The ashes of his slaughter'd saints would sow
O'er all the fields of Italy, so fair
To sight, but desolate of truth and bare.—
But centuries with God may onward flow,
Ere man his ripen'd purposes can know:
We see the op'ning bud: the Alpine air
Not now is fill'd with moans but praise of God;
And peaceful churches meet in open day,
Where once the vallies were all red with blood.
With hopeful faith we will not cease to pray,