VENGE 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 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.