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— John Milton

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 15

Afford a present to the Infant God?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,

To welcome him to this his new abode,

…

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ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.

14 lines
John Milton·1608–1674
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venge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bonesLie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones,Forget not: in thy book record their groans 5Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient foldSlain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolledMother with infant down the rocks. Their moansThe vales redoubled to the hills, and theyTo heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 10O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth swayThe triple Tyrant; that from these may growA hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
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