XV <br /> <br />On The Late Massacher In Piemont <br /> <br />Avenge O lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones <br />Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, <br />Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old <br />When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones, <br />Forget not: in thy book record their groanes <br />Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold <br />Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd <br />Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moans <br />The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they <br />To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow <br />O're all th'Italian fields where still doth sway <br />The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow <br />A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way <br />Early may fly the Babylonian wo.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-15/
