 | Poems of home and travel |  |
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A VOICE FROM PIEDMONT.
Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine Mountains cold.
Milton—Sonnet on the Massacres in Piedmont.
Lie scattered on the Alpine Mountains cold.
Milton—Sonnet on the Massacres in Piedmont.
I.
Bend from that Heaven, whose visioned glories gave,Thou blind old Bard, the splendor of thy song,
And teach the godlike words which mortals crave,
To speak, exulting, o'er the fallen Wrong!
For lo! the Avenger of that hour of blood
Has heard at last thy summons, stern and grand;
Has freed the children of the slaughtered brood,
In the cold Alpine land!
II.
O! at the tardy word, whose thunder brokeThe chains of ages from that suffering flock,
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And thrilled beneath the eternal ribs of rock.
The ancient glaciers brightened in the sky;
Beneath them, shouting, burst the joyous rills,
And the white Alps of Piedmont made reply
Unto the Vaudois hills!
III.
And far below, in lonely pasture-vales,The Waldense shepherd knelt upon the sod,
While chapel-bells chimed on the mountain gales,
And every châlet gave its hymn to God.
Matron, and sire, and sweet-voiced peasant maid,
And the strong hunter from the steeps of snow,
Gave thanks to Him, whose help their fathers prayed,
Through years of blood and woe.
IV.
Build now the sepulchres of martyrs old:Gather the scattered bones from every glen,
Where the red waves of pitiless slaughter rolled,
When fell those brave and steadfast-hearted men!
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Shall Freedom's sun upon her mountains shine;
While her glad children say, with grateful tears,
“The glory, Lord, be Thine!”
1848.
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