SCENE II.--_A Place of Heathen Worship. The Three Saxon Gods_,

WODEN, THOR, _and_ FREYA, _placed on Pedestals. An Altar._

_Enter_ OSWALD _and_ OSMOND.

_Osm._ 'Tis time to hasten our mysterious rites, Because your army waits you.

_Osw._ Thor, Freya, Woden, all ye Saxon powers, [_Making three Bows before the three Images._

Hear and revenge my father Hengist's death!

_Osm._ Father of gods and men, great Woden, hear! Mount thy hot courser, drive amidst thy foes, Lift high thy thundering arm, let every blow Dash out a misbelieving Briton's brains!

_Osw._ Father of gods and men, great Woden, hear! Give conquest to thy Saxon race, and me!

_Osm._ Thor, Freya, Woden, hear, and spell your Saxons, With sacred Runick rhymes, from death in battle; Edge their bright swords, and blunt the Britons' darts!--[20] No more, great prince; for see my trusty fiend, Who all the night has winged the dusky air.--

GRINBALD, _a fierce earthy Spirit, arises_.

What news, my Grimbald?

_Grim._ I have played my part; For I have steeled the fools that are to die,-- Six fools, so prodigal of life and soul, That, for their country, they devote their lives A sacrifice to mother Earth, and Woden.

_Osm._ 'Tis well; but are we sure of victory?

_Grim._ Why askest thou me? Inspect their entrails, draw from thence thy guess: Blood we must have, without it we are dumb.

_Osm._ Say, where's thy fellow-servant, Philidel? Why comes not he?

_Grim._ For he's a puling spirit. Why didst thou chuse a tender airy form, Unequal to the mighty work of mischief? His make is flitting, soft, and yielding atoms; He trembles at the yawning gulph of hell, Nor dares approach the flame, lest he should singe His gaudy silken wings: He sighs when he should plunge a soul in sulphur, As with compassion touched of foolish men.

_Osm._ What a half-devil is he! His errand was to draw the lowland damps, And noisome vapours, from the foggy fens; Then breathe the baleful stench, with all his force, Full on the faces of our christened foes.

_Grim._ Accordingly he drained those marshy grounds, And bagged them in a blue pestiferous cloud; Which when he should have blown, the frighted elf Espied the red-cross banners of their host, And said, he durst not add to his damnation.

_Osm._ I'll punish him at leisure. Call in the victims, to propitiate hell.

_Grim._ That's my kind master: I shall breakfast on them.

GRIMBALD _goes to the Door, and re-enters with six Saxons in White, with Swords in their Hands. They range themselves, three and three, in opposition to each other. The rest of the Stage is filled with Priests and Singers._

ODE.

_Woden, first to thee, A milk-white steed, in battle won, We have sacrificed._

Chor. _We have sacrificed._

Vers. _Let our next oblation be To Thor, thy thundering son, Of such another._

Chor. _We have sacrificed._

Vers. _A third, of Friesland's breed was he, To Woden's wife, and to Thor's mother; And now we have atoned all three, We have sacrificed._

Chor. _We have sacrificed._

2 Voc. _The white horse neighed aloud. To Woden thanks we render; To Woden we have vowed;_

Chor. _To Woden, our defender._ [The four last lines in chorus.

Vers. _The lot is cast, and Tanfan pleased;_

Chor. _Of mortal cares you shall be eased, Brave souls, to be renowned in story. Honour prizing, Death despising, Fame acquiring, By expiring; Die, and reap the fruit of glory, Brave souls, to be renowned in story._

Vers. 2. _I call ye all To Woden's hall; Your temples round, With ivy bound, In goblets crowned, And plenteous bowls of burnished gold; Where you shall laugh, And dance, and quaff The juice, that makes the Britons bold._[21] [The six Saxons are led off by the Priests, in order to be sacrificed.

_Osw._ Ambitious fools we are, And yet ambition is a godlike fault; Or rather 'tis no fault in souls born great, Who dare extend their glory by their deeds.-- Now, Britany, prepare to change thy state, And from this day begin thy Saxon date. [_Exeunt._

_A Battle supposed to be given behind the Scenes, with Drums, Trumpets, and Military Shouts and Excursions; after which, the Britons, expressing their joy for the Victory, sing this Song of triumph._

_Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; Come, if you dare, the foes rebound: We come, we come, we come, we come, Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum._

_Now they charge on amain, Now they rally again: The gods from above the mad labour behold, And pity mankind, that will perish for gold._

_The fainting Saxons quit their ground, Their trumpets languish in the sound: They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly_; Victoria, Victoria, _the bold Britons cry_.

_Now the victory's won, To the plunder we run: We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, Triumphant with spoils of the vanquished invaders._ [Exeunt.