John Milton

(9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674 / London, England)

Sonnet Xviii: On The Late Massacre In Piemont - Poem by John Milton

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.


Comments about Sonnet Xviii: On The Late Massacre In Piemont by John Milton

  • (12/3/2008 12:52:00 PM)


    Wonderful use of metre and rhyme and other poetic effects by a true master of the sonnet! (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: truth, mother, sonnet, father



Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004



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