University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Represents a Gothic temple, being a place of Heathen worship; the three Saxon Gods, Woden, Thor, and Freya, placed on pedestals.
Enter Oswald and Osmond.
Osm.
'Tis time to hasten our mysterious rites;
Because your army waits you.

Osw.
[making three bows.]
Thor, Freya, Woden, all ye Saxon powers,
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 thund'ring arm, let every blow
Dash out a misbelieving Briton's brains.

Osw.
Father of gods and men, great Woden, hear:
Give conquest to the Saxon race, and me.

Osm.
Thor, Freya, Woden, hear, and spell your Saxons,
With sacred Runic rhymes, from death in battle;
Edge their bright swords, and blunt the Britons darts.
Grimbald, a fierce earthy spirit, arises.
No more, great prince, for see my trusty fiend,
Who all the night has wing'd the dusky air.
What news, my Grimbald?

Grim.
I have play'd my part;
For I have steel'd 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 ask'st thou me?
Inspect their intrails, 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 sprite:
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 touch'd of foolish man.

Osm.
What a half devil's he?
His errand was, to draw the low-lands damps,
And noisom vapours from the foggy fens:
Then, breathe the baleful stench, with all his force,
Full on the faces of our christen'd foes.

Grim.
Accordingly he drain'd those marshy-grounds;
And bagg'd 'em in a blue pestiferous cloud;
Which when he shou'd have blown, the frighted elf
Espy'd 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 'em.
[Exit Grim.

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 Brittany prepare to change thy state,
And from this day begin thy Saxon date.

Grimbald re-enters with six Saxons in white, with swords in their hands, priests and singers.