On the Late Massacre in Piemont

VENGE O Lord！ Thy slaughter'd saints whose bones
     Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold；
     Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
     When all our fathers worshipt 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 roll'd
     Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
     The vales redoubled to the hills and they
     To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
     O'er all the Italian fields where still doth sway
     The triple Tyrant： that from these may grow
     A hundredfold who having learnt Thy way
     Early may fly the Babylonian woe.