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 worshipp'd stocks and stones; <br /> Forget not: in thy book record their groans <br /> Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold <br /> Slain 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'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway <br /> The triple tyrant; that from these may grow <br /> A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way <br /> Early may fly the Babylonian woe.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xviii-on-the-late-massacre-in-piemont/
