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John Milton - Sonnet XVIII: On The Late Massacre In Piemont
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter`d saints, whose bones
Lie scatter`d on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev`n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp`d stocks and stones;
Forget not: in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll`d
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubl`d to the hills, and they
To Heav`n. Their martyr`d blood and ashes sow
O`er all th` Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
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