On the late massacre in Piemont

A venge, O Lord, thy  slauhtered saints,   w
whose bones
Lay scattered on the Alpine mountains cold
Even them who kept thy trout so pure of
old.
When all our fathers worshipped  stocks and
stones.
Forggert not, in thy book record their groans.
Who were thy sheep, and in their anciennt fold.
Stain by the bloody Piemontesem that rolled
Mother with infant down the roks.Their
moans
The vales redoubled to he hills, and Then
The heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes
sow
oér the italiand fields, where still doth
sway
The triple Tyran; that from these may grow
A hundred- fold, who, having learnt ,
thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe


Louisa Macartney Crawford