On the Late Massacre in Piedmont

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
     Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold,
     Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
     When all our fathers worshiped 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 hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way
     Early may fly the Babylonian woe.