XV br br On The Late Massacher In Piemont br br Avenge O lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones br Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, br Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old br When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones, br Forget not: in thy book record their groanes br Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold br Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd br Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moans br The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they br To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow br O're all th'Italian fields where still doth sway br The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow br A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way br Early may fly the Babylonian wo.