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 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 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 55. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT KUBLA KHAN by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI: 7. THE SILENCE by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE by MATTHEW PRIOR MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 4 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 21. REQUIEM by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON |