'Tis time to hasten our mysterious rites;  

because your army waits you.

(making three bows before the three images)

Thor, Freya, Woden, all ye Saxon powers,

hear, and revenge my father Hengist's death.

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 hear:

dash out a misbelieving Briton's brains.

Father of gods and men, great Woden,

give conquest to the Saxon race, and me.

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.

No more, great prince, for see my trusty friend,

who all the night has wing'd the dusky air.

What news, my Grimbald?  

'Tis well; but are we sure of victory?

Say, where's thy fellow-servant, Philidel?

Why comes not he?

What a half devil's he?

His errand was, to draw the low-land 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.

I'll punish him at leisure.

Call in the victims to propitiate hell.

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.

Then this is the deciding day, to fix  

Great-Britain's scepter in great Arthur's hand.

Or put it in the bold invader's gripe.

Arthur and Oswald, and their different fates,

are weighing now within the scales of heaven.

In ten set battles have we driven back

these heathen Saxons, and regain'd our earth.

As earth recovers from an ebbing tide

her half-drown'd face, and lifts it o'er the waves,

from Severn's bank, e'en to this barren down

our foremost men have press'd their fainty rear,

and not one Saxon face has been beheld;

but all their backs and shoulders have been stuck

with foul dishonest wounds; now here, indeed,

because they have no farther ground, they stand.

Well have we chose a happy day for fight;

for every man, in course of time, has found

some days are lucky, some unfortunate.

But why this day more lucky than the rest?

Because this day

is sacred to the patron of our isle;

a christian, and a soldier's annual feast.

Oh, now I understand you. This is saint George of Cappadocia's day. Well, it may be so, but faith I was ignorant; we soldiers seldom examine the rubrick; and now and then a saint may happen to slip by us: but if he be a gentleman saint, he will forgive us.

Oswald undoubtedly will fight it bravely.

And it behoves him well, 'tis his last stake. But what manner of man is this Oswald? Have ye ever seen him?

(to Albanact)

Ne'er but once; and that was to my cost too; I follow'd him too close, and, to say truth, somewhat uncivilly, upon a rout: but he turned upon me, as quick and as round, as a chaff'd boar; and gave me two licks a-cross the face, to put me in mind of my christianity.

I know him well; he's free and open-hearted.

His countries character: that speaks a German.

Revengeful, rugged, violently brave;

and once resolv'd, is never to be mov'd.

Yes, he's a valiant dog; pox on him.

This was the character he then maintain'd,

when in my court he sought my daughter's love;

my fair, blind Emmeline.

I cannot blame him for courting the heiress of Cornwall: all heiresses are beautiful; and as blind as she is, he would have had no blind bargain of her.

For that defeat in love he rais'd this war.

For royal Arthur reign'd within her heart,

ere Oswald mov'd the suit.

Ay, now Aurelius, you have nam'd a man;

one, whom besides the homage that I owe,

as Cornwall's duke, to his imperial crown,

I wou'd have chosen out from all mankind,

to be my sovereign lord.

His worth divides him from the croud of kings.

Arthur is all that's excellent in Oswald;

and void of all his faults: in battle brave,

but still serene in all the stormy war,

like heaven above the clouds; and after fight,

as merciful and kind to vanquish'd foes,

as a forgiving god. But see, he's here,

and praise is dumb before him.

(reading)  

"Go on, auspicious prince, the stars are kind.

Unfold thy banners to the willing wind;

while I, with airy legions, help thy arms;

confronting art with art, and charms with charms."

(to Conon)

So Merlin writes; nor can we doubt th' event,

with heaven and you, our friends. Oh noble Conon,

you taught my tender hands the trade of war:

and now again you helm your hoary head,

and under double weight of age and arms,

assert your country's freedom and my crown.

No more, my son.

Most happy in that name!

Your Emmeline, to Oswald's vows refus'd,

you made my plighted bride:

your charming daughter, who like love, born blind,

un-aiming hits, with surest archery,

and innocently kills.

Remember, son,

you are a general; other wars require you,

for see the Saxon gross begins to move.

Their infantry embattel'd, square and close,

march firmly on, to fill the middle space:

cover'd by their advancing cavalry.

By heav'n 'tis beauteous horror!

The noble Oswald has provok'd my envy.

Ha! now my beauteous Emmeline appears,  

a new, but oh, a softer flame inspires me:

even rage and vengeance slumber at her sight.

Haste your farewell; I'll chear my troops, and wait ye.

O father, father, I am sure you're here;  

because I see your voice.

No, thou mistak'st thy hearing for thy sight:

he's gone, my Emmeline;

and I but stay to gaze on those fair eyes,

which cannot view the conquest they have made.

Oh star-like night, dark only to thyself,

but full of glory, as those lamps of heaven

that see not, when they shine.

What is this heav'n, and stars, and night, and day,

to which you thus compare my eyes and me?

I understand you, when you say you love:

for, when my father clasps my hand in his,

that's cold, and I can feel it hard and wrinkled;

but when you grasp it, then I sigh, and pant,

and something presses to my heart.

Oh artless love! where the soul moves the tongue.

And only nature speaks what nature thinks!

Had she but eyes!

Just now you said I had.

I see 'hem, I have two.

But neither see.

I'm sure they hear you then:

what can your eyes do more?

They view your beauties.

Do not I see? you have a face, like mine.

It is not sight, but touching with your hands.

Then 'tis my hand that sees, and that's all one:

for is not seeing, touching with your eyes?

No, for I see at distance, where I touch not.

If you can see so far, and yet not touch,

I fear you see my naked legs and feet

quite through my clothes; pray do not see so well.

Fear not, sweet innocence;

I view the lovely features of your face;

your lips carnation, your dark-shaded eye-brows,

black eyes, and snow-white forehead; all the colours

that make your beauty, and produce my love.

Nay, then, you do not love on equal terms:

I love you dearly, without all these helps:

I cannot see your lip's carnation,

your shaded eye-brows, nor your milk-white eyes.

Alas 'tis vain t' instruct your innocence.

You have no notion of light or colours

Why, is not that a trumpet?  

Yes.

I know it.

And I can-tell you how the sound on't looks;

it looks as if it had an angry fighting face.

'Tis now indeed a sharp unpleasant sound,

because it calls me hence, from her I love,

to meet ten thousand foes.

How does so many men e'er come to meet?

This devil trumpet vexes 'em, and then

they feel about for one another's faces;

and so they meet, and kill.

I'll tell ye all, when we have gain'd the field;

one kiss of your fair hand, the pledge of conquest.

And so short a farewel.

My heart and vows go with him to the fight;  

may every foe be that, which they call blind,

and none of all their swords have eyes to find him.

But lead me nearer to the trumpet's face;

for that brave sound upholds my fainting heart;

and while I hear, methinks I fight my part.