s tower, commanding
  Half of Flanders, his domain,
Charles the Emperor once was standing,
While beneath him on the landing
  Stood Duke Alva and his train.

Like a print in books of fables,
  Or a model made for show,
With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
  Lay the city far below.

Through its squares and streets and alleys
  Poured the populace of Ghent;
As a routed army rallies,
Or as rivers run through valleys,
  Hurrying to their homes they went

“Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!”
  Cried Duke Alva as he gazed;
“Haunt of traitors and deceivers,
Stronghold of insurgent weavers,
  Let it to the ground be razed!”

On the Emperor’s cap the feather
  Nods, as laughing he replies: 
“How many skins of Spanish leather,
Think you, would, if stitched together
  Make a glove of such a size?”

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET

OCTOBER, 1746

MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur.

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 at 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. 
Down 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 brine. 
O Lord! before thy path
  They vanished and ceased to be,
When thou didst walk in wrath
  With thine horses through the sea!