| |
|
On the late
Massacre in Piemont
Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered
saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine
mountains cold;
Ev'n them who kept Thy truth so pure
of old,
When all our fathers worshipped 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 rolled
Mother with
infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales
redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heav'n. Their
martyred 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
learned Thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
|
|
|
