Milton's sonnet "On the Late Massacre in Piedmont" (1655)
(John Milton, 1608-74)

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones

     Lie 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

     Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

     Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled

Mother with infant down the rocks.  Their moans

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

     To heaven.  Their martyred blood and ashes sow

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway

     The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow

     A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,

     Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

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