Color
Record No. 22, Side A:
and,
because Jim got me thinking again about grandeur, this:
Sonnet
18: Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
BY John
Milton
On the Late Massacre in
Piedmont
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.
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