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That drew the mob; for mild as were
His tones, they urged to vengeance hellish:
And Popery’s groundlings always hear
Of blood and fire with wondrous relish.
“Brothers!” he cried, and o’er his head
Raised a long, skinny hand to heaven;
“Is memory of the past so dead,
And of the patriotic leaven
That once in Sondrio’s vales was given
To raise the theologic bread;
That none recal how Aryans bled
When Val Fontana’s streams ran red,
And Teglio’s patriots, in a ferment,
Shot down the Calvinistic vermint,
Trapped in its musty pews and chapels?
Oh! glorious cunning thus to trap hell’s
Worst fiends, then through the casements slaughter
With slugs and grape-shot—and no quarter?
To see the blood rush out like water
Down the broad flight of steps, a cascade
Most dear to Heaven; to hear them ask aid
Of God and Christ, with screams and tears
And cries and groans and widows’ prayers;
Then bounce against the well-barred door
In vain attempts to force their shambles,
Then plump down thud upon the floor,
While the full tides of bubbling gore,
Replenished at each volley, pour,
Lapping the lintels, or run low
After each surging overflow.
Now, panie-struck, some lank youth scrambles
Up to a lancet window, strains
