The Waldensians

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 then who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groanes Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold Slayn 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're...