_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.