Sonnet XVIII: On the Late Massacre in Piemont

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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.

© Patrick Kavanagh