On the Late Massacre in Piedmont (not mine)

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whse bones

lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold, 

even 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 Piedmontese that rolled

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 

the vales redoubled to the hills, and they 

to Heaven. 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 hundredfold, who having learnt that way,

early may fly the Babylonian woe.