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.
