ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT
by: John Milton (1608-1674)
 VENGE, 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 hundred fold, who, having learnt thy way,
- Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
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'On the Late Massacre in Piedmont'
is reprinted from English Poems. Ed. Edward Chauncey Baldwin.
New York: American Book Company, 1908. |
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POEMS BY JOHN MILTON |
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