Ballad of the French Fleet In 1746, France decided to send their navy to destroy Boston, because they hated the British, and Boston was the crown jewel of the American colonies. The expedition was the largest military force ever to set sail for the New World up to that time. Admiral Duc d'Anville was ordered to consign Boston to flames, ravage New England and waste British territories in the Caribbean.
Boston was a prosperous city with 15,000 residents, but they had no way to defend themselves, so the mayor called for a day of prayer and fasting. They believed only God could save them. They gathered in all the churches and meeting halls to pray earnestly for deliverance from their powerful enemy. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow immortalized what happened next, with his poem: A Ballad of the French Fleet. Bostonians referred to this true story as the Miracle at the Old South Meeting House: 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 (Meeting House),
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! 
| 
