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| IT is nearly a hundred years ago, | |
| Since the day that the Count de Rochambeau— | |
| Our ally against the British crown— | |
| Met Washington in Newport town. | |
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| ’T was the month of March, and the air was chill, | 5 |
| But bareheaded over Aquidneck hill, | |
| Guest and host they took their way, | |
| While on either side was the grand array | |
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| Of a gallant army, French and fine, | |
| Ranged three deep in a glittering line; | 10 |
| And the French fleet sent a welcome roar | |
| Of a hundred guns from Canonicut shore. | |
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| And the bells rang out from every steeple, | |
| And from street to street the Newport people | |
| Followed and cheered, with a hearty zest, | 15 |
| De Rochambeau and his honored guest. | |
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| And women out of the windows leant, | |
| And out of the windows smiled and sent | |
| Many a coy admiring glance | |
| To the fine young officers of France. | 20 |
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| And the story goes, that the belle of the town | |
| Kissed a rose and flung it down | |
| Straight at the feet of De Rochambeau; | |
| And the gallant marshal, bending low, | |
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| Lifted it up with a Frenchman’s grace, | 25 |
| And kissed it back, with a glance at the face | |
| Of the daring maiden where she stood, | |
| Blushing out of her silken hood. | |
| |
| That night at the ball, still the story goes, | |
| The Marshal of France wore a faded rose | 30 |
| In his gold-laced coat; but he looked in vain | |
| For the giver’s beautiful face again. | |
| |
| Night after night and day after day, | |
| The Frenchman eagerly sought, they say, | |
| At feast, or at church, or along the street, | 35 |
| For the girl who flung her rose at his feet. | |
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| And she, night after night, day after day, | |
| Was speeding farther and farther away | |
| From the fatal window, the fatal street, | |
| Where her passionate heart had suddenly beat | 40 |
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| A throb too much for the cool control | |
| A Puritan teaches to heart and soul; | |
| A throb too much for the wrathful eyes | |
| Of one who had watched in dismayed surprise | |
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| From the street below; and taking the gauge | 45 |
| Of a woman’s heart in that moment’s rage, | |
| He swore, this old colonial squire, | |
| That before the daylight should expire, | |
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| This daughter of his, with her wit and grace, | |
| And her dangerous heart and her beautiful face, | 50 |
| Should be on her way to a sure retreat, | |
| Where no rose of hers could fall at the feet | |
| |
| Of a curséd Frenchman, high or low; | |
| And so while the Count de Rochambeau | |
| In his gold-laced coat wore a faded flower, | 55 |
| And awaited the giver hour by hour, | |
| |
| She was sailing away in the wild March night | |
| On the little deck of the sloop Delight; | |
| Guarded even in the darkness there | |
| By the wrathful eyes of a jealous care. | 60 |
| |
| Three weeks after, a brig bore down | |
| Into the harbor of Newport town, | |
| Towing a wreck,—’t was the sloop Delight, | |
| Off Hampton rocks, in the very sight | |
| |
| Of the land she sought, she and her crew | 65 |
| And all on board of her, full in view | |
| Of the storm-bound fishermen over the bay, | |
| Went to their doom on that April day. | |
| |
| When Rochambeau heard the terrible tale, | |
| He muttered a prayer, for a moment grew pale; | 70 |
| Then “Mon Dieu,” he exclaimed, “so my fine romance | |
| From beginning to end is a rose and a glance.” | |
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