A City Of Refuge

 

Sonnet 18: Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones

By John Milton

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones

       Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,

       Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,

       When all our fathers worshipp'd 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 redoubl'd to the hills, and they

       To Heav'n. Their martyr'd 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.