Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 68

     Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones

     Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;

     Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old

     When all our fathers worshipt 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 redoubled to the hills, and they

     To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow

     O'er all the Italian field, 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.